A year passed by like a blur in the Tuileries Palace. As an infant, there wasn't much Alfred could do except be carried, fed, cleaned, and put to sleep by the elite nannies assigned to him.
The days blended together. Wake up, feeding, baths, naps, more feeding, short moments of being carried around the palace gardens, more naps. He had little agency.
And his parents, Napoleon and Marie Louise, seldom appeared.
Napoleon visited only when his schedule allowed, which wasn't often. Some days Alfred wouldn't see him at all. Other days the Emperor would step into the nursery for a minute or two, glance at him, give a short comment about his growth, then leave with the same speed he arrived.
Marie Louise came more frequently, but even she kept a polite distance. She would stand beside the cradle, touch his hand lightly, speak in a gentle voice, then depart with her ladies-in-waiting. She was young, almost shy around him, as if motherhood had been placed upon her rather than chosen.
To Alfred, it was obvious: both of them cared about the idea of the child more than the child himself.
But, he cared less for their affections since he was a reincarnated adult stuck in the body of an infant. This won't affect his growth nonetheless.
What he needed right now was information. If his memories served him right, the year was 1812, and in that year, there's only one significant event he could remember from reading history wikipedias. And that was the French invasion of the Russian Empire.
It's a disastrous campaign that started when the French Empire annexed the Duchy of Oldenburg, breaking the treaty of Tilsit made by both parties, and the continental system, an economic blockade against Great Britain that caused huge financial ruin to Russia.
When Napoleon found out that Russia was secretly engaging trades with Great Britain, he was furious and prepared for war.
If his guess was right, the calendar was sitting somewhere in March 1812. That meant the storm was close. Armies were being assembled. Staff officers were planning routes, calculating supply lines, drafting reports that would soon turn into disaster.
Alfred lay in his cradle, hands curled near his chest, listening to footsteps in the corridor outside. Ministers walked past the nursery every day now. Their voices were sharper, their visits more frequent. The palace carried a tension he didn't need adult ears to recognize.
This was the lead-up to the Russian campaign.
Napoleon marching into Russia with over 600,000 men. Only a fraction would return. Most would die not from battle, but from starvation, disease, exhaustion, and winter.
And the irony wasn't lost on him—he knew the outcome, but he was stuck in a body that couldn't even walk properly yet.
And that invasion would be one of the major causes of why the French Empire collapsed.
And as a fan of Napoleon and the First French Empire, his heart sank when he got to that part of history, and there were a lot of what-ifs in alternate history hub speculating if Napoleon didn't invade Russia.
As much as he wanted to prevent that fate by telling Napoleon himself, what could he do when he was just a year old infant? It's not like he could just set up a meeting with Napoleon and tell him about the disastrous future of the campaign.
Heck, not to mention, he seldom spent time with the infant—which was himself. And he couldn't speak properly yet because his mouth and tongue simply weren't developed enough. His vocal cords produced nothing but garbled sounds, soft babbles, and the occasional cry whenever the nannies expected one.
Trying to warn Napoleon now would be impossible.
Even if the Emperor lifted him in his arms, Alfred couldn't do more than flail his legs and let out a noise that every adult would interpret as normal infant behavior. Nobody would think, even for a second, that the baby had something important to say.
So he stopped thinking about direct intervention.
For now.
Instead, he focused on gathering as much information as he could.
And information came daily.
Every morning, Louise Charlotte Françoise de Montesquiou, yes that was her full name, and it was quite long, and she was the Governess of the Children of France, meaning she's the one taking care of him, would carry him around the palace.
She lifted him with practiced ease, positioned him against her shoulder, and walked through the long corridors of the Tuileries.
Alfred paid attention to everything.
The uniforms of passing guards.
The folders carried by secretaries.
The tight expressions worn by generals who were clearly under pressure.
The stacks of maps laid out in side rooms where officers discussed routes and rivers.
He absorbed it like daily intelligence.
Madame de Montesquiou never lingered near the war rooms, but she walked close enough for him to hear muffled snippets of conversation.
"…supplies delayed again…"
"…the Austrian contingent insists on separate command…"
"…the Emperor wants the pontoons prepared by June…"
Every fragment confirmed what he already knew: preparations for the invasion were in full motion.
They passed one balcony overlooking the gardens. Far below, a regiment practiced drilling, their shouts rising in unison. Alfred watched their movements carefully. The line formations. The officers correcting stances. The pacing of their reload drills.
This was the practical side of history books he once read on a computer screen.
Now it was happening under his window.
Madame de Montesquiou didn't notice his focus. She assumed he was simply staring like any infant would.
"Good boy," she murmured, adjusting his blanket when the wind brushed past.
He wasn't listening to her.
He was noting the technology present in this era. Well, as an engineer, one thing he couldn't help doing was cataloging everything he saw—or rather, everything he didn't see.
Indoor plumbing?
Not here. Servants carried water in buckets. Washbasins were filled manually. Chamber pots were emptied by hand.
Gas lighting?
Only in certain wings of the palace. Most hallways used candles or oil lamps. The smell of burning wick lingered everywhere.
Heating?
Fireplaces. Nothing else. He saw workers hauling wood at least twice a day.
Communication?
Couriers. Carriages. Messengers on horseback. Not even a telegraph yet. Orders took hours or days to reach their destination.
Weaponry?
Flintlock muskets. Smoothbore artillery.
Transportation?
Horses. Wagons. No steam engines on land.
Sanitation?
Minimal. The palace was kept clean only because of constant labor.
Medical technology?
Basic. He saw a palace physician once carrying a set of surgical tools—forceps, saws, blades—all made for procedures performed without proper anesthesia. Chloroform and ether weren't standard yet.
Manufacturing?
Everything—from uniforms to boots to wooden furniture—was handmade.
As expected of this era, industrialization hadn't taken root yet. Not in a meaningful way. France had workshops, guilds, skilled craftsmen, and a few early mechanical innovations, but nothing on the scale of a true industrial system.
He might be able to introduce modern technology in this era with his modern knowledge. As an engineer and an inventor from the 21st century, he has intensive knowledge in everything scientific and mechanical.
Good thing he has his memory retained and his skills and experiences were crystal clear.
Now, he just has to wait to reach an age where he could utilize his modern knowledge. After all, he couldn't do much as a one year old boy with a knowledge of the future.
This is a waiting game, and while at it, he'll observe the events of history and make his move accordingly.