That night, Charlotte barely slept.
As the hours passed, the candles in her elegant Parisian apartment slowly burned down. And just like Gilles Gervais before her, she became completely absorbed in the story. She even forgot the cup of tea resting on her bedside table.
The first light of dawn was painting the sky in soft colors when she finally turned the last page.
Tears blurred her vision, and several had fallen onto the pages covered in the fine handwriting of the mysterious author. She had cried the hardest when Rose let Jack go.
For a long time, she remained motionless, the manuscript open on her lap.
How could a man write something so beautiful... and so cruel?
Surely, he must have loved deeply to speak of love with such sincerity. And perhaps he had lost that love—tragically, almost certainly.
She now understood why her lover had completely lost track of time.
Her eyes drifted toward one of the windows, and a melancholy smile crossed her lips as she finally noticed how much time had passed.
She also realized that a story like this could not simply be sent back to its author to be corrected, mutilated, or forgotten.
It deserved to be shared.
Such things happened far more often than people cared to admit. Countless manuscripts, or at least excerpts of them, circulated quietly throughout France.
Forbidden texts possessed a strange kind of power. The harder they were to obtain, the more precious they seemed.
Charlotte kept Titanic for only three days, just as she had promised. But before returning it, she entrusted it to two close friends whose discretion she trusted completely.
The outcome was exactly as she had expected.
Several passages were quickly copied by hand, since no one could keep the original forever. Before long, the opening chapters were being read aloud in several Parisian salons, just as was often the custom.
Among those who heard these readings was Marie-Thérèse de La Ferté-Imbault.
Accustomed to the brilliant conversations of the capital's most prestigious salons, the woman, now in her fifties, believed she had heard every kind of story imaginable. Yet she found herself genuinely captivated when she listened to it at Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's salon.
The impossible romance between Jack and Rose was not, in itself, anything new, but its setting gave it a remarkably fresh appeal.
That great metal ship, along with all the inventions described with the precision of a master duelist, created the uncanny sensation of stepping into another century, however absurd such an idea might have seemed.
When the reading came to an abrupt stop because no one possessed the rest of the manuscript, Marie-Thérèse protested with infectious enthusiasm.
Everyone demanded to know what happened next.
Only a few days later was the fate of Rose, Jack, and the other characters finally revealed, and it deeply moved the entire circle of friends, including Marie-Thérèse de La Ferté-Imbault.
She spoke of it with great emotion to her close friend, Marie-Louise de Rohan, sister of the late Prince of Soubise and governess to the royal children, just as her aunt had once been.
After returning to Versailles, Marie-Louise mentioned the story to the young Duchess of Burgundy, the Austrian-born Marie-Josèphe, and offered to obtain the complete manuscript, knowing how fond the duchess was of romantic novels.
Marie-Louise de Rohan, better known as Madame de Marsan after her marriage to the Count of Marsan in 1736, had little difficulty tracing the manuscript's origin.
A few discreet questions to the right people were enough.
It had been deposited at the Bureau of the Book Trade by the son of the Count of Lusernes, who had later retrieved it in order to return it to its rightful owner in New France.
Fortunately, Rose van Schaick, the count's daughter-in-law, had wisely commissioned—at considerable expense—a complete handwritten copy of the manuscript for her own personal use, something that was perfectly legal.
After a brief negotiation and the payment of a generous sum that more than reimbursed Rose's expenses, the copy changed hands.
And so, on Friday, June 28, 1771, the hefty manuscript entitled Titanic passed through the gilded gates of the Palace of Versailles and entered the private apartments of the young Duchess of Burgundy, where she had been living for the past four years.
***
In a spacious bedroom whose gilded woodwork rivaled that of the Duke's apartments, the Dauphin's, or even those of His Majesty himself, a muffled sob broke the silence.
Sitting upright in the depths of her bed, her back supported by heavy pillows embroidered with gold thread, Marie-Josèphe clutched the manuscript as though trying to hold on to the characters she had grown so attached to and who had just been cruelly torn away from her.
Her eyes were red, and several tears had already streamed down her cheeks.
"H-hu... How heartbreaking... What an injustice..."
Her voice broke at Jack's death.
