My brother wasn't just a traitor anymore; he was an idiot with an army, and he was about to set the entire continent on fire with me and Marie trapped in the middle of the bonfire.
The news of Artois's flight to the Austrian Netherlands hit Versailles like a cannonball. He was actively trying to rally the monarchs of Europe—especially Marie's brother, the Holy Roman Emperor—to invade France and "restore order."
He was asking a foreign power to invade his own country. To kill his own countrymen.
The emergency council was a circus of hypocrisy and fear. The conservative ministers, the same ones who had frothed at the mouth over my reforms, were secretly thrilled. Artois was doing what they no longer had the courage to do: trying to crush the revolution with foreign steel.
"We must act with the utmost delicacy," one old duke cautioned, stroking his chin. "We would not want to provoke the Emperor."
Provoke him? My brother was practically begging him for an army!
My other brother, Provence, sat there with a mask of solemn concern etched on his face. It was a masterful performance. But I could see the cold, calculating glint in his eyes. He was loving this. My position, already precarious, was now critical. If I looked weak, he would be the first to pounce.
The rage that had been simmering in me for weeks finally boiled over. A cold, pragmatic fury.
"We must send an envoy to Vienna at once!" a minister insisted. "A diplomat to placate the Emperor, to assure him of the Queen's safety..."
"No," I said, my voice cutting through the noise. The room fell silent. "An envoy is quiet. Secret. A private negotiation. I will not be quiet about this."
Artois had made this a public threat. I would give him a public answer. This was a 21st-century problem now. This was about public relations. About controlling the narrative.
I turned to a terrified-looking clerk. "Draft a letter," I commanded, my voice ringing with an authority that left no room for argument. "An open letter. To every monarch in Europe. To King George in England, to King Carlos in Spain, to Empress Catherine in Russia, and yes, to Emperor Joseph in Austria."
I began to pace, dictating as I walked. "The Kingdom of France is currently undergoing a period of profound and necessary reform, initiated and guided by the Crown. These are internal matters." I stopped and looked at the council, my eyes daring any of them to challenge me. "Any attempt by a foreign power to interfere in the domestic affairs of our nation will be considered a hostile act. An act of war."
I had just drawn a diplomatic red line in front of the entire continent. I had called my brother's bluff and raised him the threat of a full-scale European war.
Let them call me a tyrant now.
The council was dismissed, its members scurrying away like frightened mice. But my biggest challenge was yet to come.
I found Marie in her private study. She was standing by the window, looking out at the gardens, but I knew she wasn't seeing them. She was terrified. Her own brother, the most powerful man in Europe, might be convinced to invade her adopted country. It put her in an impossible, heartbreaking position.
On her writing desk, I saw a sheet of paper, a letter she had just begun. At the top was the imperial seal of the Habsburgs. Austria.
She was writing to him. To her brother.
She saw me looking and her composure, always so strong in public, crumbled for a moment. "Louis," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "What are we going to do? He is my brother. But... this is my home."
I walked over to her desk and looked at the letter. She didn't try to hide it. She wanted me to see it.
It was not a plea for help. It was not a sister begging her brother to save her from a revolution.
It was a warning.
I picked up the page, her elegant, familiar handwriting clear and defiant.
My dearest brother, it began. You will have heard, by now, from the Comte d'Artois. He will have told you stories of chaos, of a king held hostage by a Parisian mob, of a queen in mortal danger. He is a fool, and he is a liar.
My breath caught in my throat.
Do not mistake my husband's love for his people for weakness. He is not their prisoner; he is their leader. He is building a stronger, fairer France, and I stand with him in all things. The Comte d'Artois speaks only for a few bitter, frightened exiles who have lost their undeserved privileges.
She had just called the entire French aristocracy bitter, frightened exiles. To her own brother.
The final lines were a gut punch.
If you march an army towards Paris, you will not be marching to save your sister. You will be marching to kill her. For I am the Queen of France. And I will stand with my King and my people against any foreign invader, even one who shares my blood.
She had chosen. In that letter, in those words, she had chosen us. Over her family. Over her homeland. She had chosen a broke accountant from the future and a country that largely hated her.
The debt I owed this woman was greater than the entire French treasury. I set the letter down, my hand trembling slightly. I didn't have the words. So I just reached out and gently took her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. For a long moment, we just stood there, a silent, unbreakable team.
The opening day of the Estates-General arrived.
The entire palace of Versailles was a whirlwind of activity, a stage being set for the most important, most dangerous political drama in the nation's history. The Hall of Mirrors, the grandest room in the palace, was packed to the rafters.
