Early Spring, 1829 – Geneva
The wind by Lake Geneva still carried the chill of unmelted snow. Inside the office, orange firelight flickered in the fireplace, casting a warm glow on the dense financial report spread out before Franz.
"Our total assets," he said, pushing the papers toward Adrien and Dufour, "have surpassed three million francs."
Dufour let out a low whistle. Adrien couldn't hide his surprise. "That's twice what we expected."
Franz smiled faintly, though his eyes drifted past them, toward the snowy mountains outside the window.
"But this is only the beginning." He paused, his voice turning firm. "I'll be leaving Geneva soon to meet some even more important backers. Our ambitions don't stop here."
"And the company operations?" Adrien asked, concerned.
"I've already left the next three months' strategy and action plans." Franz interrupted calmly but decisively. "You both know what to do."
Dufour nodded with a trace of regret but more admiration. "You always see two moves ahead, Alex."
Franz threw on his coat. As he turned to leave, he spoke softly: "Next time I return, I'll bring the spark that lights a revolution."
Eastern Switzerland – Shores of Lake Constance
Mist still clung to the pine-covered hills. A grand and solemn old castle stood quietly by the lake: Château d'Arenenberg.
Once a haven for the fallen Empire, it was now where Franz came to revisit the shadows of a vanished dream.
Only Greta accompanied him.
Through Dufour's private network, Franz had obtained a letter of introduction and was granted permission—under the name "Alex Carter"—to enter the long-secluded estate.
A maid took his card and led them along moss-covered stone paths to a finely decorated parlor. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, and the fireplace crackled with oakwood flames.
Hortense de Beauharnais sat calmly by the fire, dressed in a deep blue velvet gown. Time hadn't erased her noble grace—it had only made her more dignified.
She looked up slowly, her tone polite but wary. "Mr. Carter, my banker friend speaks highly of you. Your name is rising. What brings you here today?"
"I come on important business," Franz said quietly, then turned to Greta. "Madam, if possible, I'd like to speak with you alone."
Greta understood and quietly exited with the maid.
As the door closed and firelight flickered across the room, silence fell.
Franz removed his hat and coat, letting the flames reveal his full face.
For a moment, Hortense's pupils contracted in shock.
That face, those eyes—
That mix of strength and sorrow… she had only seen that once before.
"...Impossible..." she whispered. "You... you can't be alive..."
"Eyes don't lie," Franz said gently. "I remember something my father once told you: 'Real power is the storm hidden beneath calm.'"
Hortense suddenly stood. That quote—she had never told a soul.
Franz reached into his coat and placed a golden ring in her hand.
The imperial eagle and the name "NAPOLEON" glinted in the firelight.
"He left this with my mother. I return it now, in person."
Her fingers trembled. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
"You... my God... the King of Rome... you're alive..."
She rushed forward and embraced him tightly.
For a moment, she was back in the fading light of the Empire—holding the child once hailed as the future Emperor.
"I thought... all we had left were gravestones," she sobbed. "I thought history had buried the Bonapartes for good."
That night, Hortense immediately sent word to her two sons—Napoléon-Louis and Louis-Napoléon.
From her bedroom, she brought out a deep purple lacquered box and solemnly placed it in Franz's hands.
"This contains my assets from Switzerland and Italy—about fifty thousand francs. Not much, but it's everything I can offer. A symbol of my full trust."
Franz accepted it with a warm smile. "Consider it your investment, Madame. I promise—your return will be greater."
She handed him a parchment scroll next.
"These are loyal veterans and officials I've kept in quiet contact with. Many still hold their loyalty. If you ask, they will follow."
Franz nodded, holding the list tightly. "This... this is the flame I need."
Soon, footsteps echoed down the hall. Two young men entered the parlor.
"Mother?" one of them asked.
"Come meet your cousin," Hortense said softly, visibly emotional. "He never died. And now, he returns—to restore our family's true glory."
The older one was Napoléon-Louis; the younger, Louis-Napoléon.
Franz studied them closely. He knew their fates—Napoléon-Louis would die young in Italy, while Louis-Napoléon would one day become Emperor of France: Napoleon III.
Napoléon-Louis looked stunned. Louis-Napoléon narrowed his eyes, calm and unreadable, carefully analyzing Franz like a puzzle.
Franz understood: this man was both a future ally—and a potential threat.
The Bonapartist fire still burned in their blood.
And Franz knew: he must learn to control that fire.