"About the future?" Alfred, or rather, Napoleon II tilted his head to the side. Well, naturally any person would want to ask that question from someone who claimed from the future. Perhaps, he could entertain him with some as to bridge relations with him.
"Very well, ask anything you are curious about. But remember, I don't have all the information of the past, rather the future of the world. Still, I'll answer them to the best of my knowledge."
"Then I will ask," Napoleon said quietly. "After my defeat… if what you say is true… what becomes of France? Who rules in my place?"
Alfred did not hesitate.
"The Bourbons."
Napoleon's expression did not change—but the air around him tightened, as if the temperature dropped by a degree.
"The Bourbons…" he repeated slowly. "The vermin return to Paris."
"Yes."
"Louis-Napoléon?"
"Yes. He becomes Emperor. And under his rule, France returns to prosperity. Industry. Growth. Influence."
Napoleon inhaled slowly—hope flickering in his eyes.
But Alfred continued.
"He also underestimates Prussia. And when Prussia defeats France, they declare the German Empire… inside the Palace of Versailles."
Napoleon went perfectly still.
Not a breath left him.
Not a muscle moved.
For the first time in the entire conversation, fear—not for himself, but for France—slid across his face.
Versailles.
German Empire.
France humbled before her rival.
Napoleon whispered, "They… proclaim an empire… in my halls?"
"Yes."
He closed his eyes tight. A tremor ran through his hand.
It wasn't anger.
It was humiliating. The kind that struck deeper than defeat on a battlefield. The kind that clawed at the soul.
When he opened his eyes again, they were sharper—drawn back to life by a new fire.
"Okay, this makes it clearer to me now. I really have to accept that proposal huh? But, why are you doing this? Why help me?"
"Because my life defends this . Like I said, I'll be sent away to Austria should you continue this war with the coalition and I'll die there at a young age, and I can't let it happen. And because I am a fan of the French Empire, how it is ruled by you. Though there are bad sides such as you always fight a losing war where you could have stopped."
Napoleon looked at him in the eye and saw determination in it. He chuckled. He really is someone from the future. Though was he really his son? After all, this is not normal. But nevertheless, he would use him to his leverage. His modern knowledge would be crucial for the development of the empire that would rewrite this man's history.
"We'll continue this talk after the treaty," Napoleon said before turning his head to the door. "Montesquiou!"
The door opened almost instantly. Madame de Montesquiou had clearly been waiting just outside, anxious after being dismissed earlier.
"Yes, Sire?" she answered quickly, stepping inside with a curtsey.
Napoleon shifted Alfred gently into her arms, though he held the boy for a moment longer, as if reluctant to let go now that he finally understood the weight of their conversation.
"Take the King of Rome back to the nursery," he said. "And see to it he rests. He has… given me much to think about."
Madame de Montesquiou blinked, perhaps surprised by the softened tone, but nodded. "At once, Sire."
Alfred met Napoleon's eyes one last time as he was lifted from his lap. Napoleon's hand hovered for a lingering second over the child's back, his expression unreadable but focused.
"Rest well, my son," Napoleon murmured. "Your Emperor has work to do."
The door closed behind the governess.
Napoleon straightened, the softness draining from him like a cloak being lifted away. The contemplative father vanished, replaced by the strategist of Austerlitz—the man who bent nations to his will.
He strode across the office in three firm steps.
"Caulaincourt!" Napoleon barked.
His voice thundered down the hallway.
A brief shuffle of boots echoed beyond the door before Armand de Caulaincourt, his most trusted diplomat and Grand Écuyer, stepped inside. He bowed quickly, sensing the urgency in the Emperor's tone.
"Sire. You called for me?"
Napoleon didn't waste a second.
"Prepare a dispatch. Immediate. Coded." His fingers drummed once on the map table, marking the spot where Austria lay. "You will reach out to Metternich. Tell him France is prepared to reopen negotiations on the basis of the terms previously discussed."
Caulaincourt's brows lifted a fraction. This was the first concrete shift in French policy since Leipzig. "The Frankfurt terms, Sire?"
"Yes," Napoleon snapped, but not in anger. In resolve. "I am accepting the framework. We will formalize it. France will retain her natural borders. I will remain Emperor."
Caulaincourt hesitated. Just slightly.