It was a visual representation of the divided nation. On one side sat the First Estate, the high clergy, in their magnificent purple and scarlet robes. Next to them, the Second Estate, the nobility, a riot of colored silks, powdered wigs, and the glint of ceremonial swords.
And across the aisle from them, crammed onto simple wooden benches, sat the Third Estate. They were a sea of plain, severe black coats. Lawyers, doctors, merchants, a few parish priests. Their faces were not bored or arrogant like the nobles. They were eager, intense, hungry. They leaned forward in their seats, as if trying to physically will the future into existence.
I felt like I was walking onto the stage of the world's most dangerous play. The weight of the history I knew, and the terrifying uncertainty of the history I was making, was a physical pressure on my shoulders.
I took a deep breath. Marie's hand was on my arm, a small point of warmth and stability in the swirling chaos. "Ready?" I murmured.
"No," she whispered back, a tiny, nervous smile on her face. "But let's do it anyway."
We entered together, the room falling silent as we walked the long aisle to the twin thrones on the dais. The contrast was stark. As we passed the benches of the Third Estate, a low, respectful murmur went through their ranks. Men stood. They bowed their heads.
Then we passed the nobles and the clergy. They remained seated. They stared straight ahead, their faces like stone masks of contempt. A wall of icy, hostile silence.
There it was. The two Frances. The past and the future, sitting in the same room, ready to tear each other apart. And I was the referee in the bloodiest match in history.
During the first recess, the chamber emptied into the antechambers and gardens, a chaos of hushed conversations and angry arguments. I needed to pass a message to my new allies in the Third Estate. Their provisional leader, the academic Bailly, was constantly surrounded, watched by a hundred pairs of suspicious eyes. I couldn't risk speaking to him.
I needed a more discreet channel.
I called over Jean, my locksmith. He had recovered from his beating, and I had promoted him to my personal attendant. His loyalty was absolute. "Jean," I said, my voice low. "I need you to deliver a note. No one can see you."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
I quickly scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper and folded it. "The recipient is one of the delegates from Arras. His name is Robespierre."
Jean's face remained impassive, but I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. He knew the name. Everyone was starting to know the name.
"He is a small man," I said. "Neatly dressed. Find him when he is alone."
Jean found Robespierre standing apart from the crowds, near a window overlooking the gardens. He was not a physically imposing man. He was utterly unremarkable, except for the fierce, burning intensity in his pale, watery eyes. He looked like a predator, silently observing the herd, choosing his moment.
Jean approached, bowed, and discreetly passed him the folded note.
Robespierre took it without a word. He unfolded it. His thin, almost bloodless lips pressed together into a tight line as he read the words.
The First and Second Estate will try to delay the vote on credentials to stall for time. Do not let them. Demand a unified session to vote by head. Now.
He read it twice. His eyes, for a fraction of a second, flicked up, across the crowded room, and met mine. It was a moment of silent, shocking connection. The king and his future executioner, united in a secret, temporary alliance.
He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, then discreetly pocketed the paper.
I had just handed a loaded gun to the most dangerous man in France and pointed him at my enemies. This was either the smartest thing I had ever done, or the very last mistake I would ever make.
When the session reconvened, the Archbishop of Paris, as the de facto head of the First Estate, stood to speak. His voice was a rich, condescending boom. "Before we proceed with the verification of credentials," he announced, "I propose that this august body adjourn for one week of prayer and solemn reflection, to ask for God's guidance in our momentous task."
It was a stalling tactic. A blatant attempt to delay the vote, to give them time to plot, to peel away support.
Before Bailly, the Third Estate's president, could even respond, a voice rang out from their benches. It was sharp, clear, and precise as a surgeon's scalpel.
It was Robespierre.
He stood, and though he was not a large man, he commanded the absolute attention of the room. "We did not come here to pray, Your Grace," he said, his voice cutting through the Archbishop's pious condescension. "We came here to work."
He turned slightly, so he was addressing the whole assembly, including me. "I second His Majesty the King's own wish, expressed to us this very morning, that all three orders meet as one unified, national body to verify credentials. Immediately."
He had done it. The absolute madman had done it. He had taken my secret, private instruction and twisted it into a public declaration of royal support, trapping the nobles and the clergy completely. They couldn't argue against the King's own "wish."
The hall erupted into absolute chaos. The Third Estate was on its feet, cheering. The nobles were shouting, their faces purple with rage. My revolution had just officially begun.