 Session! What is the drive? The whiplash that goads man on to forsake family, friends and loved ones in an insatiable desire to conquer and subjugate lands beyond land. Alexander cried like a child when there was no longer a nation to subjugate and grind beneath his military heel. Little men have often risen to a giant's heights in the fanatic desire to reach the stars. In just a moment, you will hear the story of one such man who changed the destiny of the world. A Corsican of lowly birth whose name became the most feared throughout Europe. It is a story called Napoleon Bonaparte and stars Louis Merrill. A narrative of an insane driving will which seathed with an amine shot through with the dread and insidious cancer of an obsession. August 15th, 1769 is perhaps one of the most portentous dates in the chronicles of world history. What was on this day that in a tiny village of Corsica a boyed child was born. His name was Napoleon Bonaparte a figure predestined to become the little man of destiny. We shall begin this narrative long, long after Napoleon had risen to the heights of success he had become Napoleon's first self-anointed emperor of the French realm. The little military genius had vowed a conquest of all the Germanic empires and nation after nation crumbled beneath his heel and gave ear to the dictates of this redotable Corsican. Within the borders of Austria in the city of Schoenbrunn the victorious Bonaparte smug and self-satisfied reviewed his conquering troops. But as he did a two-tron youth broke from the ranks of the spectators. At last! All right, all right, you've stopped me this time but perhaps I shall be more fortunate next time and I promise you there shall be a next time. Not in this world! God! I've changed place on this upstart. Confine him in the palace dungeon under heavy guard. The defiant aristocratic intelligent-faced young fanatic is dragged by force from the presence of the emperor to be examined by the brutal lords of the military. But the young man will not speak. Words, threats, trickery cannot move him from his stony silence. For he will speak to no one but the emperor himself to Napoleon I. And thus wandering and somehow admiring the courage and firmness of his would-be destroyer. Bonaparte orders that the youth be brought before him. You may leave the room, God. But your majesty... Would you permit me to repeat myself, monsieur? I said you may leave the room. As your majesty commands and with a thousand pounds. And now, my dear young foolhardy friend I think we can talk in private. First? Your name? My name is Friedrich Staps. And I am the son of Johann Staps, a pastor of Parole. I... I do not understand you, Friedrich. You're a very fine-looking young man. And I should judge your age to be that of... Shall I say, seventeen? Eighteen. I will be nineteen in October. And if I am not mistaken, Friedrich, was your intention to kill me? Yeah. Then I should judge you do not like me. You hate the name of Napoleon, hm? I was once your greatest admirer, but now I hate you. So? And why did you change? Because you've done nothing but make war upon my people. It is your fault that we are starving to death and freezing to death. Young man, you must be mad, either mad or ill. I am in neither. I am in full possession of my faculties. And it was for Germany that I tried to kill you and will try to kill you again if I ever have the chance. Friedrich, you know the penalty for what you did? I suppose so. You will have me shot. But that does not matter. There will be others to take my place when I am dead. But I do not want to shoot you, Friedrich. You are too young. I am old enough to know what I'm doing and what you are doing to Germany. Friedrich, you try my patience. Eh, this picture was found in your pocket. She's a very beautiful girl. You'll, eh, sweet out? Yeah. And what will she think when she learns you're to be shot? She will understand. And she will only be sorry that I failed. She hates you as much as I do. Friedrich, you are a perfect fool. But I find it very difficult to give the word that will have you killed. You are much too young to die. And I want to pardon you, Friedrich. Then I shall be able to kill you after all. Very well, my young friend. You give me no choice. Gaff! Yes, Your Majesty? May take the prisoner back to the dungeons. And it is my order that he shall be shot at sunrise. Very well, Your Majesty. Come on. Goodbye, Friedrich. And believe me, I have never been so sorry in all my life. And so for the first time, the little man of destiny becomes aware of the stark hatred that burns deep within the hearts that have been pierced and bruised by his ruthless military saber. And he knows too that if the dynasty of Bonaparte is to exist, he must retrench and strengthen his ramparts, not by war, but this time by peace. Now, within his private chambers, a strange calculating drama is being played. Josephine? But yes, my dearest, my brave and great Emperor. No, no, no, no, this is not a moment for zest. I wish to talk with you. But you are talking with me, are you now? Sit down. Sit down. Here, your mischief. Must you look so serious, Napoleon? Perhaps you have been worrying too much. Or you must not, else you will have gray hair and wrinkled like Monsieur Chauvre now. And then I should not ask you. Josephine, Josephine, the war is over. The war? But yes. France is no longer at war with Austria. I have declared a truce. Oh, then I'm so happy. Then we can return to Paris and perhaps have a great ball in celebration. Oh, that would be wonderful, Napoleon. Let me see. Whom could we invite? Josephine? Yes. Josephine, as you know, it has always been my