As she read, she had imagined him bearing her husband's features, but with expressions that her husband could never allow himself to show in public.
Along with him, more than fifteen hundred people, most of them men, had vanished beneath the icy waters of the Atlantic.
And like Gilles Gervais, like Charlotte, and like Marie-Thérèse de La Ferté-Imbault before her, she had long since ceased to be at Versailles.
She no longer heard the footsteps of servants in the corridors, nor did she feel the warmth of the sun pouring through the great windows that flooded her chamber with light for most of the day.
She had boarded that colossal ship, believed it truly unsinkable, only to be brutally disillusioned by a merciless reality in which ordinary people all too often became little better than wild beasts.
From the fragile safety of a lifeboat floating upon a black sea, she had watched the stern slowly rise into the air before plunging violently beneath the waves as the ship broke in two.
And alongside Rose and Jack, she had felt frozen to the very marrow, waiting desperately for rescue while the other survivors screamed, struggled, fought for their lives... and died, one after another.
Never before had a novel given her such a vivid impression of truly witnessing the events unfold.
She remained motionless for a long while before wiping away her tears, even though doing so only ruined her makeup a little more. The novel was simply too rich with emotion.
Fortunately, no one was there to judge her, not even her husband, the handsome Duke of Burgundy.
Her gaze fell upon the open manuscript before her. There were still a few pages left.
Despite her grief, and despite her certainty that this merciless author might prove even crueler, she resumed reading.
"Rose felt alone once more.
Perhaps it was even worse now, because she had known what it was like to have someone by her side—someone who truly understood her.
Her heart had become numb.
The survivors of the Titanic were all in much the same condition: shocked and utterly exhausted by a night none of them would ever forget.
Few men had survived the disaster. Most of the women aboard were now widows or orphans.
The officers of the Carpathia moved among these unfortunate souls who had lost everything, handing out hot drinks and extra blankets.
A list of survivors had been compiled.
One after another, they pleaded to know whether there was another list, another ship carrying more survivors. But there was none.
They were all here.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rose suddenly spotted her fiancé, Carl.
He had survived after all, though the ordeal had not spared him.
And he was looking for her.
She hurriedly pulled part of her wool blanket over her dull red hair and made herself as inconspicuous as a mouse.
Silently, she prayed.
Carl walked right past her without recognizing her.
She did the same when she saw her mother, almost unrecognizable. She seemed to have aged ten years.
At last, they arrived in New York—their original destination.
They had not arrived ahead of schedule. And they had not arrived aboard the Titanic.
It was raining.
Like ghosts, the survivors disembarked one by one, and at the end of the long gangway someone asked her name.
'Dawson,' the young woman replied in a weary voice. 'Rose Dawson.'
The officer wrote it down and moved on to continue his work."
Marie-Josèphe felt her throat tighten once again. She closed her heavy eyelids for a brief moment.
Rose had abandoned forever the life that had been chosen for her.
And she had taken Jack's surname. As though they had been married during the voyage.
The author could have ended the story there, but instead he had added one final chapter, strikingly different from the rest. Emotion gave way to a cold, almost administrative precision, as if a court clerk were drawing up the official account of the disaster.
It listed the horrifying death toll, including the honorable Captain Edward Smith and the admirable shipbuilder Thomas Andrews.
The managing director of the White Star Line, portrayed throughout the novel as the principal architect of the tragedy, did not perish. Yet his name was so thoroughly disgraced that he lost everything—his reputation, his fortune, and his position.
As for Carl, he did not enjoy a happy ending either, although it came twenty years after the events described in the novel. After entering a loveless marriage that allowed him to inherit millions, he lost everything during the great economic crash of 1929.
The duchess found herself reading with almost guilty satisfaction that he eventually succumbed to despair and put a pistol in his mouth.
Rose, on the other hand, lived a life without regrets.
She traveled widely and encountered remarkable people. Though she could never forget Jack, she eventually healed and found love once more.
She had children, who in turn had children of their own.
She never sold Carl's gift, the Heart of the Ocean. She kept it as a treasured reminder of that voyage, a silent witness to a love that had vanished.
And at the age of ninety-eight, not long after a team of passionate scientists discovered the wreck of the Titanic, she passed away peacefully in her bed.
