Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

Giuseppe nodded again: “Yes, that painting is currently in the San Lorenzo Temple. If you like…”

Napoleon, after listing eight or nine top-tier artworks and receiving Giuseppe’s promise to “give” them, finally brightened into a broad smile, raising his glass to signal to the Milanese nobles: “To the brave French soldiers!”

The crowd quickly followed suit, standing up with raised glasses, saying in unison: “To the brave French soldiers!”

Suddenly, Napoleon seemed to think of something and raised his voice even higher: “To the great King! To the ‘Son of Divine Favor’!”

The more than a hundred nobles in the hall echoed his words and then drank from their glasses.

Once Napoleon was seated, a noble with a face marked by pits and scars leaned slightly toward him in flattery and said: “Colonel Buonaparte, I suspect you undoubtedly carry Italian blood, which makes Milan destined to be liberated by you!”

Napoleon frowned slightly: “Italian blood? Why do you say that?”

The noble seemed unaware of his changed expression and continued ingratiatingly: “Buonaparte—you see, what a typical Italian surname. Anyone from the Apennine Peninsula would instantly recognize you as one of their own.”

Thinking himself clever, he even addressed the surrounding people: “Everyone, isn’t that right?”

A chorus of agreement erupted around him—the Milanese nobles clearly thought calling someone “one of their own” was a gesture of closeness and flattery.

Yet Napoleon’s face darkened, and he shook his head stiffly: “No, I am French, with no trace of Italian blood.”

Indeed, he had long ceased to be that Corsican nationalist.

Now he held only one identity: a senior commander of France, one who had fought alongside the Crown Prince in the Southern Netherlands and then triumphantly swept through Lombardy, achieving unmatched glory as a Frenchman!

Italian blood?

That was merely the lineage of the conquered—a people who would relinquish their treasures without objection, powerless to resist.

How could he possibly have any connection to such weaklings?

He was a noble Frenchman!

The noble, his face riddled with marks of smallpox, still hadn’t realized the shift in atmosphere, continuing with a forced smile: “How could it be otherwise? Your surname unmistakably…”

Napoleon slammed his cup onto the table with a loud “bang”: “I don’t want to say it again—I. Am. French.”

The Milanese nobles froze, exchanging uneasy glances and lowering their heads in silence. Even the orchestra abruptly halted their music, and the hall plunged into a tense stillness.

Giuseppe rushed to smooth the situation: “Colonel Buonaparte, please, do not be offended. Count Gonerla meant no disrespect. Oh, he even donated 100,000 francs to your army, which clearly shows his sincerity.”

Count Gonerla, drenched in cold sweat, nodded frantically: “I—I apologize for my rashness. Yes, 100,000 francs. Exactly. I did donate 100,000…”

In truth, he had only donated 8,000 francs, but under these circumstances, he didn’t dare say a word otherwise. At this moment, 100,000 francs it was—anything to pacify Colonel Buonaparte’s wrath.

Napoleon’s expression finally softened a bit. He raised his glass to Giuseppe in acknowledgment.

The soothing melodies of the orchestra resumed within the hall.

Once the banquet was over, Napoleon didn’t attend the subsequent ball, citing pressing military affairs as his excuse, and returned to the command center set up at Baron Tremeloni’s villa.

Entering his office, he immediately began drafting an application to change his surname, from the Italian-sounding “Buonaparte” to the more distinctly French “Bonaparte.”

As the highest-ranking member of the Buonaparte family, his decision would determine the future prospects of his brothers, and no one dared oppose his choice.

Napoleon completed the application, handed it to his clerk for refinement, then personally copied two clean versions. He instructed his attendant to deliver one copy to the Royal Commission at the Palace of Versailles, which managed noble titles, and the other to the Minister of Registry.

Having finished all this, he let out a long, contented sigh.

From now on, he would be unequivocally French!

The next day, the senior commanders of the corps gathered at the command center for a strategic meeting.

Victor began by reporting on the sweep for remnants of Austrian forces in Milan City—so far, over 200 individuals had been apprehended, with most prominent Austrians already thrown into prison, and the hunt was still ongoing.

Once he finished, Marmon quickly reminded: “Commander, we must head for Genoa as soon as possible. General Demobin has been under siege by the enemy for more than a month now…”

Napoleon listened but offered no reply.

In fact, he had already received two letters of appeal from Demobin, indicating that the situation in Genoa had become extremely dire.

“Commander?”

Marmon wanted to press further, but Napoleon raised his hand to interrupt: “Our top priority right now should be to thoroughly eliminate the remaining enemies in Lombardy. If we march south, our supply routes might be severed at any time.”

Indeed, following Bolieu’s retreat, the combined Austrian forces left in the Lombardy region amounted to less than 2,000 men across various cities, mainly tasked with maintaining local order and incapable of effective field operations.

However, given Napoleon’s lack of enthusiasm for rescuing Genoa, even this inconsequential force posed a significant concern.

Marmon: “But…”

Napoleon cut him off again: “General Demobin is highly experienced in command. The Austrians will not defeat him so easily.”

“As long as we secure total control over Lombardy, we can establish a defense along the Po River, severing ties between western Italy and Austria.”

Melas’ main forces were currently concentrated around the Genoa region, which meant Napoleon could leverage Lombardy and the Alps to execute a broader counter-encirclement against him.

“Moreover, Melas will undoubtedly abandon Genoa and choose to face us in decisive battle. When that happens, General Demobin’s burden will naturally be lifted.”

Napoleon gave his subordinates no room for dissent, issuing orders directly: “Captain Grouchy, immediately lead two cavalry squadrons to Varese.

“Major Marmon, take the Third Infantry Regiment and seize Como and Bergamo.

“Melas’ reinforcement troops will arrive in Milan within a week at the earliest. You must complete your missions and return before then.”

“Understood, Commander!”

…

While Napoleon prepared to strike Milan, Genoa was embroiled in bitter conflict.

At the French Army’s forward command post, General Demobin rubbed his ears, still ringing from the bombardment, and shouted to the aide beside him: “Any updates from Colonel Buonaparte’s side?”

The aide shouted back just as loudly: “None yet, General—I’ve already sent three groups to break through the enemy’s siege, but we’ve heard nothing in return.”

The ground suddenly trembled—it must have been the impact of a heavy artillery shell landing close to the command post. The British had delivered several 24-pound guns to Melas by sea, their extensive range inflicting devastating damage on the Genoa defenses.

Demobin, accustomed to such chaos by now, shouted: “How long can our food and ammunition last?”

“We still have gunpowder and shells for another half-month, but the food supply is down to less than a week’s worth.”

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