Josephine

The English called him the little emperor, comparing him to things like foxes, the tiny dogs that had always looked more like cats to her. They wrote in their papers those insults, drew in their papers those drawings, made endless jibes at him, at her Napoleon. At her “Beloved” Husband. The Little Emperor they called him. If only they had spoken to her, had asked her opinion on all of these things. The Little Emperor. She could tell them how little he really was. How could you really blame her for her little excursions, for those other nameless men, for those little slips in her purity. If all you had in bed was the “Little Emperor” You would need more too. He had already slept with all of Europe, she had her rights to go where she wished. At least her visitors took pleasure from these visits. This “Little Emperor” name could not have come from nowhere, and sooner or later someone was going to talk.
Joseph
The French army called him the little corporal, which Joseph had to agree with. Napoleon was little, his little brother. They had grown up together, played together in the mysterious terrain of their home land. They had played games of imagination, of heroism. Joseph had naturally taken charge in these games, leading their battles against the fierce monsters their minds could dream, leading his brother through the thick foliage of the corsican forests. Joseph had been the big brother, only by a year, but it didn’t matter. His job had been to be there for Napoleon, to help him grow. And now, now Napoleon was running on ahead of him, and it was Joseph who had to try and stay caught up. This was not how it was supposed to be, it all went beyond his little brother “growing up”. This was the Napoleon who had hidden scared in the boarding school they had lived in for years, the boy who had been small, awkward, constantly conscious of his Corsican accent. This was his brother, his little brother, and Joseph could no longer tell who was supposed to think what about who, for in his eyes, Napoleon would always be his brother, the “Little Corporal”.
The Soldier
They said he was afraid of germs, they had said that he had a power complex. They had said that he had a brilliant military mind, they had said that he treated he treated his soldiers well. They had said that he was a fierce fighter, they had said that he always went to battle with his men. They had said that he was a tyrannical dictator. They had said that he was a benevolent leader. They had said so many things that the soldier no longer knew what to believe. Well he knew to shoot when the general told him to. He also knew that he was cold, too bloody cold. The general had told them that this was necessary, that Russia had to fall in order for France to ever achieve it’s full potential. He didn’t care right now, though he couldn’t tell anyone that. Again the soldier shivered violently as another gust of wind upset the snow around him. Bloody Russia, no wonder Napoleon said they would fall quickly.
The British
We watched him with open mouths as he took Europe in a storm, “Uniting” it under his army. We were frightened, honestly frightened. He fought without honor, without any of the old chivalry that had still bound us all. We were all struck by his technique, no matter how disdainful we tried to appear. We were british after all, we had to do our british things, drink our British tea, live our British lives. The thought of Napoleon terrified us beyond belief, he was after all a terrible dictator. We sent out our morale raisers, calling him terrible names. He was the devil’s favorite, he was the nightmare of Europe, he was the little emperor.  He was the epitome of terror, and the people had to know that.
The Russians
The British had called him the nightmare of Europe, telling tales of his terrible exploits, warning all of the Europeans to fight. He was tricky, he was fast. He fought like no man had fought before, leading his men into a brutal onslaught with no thoughts of his own casualties. The tales would almost have people believe that he was a monster from the depths of hell, that his army could re-spawn upon being vanquished. “He’s fierce”, “He’s Brilliant”, “Be careful how you face him”, “I’ve never seen anything like him”, “Europe is doomed”, “He is quite simply the nightmare of Europe”. Silly Austrians, Silly Italians, even more silly British. They just needed a bit more snow. For the “Nightmare of Europe”, he sure went down easily.