Napoleon Bonaparte is a shadow that never quite lifts from French history. For better or worse—and depending on the decade, both were argued—his presence looms not only over the story of Les Misérables, but over the very streets and monuments of modern Paris. And so today, book in hand and Hugo on my mind, I set out to see how the man who crowned himself emperor is remembered—in marble, in memory, and in myth.
I will start in the most recent part of my journey, on the Champs-Élysées, arguably the most imperial street in France. Once called the “Triumphal Way,” it is where Napoleon’s Grande Armée marched, and where the Arc de Triomphe stands—the massive structure commissioned by Napoleon to honor his soldiers and victories.
In a previous blog, I explored how English monuments often preserve a feudal illusion, celebrating monarchs without acknowledging the labor and lives beneath them. Napoleon’s monument is a direct contrast to the idea that a single person should be remembered for national triumphs. In fact, there is only 1 place where his name is found, and 1 statue of him (located in a group). More importantly, the monument is covered in remembrances for those who fought alongside him in battles across Europe and Africa. And there have been additions that follow suit, with the Flame of the Unknown Soldier and multiple remembrances not for those who ruled at the time, but for those who fought in the wars that claimed the lives of so many. It doesn’t feel like a monument of Napoleon; it feels like a monument of France.
And I found even more interesting than what the statue represents, standing under the Arc, was how popular it was. I was watching tourists from all over the globe snap selfies in front of a monument that once symbolized imperial domination, making it clear that Napoleon is still deeply present. His name is carved into the stone; his victories etched like ancient scripture. If history is a story told by those with the loudest echoes, Napoleon’s echo is deafening.
But then, there’s the strange contradiction: the people walking the Champs-Élysées today don’t seem to notice him. Luxury stores, cafés, designer boutiques—the empire now is of commerce, not conquest. That’s the paradox Hugo hinted at: how someone so immense in history could become so faint in the public memory. In Les Misérables, he refers it more towards the attempt to forget Napoleon by the subsequent monarchies, but there is a parallel line running through today: we aren’t trying to forget him, but why should we care when we are surrounded by so much wealth today? How can we appreciate this history when it is enclosed by distractions? Walking along the street, it felt like people were there to shop at Louis Vuitton and Hermes rather than to see a historic monument highlighting the glory of France.
Two days earlier, I visited Versailles—originally to see the Ancien Régime and the magnificent estate, but more apparent than the gilded columns was the strange relationship between Napoleon and Louis Phillipe. During Louis-Philippe’s reign in the 1830s and 1840s, he made a concentrated effort to incorporate Napoleon into the fabric of France’s royal history.
Inside Versailles, beyond the Hall of Mirrors and gold-dripped ceilings, are entire rooms devoted to Napoleon—portraits, busts, and war scenes celebrating him not as a usurper, but as a rightful part of the French narrative. It was Louis-Philippe who added many of these depictions, in an effort to unite royalist and Bonapartist factions under one national story. Versailles, which once symbolized the monarchy, now tries to make room for the emperor who dismantled it and then rebranded it.
Hugo, of course, was no stranger to reverence for Napoleon. In Les Misérables, he often speaks of the emperor in near-mythic terms—as a man of extraordinary vision, intellect, and will. He admired Napoleon’s ability to transform France, to command destiny itself, even if Hugo did not spare him from criticizing the heavy cost of that ambition. For him, Napoleon embodied a kind of greatness. Not just political or military. But poetic greatness. And yet, Les Misérables does not shy away from the human toll of such greatness. Hugo may have admired the emperor, but he loved the country. He may have commended the general, but he mourned the soldiers. He could marvel at the man while still questioning the machinery of war. In Hugo’s vision of France, it is possible to respect the dreamer and still grieve the dream’s casualties.
The final leg of the journey was to Les Invalides, Napoleon’s final resting place. It is one of the most solemn and strangely grand sites in Paris—a golden dome rising above the sunken tomb of a man who once ruled over half of Europe. Around the tomb are carved victories, praises, and emblems of power. It’s a space designed for reverence. Literally. He has his tomb below the ground level, so all who look at it are bowing to him. I couldn’t help but contrast it with Hugo’s words. In Les Misérables, he tells us about another tomb—that of Jean Valjean. Not grand, not engraved, not visited. A simple grave for a simple man who lived a life of sacrifice and love. That, for Hugo, is the kind of life worth memorializing.
Les Invalides is thought-provoking. It forces you to reckon with the duality of Napoleon: the strategist and the arrogant, the visionary and the oppressor. The man who has little to mention of himself in the Arc de Triomphe, but also makes those who see his tomb bow to his grave. The man who many viewed as the people’s man, but also the man who crowned himself and his family as royalty. There’s no denying his impact. Nor his flaws. And in many ways, that’s history: it doesn’t offer easy answers. It doesn’t tell us whether to worship or reject, only to remember, and to remember critically. Hugo’s novel does this masterfully, and I think it is one of its greatest aspects. Hugo might be writing an autobiography in parts of the novel, but notice the critical thinking with Marius in his journey from royalist to overly zealous Bonapartist:
“Evidently, like all new converts to a religion, he was elated by his conversion, threw himself into it, and went too far… In seeking truth, there is a way of being misled… he neglected attenuating circumstances.”
Hugo encourages us to appreciate history, to get involved, to fall in love with it. But eventually, we need to reel ourselves back. Continuing unchecked can lead you to the same place on the opposite end of the spectrum.
Walking back into the daylight, I thought about the contrast between Valjean and Napoleon, between the man forgotten by the state and the man glorified by it. One changed a single life at a time. The other, the course of nations. But Hugo suggests that in the long run, it is the former who carries the true weight of greatness.
Napoleon’s France may be cast in stone across the city, but Hugo’s France—the one of humility, redemption, and strength—still lives in the hearts of those who choose to see it.
“There is nothing like a dream to create the future”