The Duchess of Burgundy felt her eyes growing moist once again as she slowly closed the manuscript.
This time, the story was truly over.
Her slender fingers absently traced the letters that formed the title of the work.
Titanic.
A strange name.
Yet now it seemed perfectly fitting.
The romance itself was nothing extraordinary. Europe already possessed enough tales of star-crossed lovers to fill its greatest libraries.
But the world this François Boucher de Montrouge had created had utterly fascinated her.
Everything new or unfamiliar was woven into the narrative so naturally that she had accepted even the most improbable inventions without resistance.
Perhaps that was the secret.
What intrigued her most was undoubtedly the great metal ship. And then there were those curious automobiles, which she had imagined as horse-drawn carriages without horses.
For some inexplicable reason, they seemed entirely possible.
After sitting in silence for a long while, she decided to seek her husband's opinion.
She finally rose from her bed, and almost as if by magic, a maid appeared to help her change into a more suitable house dress and rearrange her hair.
A few minutes later, the manuscript pressed against her chest, the young duchess left her apartments and made her way toward those of the duke, located not far from the residences of his brothers and the Dauphin.
She found him seated behind an exceptionally elegant writing desk, dressed in a magnificent light-blue coat embroidered with silver.
A candle burned beside his elbow as he studied a treatise on artillery with great concentration.
He was alone.
When the door closed behind her, Marie-Josèphe was finally able to remove the mask of reserve demanded by court etiquette whenever she was in public.
In private, she became a completely different woman from the composed princess who had walked through the corridors only moments before.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said in a melodious voice still touched by the soft inflections of Vienna. "Do you have a little time for me?"
The prince, a charming man with impeccable manners and an elegant appearance, immediately looked up at his wife and closed his book.
His gaze was filled with affection.
"You could never disturb me," he replied with a warm smile. "What can I do for you?"
He gestured toward an armchair beside his own.
"You seem... troubled. What is it?"
The Duke of Burgundy had a remarkably pleasant voice. He had also retained the refined features of his youth.
Since their marriage, he had never spoken a harsh word to her. On the contrary, he had always treated her with great kindness, which had helped her endure those difficult first months at Versailles.
It had not taken long before the two young spouses abandoned the formal vous in private in favor of the more intimate tu.
The young Austrian nodded gently before shaking her head.
"It's nothing serious."
She lowered her eyes and looked for a moment at the manuscript she held tightly against her chest, as though she feared it might suddenly vanish forever.
"It's just that... I've just finished reading an absolutely extraordinary novel, and I wanted to hear your opinion."
The prince tilted his head slightly, intrigued. Naturally, he had noticed what she was holding so carefully.
"Oh? Is that what's causing all this?"
He smiled softly.
When he was a child, he had loved novels as well, but he had soon been steered toward more serious works covering every subject that might one day prove useful to the future King of France.
It had therefore been a long time since he had enjoyed the pleasure of reading one.
"What is it about?"
Marie-Josèphe smiled.
"It's a story set in the future."
The Duke of Burgundy raised an eyebrow.
"The future?"
"Yes," she replied, respectfully placing the manuscript on his desk. "The story takes place at the beginning of the 1900s."
The prince made a quick calculation.
That meant the story was set at least one hundred and thirty years in the future.
Both remarkably close and unimaginably distant. Few people ever thought on such a timescale.
"I see. That certainly gives its author plenty of freedom..."
He folded his hands together.
"Go on. You've made me curious."
Marie-Josèphe's eyes sparkled. She knew she could always count on her husband to listen.
"The story," she continued, her cheeks growing pink as she remembered the world she had briefly inhabited, "follows the voyage of an enormous ship called the Titanic. But it isn't a ship like any we know, because the author imagines a world very different from our own—a world far more technologically advanced."
"Oh?"
She nodded eagerly.
"It's built entirely of metal, and it's so enormous that every ship in His Majesty's navy would seem tiny beside it."
"Made of metal?" the duke repeated thoughtfully.
He tried to picture the largest vessel in the French fleet, only much larger, its hull clad in dark metal plates.
"Exactly. And although it has two masts, they aren't needed for propulsion. The Titanic isn't a sailing ship."
This time, the prince chuckled.
