On the vast Atlantic Ocean, huge waves were madly pounding this small island, smashing into bursts of white surf against the black rocks, howling and roaring at the shore in unrestrained fury; spray flew everywhere, and the sound of the breakers shook the sky.
On the island, the garrisoned soldiers were bustling about, and the whole island was filled with an air of grim hostility.
This was the British island of Saint Helena, once a small transfer station in the Atlantic, now a key prison under strict British guard.
The prisoner held here was now standing before the window.
He was Napoleon, Emperor of the French—the man who had won glorious military achievements in the French Revolution, swept across the European continent with a formidable army, and pushed France's prosperity to its utmost.
He had once been a victor, a hero who commanded the winds and clouds and shook heaven and earth. At home, he encouraged commerce, reformed finance, and promulgated a legal code; on the battlefield, he was bold and decisive, with outstanding command, invincible and unstoppable. Yes, Alexander was nothing to fear, Francis was nothing to fear, and the Arc de Triomphe made them all acknowledge France's victory. France, under the leadership of this Corsican, leapt at one bound into the undisputed super-overlord of the European continent!
But in the end he was a loser. Leipzig and Waterloo erased every memory of victory. He revered war too much, trusted military force too blindly. He did not know that the souls of ruined nations were accusing him, did not know that the suffering people were weeping, and turned a blind eye to the corpses strewn across Europe and the rivers of blood. At last, the wilderness of Russia shattered the myth of his invincibility; in the bitter winter, he returned in crushing defeat.
A sharp sword split the sky, and in an instant the world became so silent! The Arc de Triomphe dimmed, the city of Paris lost its color, and all France was weeping.
Even though the world-shocking Hundred Days let him rise once more, Waterloo still swept all of it away on the raging Atlantic waves into the depths of history......
He stood by the window, staring absentmindedly as the giant waves, as if trying to overturn everything, crashed in one after another. He seemed to have awakened.
Yes, how much sorrow and joy had a lifetime of campaigns brought forth, how many cries of pain had his iron cavalry stirred up. His own stubborn, violent charges had left room for nothing but force, scorning all else!
At last he awakened.
Ah! France, please do not weep for me.
Illustrious military glory and a brilliant empire can never erase my cruel crimes; Europe's peace requires my passing.
Justice has judged everything, and Saint Helena will be my holy place of reflection.
France, don't cry for me. Look upon me with calm eyes —— a Corsican child of yours, worthy of pride and worthy of scorn!
Dusk fell, and the waves gradually calmed, gently kissing the black rocks on the shore. The Atlantic was immersed in the night, baring its broad chest and breathing evenly. Across the boundless Sahara, tearful France gazed here with a smile, gazed at this son of whom she would forever be proud——Napoleon Bonaparte.


