Looking at them, Napoleon could see that many had already accepted defeat and were performing their duties merely from force of habit, waiting for the order to finally stop. He could hardly blame them, even though they stood at the heart of an army of sixty thousand men. Every last available soldier and gun had been concentrated around the chateau and the engineers had thrown up earthworks to cover the approaches to the camp. Yet the allies had three times that number in Paris alone, and another army was cautiously advancing from the east. Marshal Marmont, having agreed the armistice, was still in camp a few miles south of Paris, but had refused to respond to Napoleon’s order to join him at Fontainebleau.
After a hurried breakfast of which he ate little, Napoleon had requested his marshals to attend him at the chateau. From the window of the private dining room set for the meeting Napoleon watched as they arrived, noting their grim demeanour as they dismounted and climbed the steps, which were lined by the men of the Old Guard standing to attention. At least there was still plenty of fight amongst the rankers, Napoleon reflected. When he had toured the camp on the previous two evenings they had cheered him as heartily as ever, as if encouraged by the prospect of making a last stand against the invader. MacDonald was the last of the marshals to arrive, and as soon as he had passed within the entrance Napoleon sent a clerk to summon them to his presence.
They filed in, silently, and took their seats. Napoleon glanced from face to face, scrutinising their expressions and appearance. They looked as tired as their men. Some had found fresh uniforms to dress in for this meeting but most were stained with splatters of mud andVictor had one arm in a sling from a wound he had taken a few weeks earlier. Napoleon cleared his throat and stretched his hands out on the table.
‘There is no need for any preamble, my friends; you know our situation. The question is, what should we do now? The army is still in being, the men’s morale is high and the people of France will not endure the presence of an occupying army for long. There is still everything to fight for. I need to decide whether to risk a battle on the streets of Paris itself, or attempt a wider strategic manoeuvre round the enemy’s flank. So, gentlemen, I need your advice on which course of action would best profit us.’
No one responded. Some exchanged looks, while others looked down or stared fixedly at some feature of the room.
‘Come, gentlemen, speak freely.’
‘Very well then, sire,’ Ney responded, half turning in his seat so that he could face his Emperor directly. ‘I speak for most of the marshals here, including those who were . . .’ his lips curled into a brief look of contempt before he continued, ‘unprepared to face the truth and say what needs to be said.’
‘And what would that be?’ Napoleon asked.
‘That France has fallen. Its armies are defeated. Its treasury is empty. The people want peace. There is no hope of overcoming the allies. It is plain for all to see. Even you, sire, must recognise the hopelessness of the situation.’
‘It is not hopeless,’ Napoleon replied, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. ‘Does your memory fail you? Our position was far worse at Marengo, yet we snatched a victory from the enemy by the end of the day.’
‘Marengo was a long time ago, sire. We were different men, fighting on foreign soil. If we had lost the battle, we would still have had a chance to win the campaign. Now? Paris is lost. There is nothing left to save. There is no reason to continue the war.’
‘There is every reason! While the army exists, and you and I still live. While either of us can still hold a sword in our hand and spit defiance at our enemies, there is a reason to continue the fight!’
Napoleon stared at him, wide-eyed and enraged, but Ney refused to give way and steadily returned his glare. ‘That, sire, is the counsel of a man who no longer regards war as a means to an end, but embraces it purely for its own sake.’
Napoleon was stunned. Ney had defied him before, in private, where such words could be forgiven and in time forgotten. But this? In front of his peers, the highest-ranking officers of the empire? What he had dared to say could never be retracted.
‘Marshal Ney, I dismiss you. Your rank and titles are forfeit, and you are banished from our presence for ever. Leave us now, and never return.’
Ney could not help a faint smile. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No. The war is over. I speak for all of us.’ He waved a hand round the other officers seated at the table. ‘Does any man deny it?’
There was no response. Napoleon leaned forward and pointed at MacDonald.‘You have sworn an oath to obey me. Would you betray me now, at the hour of my greatest need of you?’
MacDonald glanced at Ney and received a nod of encouragement before he replied.‘Sire, I also swore an oath to serve and protect France. I cannot honour both oaths. My duty to my country outweighs my duty to you, sire.’
‘Pah!’ Napoleon turned to Victor. ‘And you?’
‘I share the opinion of Marshal Ney, sire.’
Napoleon looked round at them.‘Is there no man with honour here? Well?’
His words hung in the ensuing silence, then Napoleon sneered. ‘Cowards all. If you will not obey me, then damn you. I shall summon Marmont to command the army under me.’
Ney shook his head, and reached into his jacket to pull out a folded piece of paper. ‘I have been in contact with Marmont since I arrived at Fontainebleau. He shares my views, sire. Indeed, he goes further. I received this at dawn. Marmont has gone over to the allies with his men. Talleyrand has established a provisional government and issued a decree that your reign is over.’
‘Give it to me!’
Ney slid the message across the table and Napoleon snatched it up, unfolded it and scanned the contents. His lips pressed together as he read the details for himself. He tossed it back and glared at his marshals with contempt.
‘So, not one of my marshals is prepared to fight. Very well, then I shall do without you, and promote more worthy men from amongst those officers who still know the value of loyalty and patriotism. At least I have no doubt that the rank and file will still obey me.’
‘No, sire. They will obey their marshals. Did you think we should confront you without first having talked this through with our subordinates? Sire, if you force the issue, the army will turn on itself - the officers against the men. Is that how you wish this to end?’
Napoleon gritted his teeth. He felt trapped, and clenched his fists in his lap as he stared at his officers defiantly. At length he slumped back into his chair and cleared his throat. ‘What would you have me do, then?’
‘Abdicate,’ Ney replied at once. ‘Go into exile.’
‘What?’
‘Abdicate, on the condition that you do so in favour of your son. At least that way, we spare France from any return of the Bourbons.’
Napoleon considered the idea, even though it pierced him to the soul. Defeat was one thing, humiliation quite another. The prospect of being reduced to the status of a prisoner, exiled to some European backwater for the rest of his life, was unbearable. He would be mocked by his enemies and pitied by his former friends and subjects, condemned to a life of lingering insignificance. The thought made him sick. On the other hand, as long as a Bonaparte was on the throne, then there would be a means for Napoleon to exercise his influence, and one day resume his powers. He looked at Ney, wondering if the man understood that such an abdication would only curtail his power temporarily. He took on a resigned air and nodded slowly. ‘You are right, my dear Michel. I must sacrifice my throne for the good of my people. They would expect nothing less of me.’