A week later, in Napoleon II's bedroom.
He was seated at his desk when the knock came.
Two Imperial Guards stood outside. One of them held a wooden box, plain and unmarked. No seal. No insignia.
"Delivered from the workshops, Your Highness," the guard said.
Napoleon II took it himself.
The box had weight to it. Not heavy. Just solid.
He closed the door and carried it to the desk. Set it down carefully. For a moment, he didn't open it. He already knew what it was. He just wanted to be sure.
Then he lifted the lid.
Inside were several items, each wrapped in plain paper and secured in place so they wouldn't shift during transport.
He unwrapped the first one.
Soap.
A solid bar. Pale. Smooth. No sharp chemical smell. No grease. No rough edges where the mixture had gone wrong.
He turned it over in his hand.
This one wouldn't burn skin.
Next was a ceramic bottle, sealed with a cork.
Shampoo.
He pulled the stopper and smelled it. Mild. Almost neutral.
Then a small tin.
Toothpaste.
White paste inside. Even consistency. No separation. No grit large enough to scrape enamel away.
Finally, a waxy stick wrapped in simple paper.
Deodorant.
Napoleon II leaned back slightly in his chair.
They followed the instructions.
Not half of them. Not the parts that sounded convenient. All of them.
He stood and moved toward the bathing room.
"No attendants," he said to the servant waiting nearby.
The servant bowed and left without question.
The bathwater was already warm. Steam rose gently from the surface. Napoleon II undressed and stepped in.
He started with the soap.
It lathered properly. Not too much. Not too little. When he rinsed, it came off clean. No residue clinging to the skin. No sting.
He tried the shampoo next.
No burning along the scalp. No itching. Just clean hair, rinsed clear.
After drying off, he opened the tin of toothpaste. Used it carefully.
No sharp pain along the gums. No bitterness that lingered too long.
Then the deodorant.
He applied it sparingly, more out of habit than necessity. There was no sensation. No cooling burn.
He dressed afterward and returned to the mirror. Stood there longer than he usually would.
Clean meant something different now.
Not perfumed. Not masked. Just… absent. The absence of odor. The absence of irritation. The absence of discomfort he had grown so used to that he barely noticed it anymore.
He flexed his fingers once.
"This will change things," he said quietly.
He knew that early nineteenth century Europe or around the world don't have the luxury of modern hygiene.
Most people washed when they could. Not when they should. Water was cold. Soap was harsh. Teeth were scrubbed with powders that ground them down faster than time ever could. Smell was tolerated. Infection was expected.
Not to mention, there was a belief where bathing cause diseases.
He had heard it often enough. From physicians. From servants. From people who should have known better.
Cold water weakens the body. Hot water opens it to illness. Clean skin invites sickness.
None of it was true. All of it persisted.
Napoleon II sat back down at the desk, towel still draped over his shoulders, hair damp. He picked up the bar of soap again and turned it slowly in his hand.
People feared bathing because bathing hurt.
Because lye burned. Because crude mixtures stripped skin raw. Because the act itself was punishment, followed by fever, rashes, cracked hands that never healed properly.
He'll make sure that every person in France would have access to this modern hygiene kit. He would have to ask help from his father about this. Where using his authority, he would make it a right that every citizen of France deserved to have access to clean body.
He remembered there was such a case where in the history, personal hygiene was like a right a right.
Not a privilege. Not something reserved for nobles with perfumed baths and servants to scrub their backs. A baseline. Like bread. Like clean water.
So he got dressed and walked towards Napoleon I's office.
Napoleon I's office was busy when Napoleon II arrived.
Clerks moved in and out with papers tucked under their arms. A minister stood near the window, waiting. The scratch of a pen against parchment filled the room.
Napoleon II stopped just inside the door.
Napoleon I didn't look up immediately. He was reading something, brow slightly furrowed. Then he did.
He paused.
Not visibly. Just a fraction longer than normal.
"Come here," Napoleon I said.
Napoleon II walked closer.
As he did, Napoleon I's expression shifted. Subtle. A crease smoothed out. His nose flared once, almost unconsciously.
He set the paper down.
"You smell… different," Napoleon I said.
Napoleon II nodded. "Clean."
Napoleon I leaned back in his chair. "Not perfume."
"No," Napoleon II said. "That's the point."
The minister near the window glanced between them, confused. Napoleon I waved him off without looking.
"Leave us," he said.
The man bowed and exited. The door closed.
Napoleon I leaned forward now, resting his forearms on the desk.
"You did something," he said.
Napoleon II reached into his coat and placed the wooden box on the desk. He opened it and slid the contents forward.
Soap. Shampoo. Toothpaste. Deodorant.
Napoleon I picked up the bar of soap first. Turned it in his hand. Smelled it.
"No bite," he said.
"Because it isn't lye," Napoleon II replied. "It's controlled. Buffered. Made to clean without harm."
Napoleon I glanced at the other items. "This is what you asked Berthollet for."
"Yes," Napoleon II said. "And it works."
Napoleon I set the soap down. "You want this distributed."
"I want it mandated," Napoleon II replied. "Standardized. Regulated. Available to everyone."
Napoleon I raised an eyebrow. "You're talking about telling the entire country how to wash."
"I'm talking about public health," Napoleon II said. "Disease doesn't care about class. Infection doesn't respect titles."
Napoleon I said nothing.
"Barracks first," Napoleon II continued. "Then we move on to hospitals. Schools. Factories."
"And the cost?" Napoleon I asked.
Napoleon II was ready for that.
"It pays for itself," he said. "Lower medical expenses. Fewer sick soldiers. Higher productivity. And beyond that—"
He gestured to the box.
"This can be sold. And that brings me to another point Father, about how I should monetize all of the inventions I make."