The compliment was a poor palliative that fooled no man in the room. Napoleon rose from his chair. ‘Then it is done. Make your offer to the allies and let me know the outcome. I will remain in the chateau. You, gentlemen, are dismissed.’ He looked round at them. ‘I just hope that you have made the right decision. If not, then France will never forgive you. Think on that.’

He turned away and strode towards the door, leaving Ney and the other marhsals to arrange the details of the negotiations with the enemy.

Caulaincourt and MacDonald rode out towards the allied outposts later that morning. For two days they negotiated with the commanders of the armies that had conquered Paris and were now closing in on the remnants of the Grand Army. Then they reported back to Napoleon, informing him that the allies would only accept an unconditional abdication. The decision on who should succeed him would be theirs alone.

In the days that followed, as the details of his fate were discussed in Paris, Napoleon fell into deep despair. He could not eat, and sat in a chair by a small fire, brooding in silence as his servants silently came and went, serving and removing meals that lay cold and untouched on their trays.

At length, Napoleon’s hand slipped inside his shirt and felt for the small pouch of belladonna and hellebore that he had kept hanging from his neck since the retreat from Moscow when he had so nearly fallen into the hands of the Cossacks. His fingers gently cupped the pouch and he pressed the soft leather, feeling the deadly powder within. There was little deliberation over the decision. His death would cheat the allies of their prize, and there was comfort and satisfaction to be had from that small victory.