November 28, 1813 – Frankfurt am Main.
Hall of the Imperial Free City.
The city was quiet under a thin layer of frost. Smoke drifted from chimneys, bells echoed in the cold air, and soldiers from four nations guarded the perimeter of the old assembly hall.
The long central table, brought in from Vienna specifically for this day, was polished smooth, its surface empty except for a single document resting in the middle.
The Treaty of Frankfurt.
A quill lay beside it.
Ink chilled in a silver pot.
Seven chairs lined each side of the table, carved with the seals of the attending nations.
The delegates were already gathering.
Prince Klemens von Metternich entered first, wrapped in a heavy coat. . Behind him trailed Count Stadion, his aide and strategist, and Baron Wessenberg, serving as second plenipotentiary.
The Prussians followed in their black uniforms.
Baron Karl von Hardenberg, Prussia's foreign minister, took his seat with a stiff nod. Behind him stood two generals, one unmistakable:
General Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher.
He did not sit.
He folded his arms and stared at the treaty as if it personally offended him.
Next came the Russians, fur-lined cloaks, solemn faces, the weight of a burned Moscow still visible in their eyes. Representing them were Count Karl Nesselrode and Prince Shuvalov, carrying the Tsar's written authorization.
Last to arrive was Lord Aberdeen, looking as though he had aged a decade in a week. Behind him stood two secretaries, ready to record every detail to send home to Castlereagh—who vehemently opposed this treaty.
Aberdeen took his seat with a quiet sigh. He was present, but his government had already condemned what was about to happen.
The hall fell silent as the French representatives entered.
Armand de Caulaincourt, Duke of Vicenza, head bowed slightly but shoulders firm. He carried no entourage, only a leather folder containing Napoleon's formal authorization.
He nodded to the others, calm despite being surrounded by enemies who had defeated his nation on the battlefield only weeks earlier.
He placed the folder gently on the table.
"France," he said quietly, "is ready."
Metternich broke the seal on the rolled parchment and spread the pages open. No one spoke as he read through the articles aloud.
France will retain her "natural borders":
The Rhine River in the east
The Alps in the southeast
The Pyrenees in the south
The Atlantic and Mediterranean coasts to the west and south
France relinquishes territory beyond these borders:
The Illyrian Provinces.
Most holdings in Germany, including control over the Confederation of the Rhine.
Influence over Holland, which will regain independence.
Napoleon remains Emperor of France.
Coalition forces will halt further advances upon the signing of preliminary terms.
Negotiations for final peace will begin immediately, with Austria mediating.
Prisoners of war will be exchanged, and France will make reasonable reparations for damages in Germany.
All parties agree to cease hostilities unless one side fails to abide by the terms.
Metternich lowered the parchment.
Blücher's jaw tightened.
Nesselrode nodded slowly.
Aberdeen stared at the ink in silence.
Caulaincourt folded his hands, waiting.
Metternich spoke.
"Gentlemen… this document will reshape Europe. If France accepts, we end twenty years of war today."
"Let me be the first one to sign it," the French envoy said.
Caulaincourt rose from his seat. Every eye followed him as he reached for the quill.
Blücher shifted, boots grinding. Hardenberg shot him a warning glance before he could speak.
Caulaincourt dipped the quill into the silver pot. He paused only once, lifting his gaze.
"As plenipotentiary of His Imperial Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French," Caulaincourt said and continued, "I hereby declare France's acceptance of these terms."
He bent forward and signed:
Armand-Augustin-Louis de Caulaincourt, Duke of Vicenza
For His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon I.
He set the quill down.
Metternich stepped forward next.
"Klemens von Metternich," he said aloud as he signed, "for the Austrian Empire."
He passed the document to Hardenberg.
The Prussian minister hesitated.
Blücher muttered behind him, loud enough for several delegates to hear.
"Signing with that man still on his throne… disgraceful."
Hardenberg didn't turn. "This is diplomacy, General," he whispered. "Not vengeance."
Blücher's arms tightened across his chest, but he didn't interrupt again.
Hardenberg lifted the quill.
"For the Kingdom of Prussia," he declared before writing his name with neat, precise strokes.
The treaty moved to Nesselrode.
The Russian count exhaled slowly before signing.
"For His Imperial Majesty the Tsar. May this peace hold."
He passed the parchment to Prince Shuvalov, who added a secondary signature as witness and co-representative.
Only one seat remained.
Lord Aberdeen.
He stared at the treaty with an expression somewhere between dread and obligation.
Metternich addressed him quietly.
"Britain is already present, Lord Aberdeen. What remains is simply acknowledgment."
Aberdeen closed his eyes briefly, gathering himself. Castlereagh's letters burned in his coat pocket—warnings, objections, outright condemnations.
But he also remembered the Russian frozen dead outside Leipzig. The Austrian hospitals overflowing. The cost already paid by Europe.
He stood.
"For His Britannic Majesty," Aberdeen said, voice low, "I sign in recognition of the coalition's collective decision."
He bent and wrote his name.
The quill returned to the table.
The parchment lay complete.
"The Treaty of Frankfurt is hereby signed. Hostilities are to cease upon ratification by each sovereign. Europe enters negotiation toward final peace," Metternich called out.
