Reincarnated as Napoleon II-Chapter 32: City of Light

As the party went on, Napoleon II met with distinguished guests from different countries, such as the United Kingdom, the Kingdom of Prussia, the Austrian Empire, the Russian Empire, and the United States of America. They were all trying to court him.

But he didn’t entertain them, only met them. He knew there would be some lobbying at one point where they’ll ask for special privileges from the French trade.

He simply enjoyed the party, greeting the guest, such as the Marshals of the Empire, those who fought with Napoleon during the coalition wars and heard stories from them, and the industrialists and bankers who had helped build France and financed it.

But then, six o’clock arrived and the golden glow from the sun was starting to set. With that, Napoleon II walked to the center of the stage and with a champagne glass in his hand.

The moment he was in the center of the stage, Napoleon II tapped the champagne glass with a silver spoon.

Conversation thinned, then stopped.

Napoleon II waited until the last murmurs died down. He didn’t raise his voice when he spoke.

"My friends," he said and added, "thank you for honoring me with your presence tonight."

"Before the evening continues," he went on, "I would like to show you something."

A ripple of curiosity moved through the room. Guests exchanged glances. Diplomats leaned forward. Industrialists went still.

"It won’t take long," Napoleon II added. "And it’s better seen outside."

He set the glass down.

Beaumont was already moving. Doors along the far end of the ballroom were opened wide. Cool evening air spilled in, carrying the scent of grass and stone.

Napoleon II stepped off the stage and led the way.

The guests followed.

They moved out onto the palace grounds, the sky now deepening into blue. The last light of the sun clung to the horizon, but the gardens themselves were already slipping into shadow.

Ahead, something had been erected.

A platform stood at the center of the lawn. Clean lines. Iron supports. Cables running down into covered conduits. A simple stage faced the crowd, unadorned except for a single control console mounted at its center.

Tall posts lined the surrounding paths at measured intervals.

For now.

The crowd gathered, murmurs low but constant. People craned their necks. Some recognized the fixtures. Others didn’t know what they were looking at, only that it felt deliberate.

Napoleon II stepped onto the platform.

He waited until everyone had settled.

Then he spoke again.

"France," he said, "has spent the last decade rebuilding herself."

"We rebuilt roads. We rebuilt factories. We rebuilt how we move goods, how we move people, how we move information."

He placed one hand lightly on the console.

"But progress isn’t only about speed or power," he continued. "It’s also about what we allow to limit us."

He looked out at the darkened gardens.

"For centuries, night has decided when work ends. I don’t believe it has to, as we have captured an energy that one sees during the stormy night sky. With a pull of this lever, I’m going to declare Paris as the city of light."

Napoleon II wrapped his fingers around the lever.

He pulled it down.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the façade of the Palace of Versailles ignited.

Light surged across stone in a controlled wave, not a flare, not a blaze. Every arch, every column, every carved relief emerged from the dark with sharp clarity.

A breath went through the crowd.

Along the gardens, the tall posts answered one by one.

Electric lamps flared to life in sequence, marching outward along the paths. Shadows snapped into place beneath hedges and statues. Gravel walks became visible lines instead of guesses. The fountains caught the light and broke it into fragments, water flashing white where moments before there had been nothing.

Versailles was no longer a silhouette.

It was awake.

Gasps followed. Not polite ones. Real ones.

Several guests instinctively stepped back. Others moved forward, drawn toward the light as if proximity might explain it. Diplomats stared upward at the palace, mouths slightly open. Bankers squinted, calculating even as disbelief set in. Marshals who had stood in cannon smoke and burning cities found themselves silent.

Napoleon II released the lever.

The lights held steady.

"This," he said evenly, his voice carrying without effort, "is not a trick."

He gestured toward the palace behind him.

"Every lamp is powered from centralized generators. The wiring runs beneath your feet and behind the walls. There are no flames. No oil. No gas."

A pause.

"Only current."

He let that word sit.

"It is also the very same system that is lighting up Paris. We have conquered the night!"

The guests applauded. Hands came together hard. Some guests shouted over it, unable to stop themselves. Others simply stood there, clapping slower, eyes still fixed on the palace as if it might vanish the moment they looked away.

Napoleon II waited.

He did not bow. He did not raise his hands. He let the sound burn itself out.

When the applause finally thinned, servants began guiding the guests back inside.

The doors of the palace stood open, light spilling outward across the gardens. What had been spectacle became atmosphere. The lamps remained lit as the crowd moved, steady and calm, as if Versailles had always looked this way.

Inside, the ballroom received them again.

Music resumed, fuller now. Glasses were refilled. Conversations restarted, but they carried a different weight. Less ceremony. More intent.

Napoleon II moved through it without hurry.

He exchanged brief words. Accepted congratulations without responding in kind. Listened more than he spoke. He let others orbit him while he remained still, anchored.

Then he noticed the shift.

Not in the room.

In himself.

Across the ballroom, near one of the tall windows, stood a young woman he had not seen before.

She wore a gown of pale white and muted blue, the fabric layered and structured without excess. Lace traced the neckline and sleeves, fine and deliberate. A blue ribbon was set at the bodice, centered by a sapphire clasp that caught the light when she moved.

Her hair fell long and light, golden without being bright, framed neatly beneath a small tiara set with blue stones that matched her jewelry. Earrings hung just below her jaw, slender and restrained. A necklace rested at her collarbone, pearls broken by a single deep-blue gem.

Her blue eyes were what held him.

She looked around the ballroom not as someone overwhelmed, nor as someone bored. She observed. Took things in. When she smiled, it was brief and controlled.

Napoleon II stopped walking.

It was subtle. Enough that Beaumont noticed from several steps away and paused as well.

The noise of the room dulled, not because it had changed, but because his attention had narrowed. He did not think. He did not analyze. For the first time that evening, something had reached him without passing through calculation.

He watched her turn slightly, speaking to an older man at her side. When she laughed, softly, it surprised him. Not because it was loud, but because it was cute.

He wanted to know her, and so he approached.

Moments later, she noticed him coming towards him and smiled.

"Your Imperial Highness," she spoke in fluent French.

Is she French?

Well, he’ll figure it out.