"Sire… this is a dramatic reversal of your earlier position. Shall I inform Austria that—"
"That I am ready to talk," Napoleon cut in. "And that I am doing so before the coalition sets foot on French soil. Not after."
Caulaincourt bowed deeper. "Understood, Sire. I will prepare everything at once."
"Good. And Caulaincourt—"
He stopped at the door.
Napoleon's eyes narrowed with the intensity of a man who had just glimpsed the destruction of an entire century and refused to let it unfold.
"Do not fail. These negotiations… may decide the fate of France."
Caulaincourt swallowed once, the weight of the moment settling fully on his shoulders.
"They will receive my message tonight, Sire."
***
That evening, the Austrian camp outside Prague glowed faintly under rows of lanterns. Officers moved between tents, couriers delivered letters, and the cold wind dragged smoke from the field kitchens across the muddy ground.
Inside a spacious command tent lined with maps, Prince Klemens von Metternich sat at a narrow desk, reviewing reports from his intelligence network.
He rubbed his forehead. "If this war continues," he muttered to himself, "Europe will break before Napoleon does."
A rustle at the tent flap.
"Your Highness," a courier said breathlessly. "A dispatch. French seal. Urgent. Coded."
Metternich's fingers froze above the parchment he'd been annotating.
A coded French dispatch? At this hour?
"Bring it here."
Metternich's fingers froze above the parchment he'd been annotating.
A coded French dispatch? At this hour?
"Bring it here."
The courier stepped forward and handed over the sealed envelope. Metternich studied the wax impression—Napoleon's imperial crest. This wasn't a routine message. This came straight from the Tuileries.
He broke the seal.
Inside, Caulaincourt's familiar cipher.
Metternich reached for the lamp, adjusted the wick, and began decoding—methodically, line by line.
As the message took shape, his brows inched upward.
The Emperor of the French is prepared to reopen negotiations based on previous discussions. He is willing to consider the Frankfurt framework as the starting point for formal peace. France retains her natural borders. Hostilities may be suspended upon agreement of preliminary terms.
He set down the sheet.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then Metternich leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose.
"So… Napoleon bends."
It was exactly what he had tried—tried—to coax Napoleon into months ago. Before Leipzig. Before Dresden. Before the bloodshed that need not have happened.
"So the man finally sees reality," Metternich murmured. "Or something has forced him to."
His mind raced. Why now? Why suddenly? What changed in Paris?
Napoleon was not a man who admitted weakness. He was not a man who accepted compromise unless cornered—or unless something unseen had convinced him the future depended on it.
Metternich stood and paced toward the map table. His gaze traced the Rhine, the Alps, the Pyrenees, Napoleon's beloved "natural borders." The proposal had once seemed reasonable to him. Now, after months of war, it risked sounding too generous.
But the coalition was exhausted.
Austria was exhausted.
He touched a finger to the paper.
"If we reject this… France will fight to the last man. And if Napoleon falls, chaos will take his place."
He did not want a Europe ruled by Russian ambition or Prussian militarism.
A stable France was still better than a vacuum.
The tent flap opened again.
"Your Highness," said Count Stadion, one of his closest aides. "We've received new reports from the front. Blücher insists he can reach Paris by—"
Metternich held up the dispatch.
"Blücher will hold his tongue," he said sharply. "Read."
Stadion stepped forward, eyes scanning the coded message. When he finished, he looked up, stunned.
"He agreed? Napoleon agreed?"
"He did."
"But the coalition—"
"Will listen," Metternich interrupted. "Because they must. Otherwise we risk breaking the balance of Europe entirely."
Stadion hesitated. "Do you trust him, sir?"
Metternich returned to his desk, folding the dispatch neatly.
"No," he said flatly. "But trust is irrelevant. Interests are what matter. And right now, our interests require peace before the continent burns down around us."
He reached for a fresh sheet of paper.
"Prepare a reply," Metternich instructed, voice firm. "Tell Caulaincourt that Austria acknowledges France's willingness to negotiate and is ready to formalize discussions. We will meet immediately—Geneva or Basel. Neutral ground."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And tell the courier to ride through the night. No delays."
Stadion bowed and left.
Metternich stared at the coded message one more time.
"What changed you, Bonaparte?" he murmured. "What frightened you enough to look beyond your pride?"