Northern Italy and the Swiss Alps, Early Spring, 1829
The spring snow had yet to melt, and the mountain wind was as cold as a blade. Cassian Méril pulled his cloak tight and pushed open a worn wooden door. A faint cough came from inside, where an old officer with a head of gray hair was warming himself by the fireplace. He had once commanded a cannon regiment in Napoleon's Imperial Guard but now made his living by copying ledgers.
"General," Méril began softly, "do you remember the sound of the last war drum?"
The old officer looked up, silent for a moment, then pulled a cloth-wrapped bundle from a drawer. It was an Imperial medal, long forgotten.
"I have never forgotten."
Méril's meetings were like this almost every day. He visited a light cavalry commander who was hiding in a small town in Zurich, an infantry captain who had fallen so far he was working as a doorman at a hotel in Milan, and a former engineering colonel who was now a shepherd in Lugano. Some were bitter, others were numb, but they had all been the iron backbone of the Empire—now, they were just shadows cast aside by the new government.
"I can't promise you medals, or rank, or even victory," Méril told them, looking into their eyes. "But I can give you a purpose. You are still soldiers. You can still fight."
The soldiers secretly sent to the southeastern border weren't all old, forgotten officers. Méril had chosen three types of men: some were battle-hardened middle-aged officers in their thirties and forties who could still lead a charge and would be the most reliable backbone of the new army. Others were old generals from the Empire. Though they could no longer fight on the front lines, they served as "training consultants," teaching strategy and tactics and upholding discipline. The rest were new recruits—young mercenaries and volunteers from Italian towns, Swiss mountains, and even small villages across the Danube. Some were driven by poverty, others by belief, and all were drawn by the faded but still shining dream of the "Empire" to join this unnamed army.
They were secretly sent southeast, to the Balkans. This route had been opened by Count Széchenyi. His property in the Balkans was converted into a temporary training camp and warehouse. On the outside, it was registered as a "Security Consultant Training Center" that claimed to recruit "professional mercenaries" from across Europe for "border security." In reality, it was a secret base for the new army, hiding the smoldering embers of the old Empire.
At the same time, Kossuth was secretly running a small transport team. Using small ports between the Mediterranean and the Balkans, they sold old rifles and military supplies smuggled from Switzerland at a high price. The profits from this arms smuggling not only provided a living for the old soldiers but also built up the war chest for a larger military expansion and propaganda efforts.
Saint-Cyr Military Academy, Late Spring, 1829
Sunlight slanted through the high windows, hitting the stone floor of the lecture hall. The young officer cadets sat ramrod straight. A tactics class was dissecting the reasons for the defeat at Waterloo. Someone asked, "If the right flank hadn't been delayed, could the battle have been turned around?" The instructor was deep in thought, but a new "auditor" in the back row raised his hand.
"If Marshal Davout had commanded the right flank," he said slowly, "then Waterloo would have been just a second Austerlitz."
The comment caused an uproar. Abel Davout, who was sitting in the front, turned around, his eyes as sharp as a blade.
"You know a lot about my grandfather," Abel said, staring at the newcomer.
"I know the history of the Empire by heart," the man smiled calmly. "My name is Louis Duval, and I'm a military history scholar from Switzerland."
The two began to talk, covering everything from Napoleon's military system to the Empire's bureaucracy. At first, Abel was wary, but he soon realized that "Louis Duval" wasn't just a fan—he was a deeply knowledgeable and dedicated believer. Abel didn't want to admit it, but he had to: this man had re-ignited a long-suppressed fire in his heart.
The Undercurrent at Saint-Cyr
A strange atmosphere had settled over the Saint-Cyr military academy.
First, a star student suddenly dropped out, citing "health reasons." Within a few weeks, more than a dozen others left the school. Some claimed a relative was dying, others said a family crisis had occurred.
On the surface, all the reasons were different and reasonable, and few people paid much attention.
During a teachers' break, one instructor asked, "Haven't a lot of students left lately? Isn't that strange?"
The older Instructor Taray looked through his attendance book, his voice flat. "In a military academy from a time of war, a high turnover rate is normal."
No one asked anything else.
But all of these "leavers" had been on the same list—one created by Franz, and secretly given to Abel Davout by Napoléon-Louis. They were all slightly older, firm in their beliefs, and loyal to the Empire.
While these young men quietly left France for the Balkans, Napoléon-Louis (as Louis Duval) and Abel Davout remained. They continued to act as Franz's secret liaisons and organizers, sowing the seeds of the new movement within the very heart of the French military. They remained on campus, pretending to be ordinary cadets and scholars, waiting for their next orders.
On the training field, formations shifted and sharp commands rang out. Older men watched from the sidelines while younger ones repeated their drills. A gray-bearded artillery officer looked through his binoculars, nodding slowly, as if he were back on the foggy hills of Austerlitz.
"You've given them a second life," Széchenyi said quietly to Méril.
"No," Méril replied, shaking his head and looking at the mixed group of veterans and new recruits. His gaze was as firm as steel. "They've just become the men they were always meant to be."