He wrote in his coded journal that night:
"NB — Genius. Dangerous. Must not be alienated. Must not be trusted."
Then, beneath that line, he outlined a four-point strategy.
1. Treat Him as an External Expert
Bonaparte would never again attend the Dauphin's private "Circle of Loyal Innovators," where Lavoisier, Chappe, and Carnot debated reforms under oath of secrecy.
Instead, he would be kept at the periphery — flattered with commissions, but never admitted to power.
He would be asked to write theoretical papers, richly rewarded but politically sterile:
On the Use of Mobile Divisions in Mountain Warfare
On the Possibility of a Continental Blockade Against England…
In this way, the Dauphin could harvest his intellect without nurturing his influence.
2. Build Counterweights
Louis-Joseph resolved to elevate other officers — Davout, Desaix, even traitors like Bernadotte, Murat — giving them recognition equal to Bonaparte's. Rival stars would divide ambition, ensuring no single sun could eclipse the Crown.
It was a page from his military past life: never allow a general to think himself indispensable.
3. Surveillance — The "Bonaparte Dossier"
He would quietly assign Unit 141 to monitor the lieutenant's movements, correspondence, and associations. Each report would be coded under the label Project COINTELPRO.
The Dauphin wanted to know everything: who Bonaparte read, whom he met, what he dreamed of. Later, he would get proof that the young man's fire could easily burn through ideology as through loyalty.
4. Contingency Plan "B"
Should the Corsican's ambition ever turn against the Crown, measures were to be ready — neutralization. Perhaps an accusation timed during the coming political storms, an "honorable exile" disguised as a foreign command or an accident during a campaign.
A brilliant mind could be buried under the weight of bureaucracy as effectively as under snow .
Weeks later, Napoleon was invited back — not to the Tuileries, but to a modest chamber in the Dauphin's study wing. It was an interview, not a dialogue.
The Dauphin received him standing, his expression colder than before. Behind him hung a map of Europe, dotted with pins — red for allies, black for threats. Napoleon's gaze lingered on it a moment too long.
"Lieutenant," Louis-Joseph said evenly, "I have read your supplementary notes. France will have need of minds such as yours — though perhaps not yet on the battlefield."
Napoleon inclined his head. "As Your Highness commands."
The Dauphin studied him. "You seek glory, Monsieur Bonaparte. But remember: glory is a double-edged sword. The hand that wields it must know restraint — else it cuts the wielder himself."
Napoleon smiled thinly. "Then I shall endeavor to learn balance, Monsieur. Fortune, after all, smiles upon the bold — and upon those who recognize their benefactors."
There was no gratitude in the words, only an unspoken challenge. Louis-Joseph recognized it instantly: You may think you control me now, but destiny answers to no prince.
He dismissed the lieutenant with a courteous nod. When the door closed, the Dauphin turned toward the map again. His small hand rested on the Italian frontier.
In the months that followed, Bonaparte's essays circulated discreetly through the War Ministry. Some officers praised his genius; others dismissed him as a dreamer.
Louis-Joseph ensured both views thrived. He wanted Bonaparte to remain visible — but not luminous.
Through intermediaries, he had him assigned to secondary duties, far from Paris. But every letter that passed through the Ministry of War was quietly copied.
The "Bonaparte Dossier" began to grow: fragments of ideas, reports of temper, the first hints of political ambition.
Lavoisier, to whom the Dauphin confided part of his worry, remarked one evening,
"Great men are like chemical reactions, Monsieur. Useful in containment, destructive when free."
Louis-Joseph nodded. "Then let us build a stronger flask."
And yet, in quiet hours, the Dauphin could not forget that meeting.
He replayed it in his mind: the fire in Napoleon's eyes, the precision of his arguments, the way he spoke of destiny as if it were an ally rather than a mystery. He saw in him the same creative fury he himself once admired in scientists and soldiers — a reflection of what France could become if guided, or what it might destroy if unleashed.
He had met his idol. And discovered that idols, when touched, are made of fire, not gold.
His tutors noticed a change. The boy who once quoted philosophers now asked about human ambition, about how power corrupted even the well-intentioned.
When Madame Élisabeth asked what troubled him, he simply replied, "I met the future, and it frightened me."