"Then how does it move?"
"The author explains that it's powered by enormous machines fed continuously with coal. Those machines turn... well... large underwater blades that he calls... propellers."
Prince Louis-Joseph stopped laughing and grew more thoughtful.
He remained silent for quite some time, lost in contemplation.
At last, he spoke.
"That is certainly an unusual idea."
Marie-Josèphe shifted excitedly in her chair.
"Do you think such a thing could actually exist? Is it even possible for a metal ship to float?"
"It is certainly possible for a metal vessel to float," he answered. "But the amount of metal required would be staggering. I very much doubt any state could afford such an undertaking. As for these machines... and these propellers... I simply don't know."
He reflected a little longer before shaking his head.
"My first instinct would be to dismiss it as fantasy."
Then, more quietly, almost to himself:
"But if one could truly free navigation from dependence on the wind... it would revolutionize seafaring. Ships would no longer need to follow prevailing winds and ocean currents."
His mind was already racing through the implications.
Before long, he realized the consequences would extend far beyond what he had first imagined.
Marie-Josèphe continued enthusiastically.
"He also imagines vehicles, rather like carriages, but without horses to pull them. He calls them automobiles. Like the ship, they're powered by machines that make them move."
Her cheeks flushed even deeper as she remembered the scenes she had imagined while reading.
She longed to see such a miracle. Perhaps even, one day, to drive one herself.
"Do you think something like that could exist... even in the distant future?"
The prince's expression changed almost imperceptibly.
For the briefest instant, the air around him seemed colder. Then the moment passed, and he laughed lightly.
"Ha! This author certainly possesses a boundless imagination."
He smiled.
"So he imagines a future where horses are no longer needed?"
He dismissed the idea with a casual wave of his hand.
"He truly has an extraordinary imagination."
"So... you really think it's impossible?"
Seeing the disappointment on his wife's face, the prince felt a pang of guilt.
But he could not tell her what he knew.
"Come now, don't look so downcast. It's only a novel."
He smiled reassuringly.
"And besides... who can say what the world will look like in a hundred years? It will probably differ from ours as much as our own differs from the days of Louis the Just."
He cleared his throat and pointed toward the manuscript.
"Ahem! Once you've finished with it, I'd very much like to read this story myself."
***
After his wife returned to her apartments, silence settled once more over the study.
Louis-Joseph stared thoughtfully at the manuscript resting on his desk.
François Boucher de Montrouge.
"Hmm... It must be a coincidence."
His thoughts drifted back to what he had witnessed nearly a month earlier, in Vanves, a quiet village southwest of Paris.
It had been May 8, 1771.
That day, in the presence of his father the Dauphin, the Duke of Choiseul, Lieutenant General de Gribeauval, and a carefully selected handful of the kingdom's most distinguished men, history had quietly been made.
They had witnessed the demonstration of a machine capable of moving without horses, or any other draft animal.
The revolutionary invention, a heavy three-wheeled vehicle, was the work of a single man: Nicolas-Joseph Cugnot.
He had named it a fardier, for its purpose was to haul heavy military loads, especially artillery, in service of the King's armies.
Its most striking feature was the large boiler mounted at the front.
The trial had been successful, although its list of shortcomings was longer than one's arm.
It was deafeningly loud. It moved slowly. It produced enormous amounts of steam. And above all, it consumed an astonishing quantity of firewood.
For the time being, that greatly limited its usefulness, since its primary purpose was to reduce the expense of maintaining draft animals and supplying them with fodder.
Even so, one fact could no longer be denied:
It worked.
Absolute secrecy surrounded the entire project.
Its strategic implications were immense, and the existence of the fardier had to remain hidden for as long as possible, giving France time to perfect the invention before the next war.
Every precaution had been taken.
Yet this author seemed remarkably close to the truth. Could it truly be nothing more than coincidence?
The prince narrowed his eyes.
"Most likely," he murmured. "How could he possibly know such a thing exists?"
He looked once more at the author's name.
For some reason, it felt strangely familiar.
One thing, however, was certain.
The man possessed remarkable intuition.
He had even imagined what might become of the fardier in the future: the automobile.
The prince committed the name to memory.
Then he opened the novel and began to read.