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.’