My own laws.
The final firewall between me and absolute power had just been thrown in my face by a bunch of unelected judges in wigs. This wasn't a negotiation anymore; it was a constitutional crisis.
The grand study, which had felt like a command center just yesterday, now felt like a cage. I paced the length of the expensive rug, a caged tiger in a silk coat. The official remonstrance from the Parlement of Paris lay on my desk, a long scroll of elegant handwriting that was, in essence, a declaration of war.
"They can't just do that!" I snapped, the 21st-century incredulity raw in my voice. "I am the King!"
My finance minister, Calonne, wrung his hands, his face a pasty shade of gray. "Legally, Your Majesty... they can. A royal decree is not law until it has been registered by the Parlement. It is a tradition stretching back centuries."
"Tradition?" I rounded on him, my voice dangerously low. "Is it also a tradition for the people of France to starve while the granaries of the nobles and the Church are overflowing? Tradition is a privilege they can no longer afford."
Marie, who had been standing silently by the fireplace, spoke up, her voice a calm anchor in my storm of frustration. "What does it mean, 'unregistered'?"
"It means," Calonne explained, his voice trembling, "that the decree is legally unenforceable. The royal tax collectors cannot collect it. The army cannot enforce it. It is... just a piece of paper."
A piece of paper. My entire plan to save the country, the Queen's sacrifice of her own jewels, the grain shipments I had already ordered—all of it was balanced on a piece of paper that a group of obstinate old men refused to sign.
It was the most archaic, illogical, infuriating system I had ever encountered. It was a checkmate delivered by a rulebook I didn't even know existed.
I picked up the scroll from the desk. The language was flowery and obsequious, full of "with the deepest respect for Your Majesty's divine will" and "in our humble duty to the ancient laws of the realm." It was all a polite, legalistic veneer for a core of iron-hard defiance. I crumpled the edge of the parchment in my fist, the crackle of the paper a small, satisfying sound of violence.
"So we are trapped," Marie said, her eyes on me, her faith unwavering. That faith was a heavier weight than any crown. She believed I could find a way out of this. I had to.
I forced myself to stop pacing. I forced myself to think. Not like a king, but like a lawyer. Like an auditor. When the front door is locked, you don't keep banging on it. You look for a window. A back door. A structural weakness.
I closed my eyes, dredging up every random fact I'd ever learned about French history from late-night documentary binges and college textbooks. There was something... some obscure procedure... a loophole.
A king. A parliament. A forced registration.
And then it hit me. The name came back to me, a dusty artifact from a forgotten lecture.
A lit de justice. A "bed of justice."
I opened my eyes. "Calonne," I said, my voice suddenly calm and clear. "Tell me about the lit de justice."
The minister's face, already pale, drained of the last of its color. He looked like he had seen a ghost. "Your... Your Majesty?" he stammered. "A lit de justice? But... that is the most extreme expression of royal authority. It hasn't been used in decades."
"Tell me," I repeated, my voice flat and cold.
"It is a formal session," he explained, his voice a terrified whisper. "Where the King appears in person before the Parlement. By his mere presence, his authority is considered absolute. He can compel them, on the spot, to register any decree he wishes. It overrides their power to remonstrate completely."
It was the monarchy's nuclear option. A constitutional trump card.
"It is seen," Calonne added, swallowing hard, "as the act of a tyrant."
A thrill of dangerous, terrible power shot through me. This was the back door. This was the way through the wall. It was a massive gamble. Using it would be a direct act of royal absolutism. My enemies would scream "tyranny" from the rooftops. My brother Provence would have a field day.
But my supporters? The people in the streets? They might just see it as the act of a strong, decisive leader. A king who was willing to break the rules to save them.
I looked at Marie. Her eyes were wide, but she didn't look afraid. She looked at me with an expression of absolute trust.
"Then let them call me a tyrant," I said, the decision solidifying in my gut like cold steel. "I would rather be a living tyrant who feeds his people than a beloved, dead king who let them starve." I turned to the stunned minister. "We ride for Paris at dawn."
This was it. The ultimate power play. I was going all in. If this failed, if they defied me even in person, I wasn't just a weak king; I was a failed dictator.
And they had a special blade reserved for those.