***
Tuileries Palace, Paris.
The tricolor banners hung from every balcony along the rue de Rivoli. Drums echoed down the boulevard. The fountain basins overflowed with flowers thrown by excited crowds. News of the peace had spread like wildfire.
For the first time in years, the people breathed without dread.
Soldiers on leave stood shoulder to shoulder with bakers, merchants, widows in black shawls, and children perched on their fathers' shoulders. Tens of thousands filled the Carrousel courtyard, their voices rising in a steady roar:
"Vive l'Empereur! Vive Napoléon!"
Inside the palace, Napoleon adjusted the folds of his coat and stepped forward toward the balcony doors. The ceremony master opened them, and sunlight flooded the hall.
As he appeared, the cheering exploded.
Napoleon raised a hand and the crowd slowly quieted, a sea of eyes fixed upon him. He looked out over Paris, over his people, over the nation he had nearly lost.
And then he began.
"My dearest people… my brothers, my sisters, my children!
I, your Emperor, have been forced to swallow some bitter dregs… in conceding to our enemies much of our gains over the last few years. I did so not out of weakness, never out of weakness, but to spare our nation from invasion by their terrible hordes. I did so to spare the blood of our brave young men, who have fought with courage the world shall never forget.
A rumble of agreement swept the crowd.
"It took the overwhelming numbers of Europe, Austrians, Prussians, Russians, and their British gold, to wear us down and drive us back! They were aided in this by traitors among us, both great and petty."
Murmurs turned into shouts of anger—names whispered, curses thrown. Napoleon let it run for a moment, then lifted his hand again.
"But hear me well," he continued. "While they may have torn away our conquests… they can never take our glory. They can never take our honor. They can never take our pride!"
The crowd erupted:
"Long Live the Emperor!"
Napoleon's expression softened—just barely.
"Our Imperial Eagle shall, like the phoenix, rise again! And once more, Europe and the world shall tremble before the might of France when the time is right."
He raised both arms now, palms open.
"But for now, my beloved children… we must rest."
A hush fell.
"We must heal our wounds. We must replenish our strength. We must rebuild together. As one nation. Unbroken. Unbowed. Unvanquished."
He touched his chest, just above his heart.
"I, your Emperor, embrace you all. And I promise you—this peace is not an end… but a beginning."
He leaned forward, voice rising to a thunderous conclusion:
"VIVE LA FRANCE!"
"VIVE L'EMPEREUR!"
The crowd roared back with such force that the windows of the Tuileries rattled. Hats flew into the air, people wept openly, soldiers beat their drums, and Paris felt, for one brief, burning moment, invincible again.
***
The balcony doors closed behind Napoleon, muting the thunder of the crowd. The sudden silence in the antechamber felt heavy, almost unreal after the roar outside. He exhaled as though releasing the last tension of the speech.
Waiting inside were the people who mattered most at that moment.
Marie-Louise stepped forward first, relief brightening her tired features. She still wore the pale blue gown she preferred for public appearances, but her hands trembled slightly as she reached him.
"You spoke well, my husband," she said softly. "France needed to hear your strength today."
The little King of Rome, barely two years old, clung to her skirts. When he saw Napoleon, he stretched his arms toward him.
Napoleon lifted the child without hesitation, resting him on his hip.
"If it wasn't for my son, I would have continued the war. It's the reason why I permitted peace. So that he can continue my legacy."
Marie-Louise's eyes glistened. She knew too well how close they had come to losing everything—Paris, the dynasty, their son's future.
Beyond them, clustered near the fireplace, stood the marshals. Their uniforms were immaculate, but their faces carried the truth of what this peace meant.
It was not triumph.
It was survival.
Marshal Ney stepped forward first. He bowed his head.
"Sire… congratulations. France breathes today because of your resolve."
Marshal Davout followed.
"Sire, the army is relieved. Even the veterans know we cannot sustain another winter campaign. This peace, however bitter… it preserves the Empire."
Berthier nodded in agreement beside him, hands clasped behind his back.
"The officers needed certainty, Majesty. Now they have it."
Napoleon set his son down gently. The boy wandered to the window, fascinated by the distant sound of drums.
Only then did Napoleon face his marshals fully.
"For years, I led you from victory to victory," he said. "Our banners crossed mountains, rivers, empires. You followed without hesitation. You gave France everything."
His gaze shifted toward the floor, the first sign of strain appearing in his jaw.
"But even an emperor must know when to stop bleeding his nation dry."
The marshals exchanged somber looks. They understood. Every one of them had buried too many men. Every one of them had felt the Empire's strength thinning after Russia, after Leipzig.
Napoleon continued.
"This peace is not the one we desired. It is not carved from victory. It is carved from necessity. But it keeps the throne intact. It keeps Paris French. Making the lives that were lost in the battle not wasted."
"Sire, what now?" Davout asked.
"Now," Napoleon said, "we rebuild. France must recover her strength. We reorganize the army, restore our finances, secure our borders. Europe will watch us closely, but this peace buys us time. We will use every second."
Ney's brow tightened.
"Do you believe the allies will honor it, Sire?"
Napoleon's answer came without hesitation.
"For now? Yes. They are as exhausted as we are."