dream to become the Emperor of France. Oh, but you are the Emperor of France. Yes. Yes, I am. But when I die, who then will be the Emperor? I don't know. Or they will find someone, I guess. Yes, they will. My son will then be Emperor of France, Josephine. Your son? But you have no son, Napoleon. Oh, I know. But I am going to have one. A son who shall bear my name and who shall be of royal blood. What do you mean? You are not of royal blood, Josephine. And neither can you give me a son. Napoleon, what is it you wish to tell me? I wish to tell you that when we return to Paris, I shall get a divorce. Yes, a divorce. And then I shall marry again and pray God that he will give me a son so that Napoleon II shall be Emperor of France when and if they should succeed in killing Napoleon I. Napoleon, seeking to strengthen his position by a royal alliance, takes to wife the subjugated princess of Austria, Maria Louisa. And a year later, eagerly awaits an announcement of a royal birth, one that will perhaps give him a son and an heir to bear the title of Napoleon II. Suddenly, the guns of the Paris forts boom out and the city listens with raptor tension and then goes wild in a frenzy of delight as 22 salutes are fired. A son has been born to their emperor. The guns are still thundering. And the little lieutenant of artillery stands at the palace window mechanically noting the caliber of the guns from the pitch of the gunfire while his thoughts reach far back into the past and roam yet farther and forward into the future. Yes, André. Your Majesty. Yes, I know, Charles. You have come to congratulate me. And I thank you. But your Majesty and my father have a son and his name shall be Napoleon. Napoleon II, the next emperor of France. Your Majesty. Charles, they have fired the salutes. Why do the guns continue? There's a shameful waste of ammunition. That is what I have come to tell you, Your Majesty. Tell me? Tell me what? Charles, pick up. Well, well, well. Those guns, Your Majesty, the guns that you hear. What about the guns? They are not French guns, Your Majesty. Not French guns? What is this nonsense? There are no other guns within the borders of France. Your Majesty, they are the guns of the coalition. They are marching on Paris. They? May we, Your Majesty, the English, the Russians, the coalition, I beg you in the name of God to do something. The hands of the coalition within France? Oui. Call my guard. If the toxin alarm sounded, order the call to colors. Quickly, you fool. France will not be France but the state of coalition. A little man wearing a cockade hat. A little man who sought to reduce the world to a size smaller than himself. A little man who would emulate the mighty Hercules and bear the world upon his own shoulders. And the meek shall inherit the earth. Perhaps Napoleon considered himself his sole beneficiary of that strange pronouncement. In a moment, we'll continue our story. The toxin alarm and the call to the colors have been sounded too late. And for the first time in his life, the emperor Napoleon has been caught napping. And so it is that the armies of fate and as well the armies of the great European coalition conquer the French capital of Paris and reduce, as the Duke of Wellington have out, the power and the strength of a little Caesar to the humbleness of ashes. And thus the once victorious Corsican, stripped of his glory and his crown, stands trial before the tribunal of Europe. And here's the dread word of judgment. It is hereby ordered and decreed by the powers of the European coalition that you are divested of your crown and rights of emperor and are vanished forever from French citizenship and soil. And are to live the remaining days of your life under heavy God upon the Isle of Elba. And thus is Napoleon stripped of his cloak of power and banished to the tiny molehill in the ocean wastes known as Elba. But the coalition powers have not reckoned with little man's titanic powers of intrigue. And the word rings throughout all of Europe with electrifying news that Napoleon has escaped from Elba and is returning with a conquering army to the soil of his empire. And now, within an Alpine village, Napoleon escaped, speaks next horts his straggling army of 1,000 odd men of his old campaigns. Attention! Attention! Lieutenant, it is not my wish for the men to stand at the tension. I wish to speak to them and I want them to listen. Order them at ease. Very well, sir. Ladies and gentlemen, as you were, at ease. Thank you, Lieutenant. My soldiers, I ask that you recognize me and I have come to you to say that if there is one among you who wishes to kill his emperor, let him come forward and do so. Here I am, and here is my breast. Thank you, my comrades. And now I wish to say this. After the fall of Paris, my heart was torn, but my spirit remained unshaken. My life belongs to you. Must once more be made useful to you. Soldiers, we are not conquered. Treachery has delivered the capital into the hands of the enemy and disorganized our army. But now, now I have come. Your general has returned. And he asks you to wear the tricolor croquette again. And at the eagles which you bore a toolman, an Austerlitzetian, a Elo and Friedland, a Dichmühle and Vargrim, a Smoliensk on the Moskva, a Glutzen in Montmereil, once more wave on high. And I promise that victory will guide us forward through the storms, and the eagles shall again fly from one church steeple to the other, until at last they'll light a Notre Dame, and again proclaim Napoleon Bonaparte, emperor of France and dictator of the world. Hey, wait for your answer, comrades. Vive le premier! Vive le premier! In voice of destiny, proclaims the little man's ambitious conquests shall be short-lived. He is not reckoned with the solemn oath of Britain's Iron Duke of Wellington, sworn to the dying William Pitt. So England maneuvers another war with France, one which terminates tragically upon the shell-torn and scarred battlefield of Waterloo. Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Well, speak up, what is it? They are too much for this. The outnumber is four to one. Both left and right blank have broken, and in a head-long retreat. And some the order for charge. The order has been sounded, Your Majesty, but there's no use. The army is panicking, speaking, and only God can stop them. Yes, only God can stop them, and he shall. But Napoleon is the God of war and of the Frenchman. And Napoleon shall stop this retreat, or he shall die. Vive la France! Vive la France! Those blasphemous words and the insane fury of Napoleon are wasted on the sound, sharp pair of heaven. And even though he rushes into the teeth of the enemy to turn his routed army, his once loyal and courageous soldiers completely succumb to the head-long flight of panic and the great battle of Waterloo is ended. General Bonaparte, in as much as you have declared yourself and your armies to be in utter defeat, I shall apply the military law of the victor. May I have your sword, General Bonaparte? I should like to ask one favor, that you allow me to keep this sword. I am extremely sorry, General Bonaparte. This steel was once the sword of Alexander, and its age is scarred from 1,000 victories, but never a defeat. And so, Lord Wellington, I give you my sword, broken in two pieces, and I give you my life in the same way, for like this sword of Alexander, Napoleon Bonaparte is broken. A broken sword and a broken man become the souvenirs of the first dictator of Europe. Under English guard, Napoleon is returned to Paris, and again, he hears the stern judgments of exile. But this time, he is not to be sent to the historic island of Elba, but to a lonely and extinct volcanic rock in the Atlantic Ocean, the red island of St. Helena. But now, by virtue of one last request, Napoleon stands again in his chambers of the palace, talks with his brother, Lucien. Lucien, please. Please, Napoleon, do not speak to me. Why? You are still my brother? That is the reason that I do not want to talk. I swear I cannot hold back the tears. Then cry, cry, Lucien, cry if it will help. It is you who should cry, Napoleon, not I. I? I have no tears. I am as dry as the sands of Egypt. I cannot cry, Lucien, but you, you can cry for me. Napoleon. Thank you. It is good to know that there are those who can shed a few tears for Napoleon. I, I told you, I told you a long time ago, Napoleon. I said to you, Napoleon, go drunk with power, and you're likely to become sick. Yes, I know. I remember. But why? Why didn't you listen to me? Ambition listens to no man, Lucien. But my intoxication has been like all intoxications. First I enjoyed the taste of wine. Then I enjoyed the, the exhilaration of drunkness. Then the drunken frenzy. And now, now the sickness. I think Plutac would have called it the, the law of compensation. Now please, please, Lucien, shed no more tears for me. Save them for my death. Napoleon, I. Yes, Andre? Maria. Napoleon. Will you leave us alone, Lucien? But yes. Of course, Napoleon. Maria, my dearest. No, no, no. Please, no, Napoleon. No? Please do not touch me. I'm sorry. So you too. You too would be named Brutus. No. But it was not my eye who stabbed you, Napoleon. It is only yourself whom you should name Brutus. And now an answer to your second and last request from the powers of the coalition. The fallen Caesar stands before his troops that once so valiantly served his command. Headbeard to the driving rain, which mingles the tears in his eyes with the tears of heaven. Napoleon Bonaparte, the little man of destiny. Bids his last farewell. Soldiers of my old guard, I take leave of you. The 20 years I have seen you always upon the path of honor and glory. And during the last few weeks, you have been models of bravery and fidelity, just as in the years of good fortune. But there would have been civil war. And that is why I sacrificed all other interests to those of the country. And I am going away. You friends, I beg of you to continue to serve France. Our happiness has been my only thought. And my good wishes go with you. Do not mourn my fate. But remember that if I have determined to go on living, it is only that I may increase your pain. I shall write a story of the great deeds we have brought together. And so farewell, my children. I would gladly press you all to my heart. But at least let me kiss your colors, the flag of France. Goodbye, comrade. And may God bless you and vive la France. Who was it that said, what goes up must come down? It's a simple law of compensation. But coming down in such a spot of degradation on St. Helena is not considered as homesteading on choice acreage, is it? Napoleon, however, bought and paid for his final landscape with a counterfeit coin of his evil and ambitious obsession. In a moment, I'll return to tell you of our story for next week in as many forms as often been the three forked barb which goads man to the very brink of hellish inferno. History is filled with the stories of those to whom colors on canvas were more than life itself. You'll hear such a story, a drama in which death painted a picture in obsidian black, contrasted with a million reds of murder. It is called The Blue Stain, in which an old attic trunk became the focal point of an overpowering session. Our story was produced and transcribed by C.P. McGregor in Hollywood.