The journey to Paris was nothing like our last trip. There was no secret, unmarked carriage. I ordered the full, formal, royal procession. The golden state carriage, polished until it blazed in the morning sun, drawn by eight white horses. An entire company of the Royal Guard as an escort, their breastplates shining, their banners snapping in the wind.
This was not a request. It was a show of force. Of absolute, unshakable confidence.
Marie and I sat side-by-side in the open carriage. She was dressed in a simple but elegant gown of royal blue, the color of Paris, a deliberate, silent message of solidarity with the city. She kept her hand resting lightly on my arm, a small, public gesture that spoke volumes. We were a united front.
"My heart is beating so fast I can barely breathe," she whispered, her voice so low that only I could hear it over the rumble of the carriage wheels and the clatter of hooves.
I placed my hand over hers. Her fingers were cold. "Mine too," I admitted. "Just keep smiling. We're not asking for their permission. We're telling them how it's going to be."
As we entered the city, the crowds were massive. They lined the streets, their faces a sea of uncertainty. I heard cheers—"Vive le Roi! The Baker King!"—from the poorer quarters, from the people who understood what the grain shipments meant. But from the more affluent areas, I saw sullen, silent faces. They had read the pamphlets. They had heard the whispers of the nobles. To them, I was a radical, and my wife was a foreign monster.
The golden carriage, a symbol of our power and resolve, rolled through a grim, working-class neighborhood. The brilliant gold and royal blue was a stark, defiant contrast to the gray poverty of the tenements around us. This was a visual declaration of intent. I was here for them, not for the men in the palaces.
The Palais de Justice was an ancient, imposing stone fortress. As I stepped out of the carriage, the cheers and jeers of the street faded, replaced by an unnerving, hostile silence.
I walked into the Grand'Chambre, the main chamber of the Parlement. It was a cavernous room, its vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow. It was a sea of black-robed judges and colorfully dressed nobles, hundreds of them, all standing as I entered. Their faces were a uniform mask of grim, hostile disapproval. It was a silent, visual wall of opposition, and it was meant to intimidate me.
It was pure adrenaline. I felt like a gladiator stepping into the arena, every eye in the Colosseum on me, waiting, hoping, for me to fail.
A special, elevated throne had been placed for me on a dais, a "bed of justice" from which to dispense my royal will.
I ignored it.
Instead, I walked to the front of the chamber and stood on the floor before them, on their level, forcing them all to look down at me. It was a deliberate choice. I was not here as a distant, divine symbol of monarchy. I was here as a man. Their king. And I was here to do a job.
The First President of the Parlement, an old, formidable man named d'Aligre, stood to read a prepared speech. His voice was a deep, resonant boom, accustomed to command. "Your Majesty," he began, "with the greatest respect, this body, in its ancient wisdom and its sacred duty to the laws of France—"
I held up a hand.
He stopped, his mouth literally hanging open. The entire room held its breath. The King had just interrupted the First President. It was a breach of protocol so profound it was like a slap in the face.
"There is no debate," I said, my voice not loud, but it cut through the silence like a razor. "There is no discussion."
I let my gaze sweep across the sea of shocked and outraged faces. "For centuries, this body has defended the privileges of the few while the many have suffered. That defense ends today."
I turned to a clerk standing beside me, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Read the decree."
The clerk, his hands trembling, began to read the text of my tax on the nobility and the clergy. My voice had shattered their script. I had seized complete control of their ceremony, turning their legal hearing into a royal command performance. They were stunned, thrown completely off their game.
When the clerk finished, a tense, profound silence filled the chamber.
I turned back to the First President, his face now a mottled shade of purple with rage and humiliation. I looked him dead in the eye.
"You will now register my decree," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. "As is your duty."
He looked from my face to the faces of the assembled nobles, a silent plea for support. He looked to the armed Royal Guards I had stationed by the main doors. His hand trembled as he reached for the official quill and the registry book.
He was beaten. I had won.
But before his fingers could touch the quill, a voice rang out from the back of the chamber. It was clear, confident, and dripping with theatrical flair.
"On what authority?"
A shocked murmur went through the room. I turned.
It was the Duc d'Orléans. My secret ally. He was standing with the opposition, a dangerous, unreadable smile on his face.
"By what right," Orléans asked, his voice carrying to every corner of the vast room, for every noble and every clerk and every guard to hear, "does the King claim a power greater than the law of France itself?"