The cheers for the "People's King" outside the window sounded like a death sentence.
Each shout of "Vive le Roi!" was another nail in my coffin. They were celebrating a victory that was about to be drowned in blood, and they didn't even know it. The joy from the tennis court had evaporated the second De La Tour had whispered his message.
Live ammunition. Marching on Versailles.
The council chamber was chaos. Ministers, who seconds ago were congratulating me, were now shouting over each other, their faces pale with terror.
"The Swiss Guard! We must call the Swiss Guard!" one shrieked, his powdered wig askew.
"Fortify the palace! Bar the gates!" another yelled, wringing his hands.
They were chickens squawking in a coop while a fox was tearing down the door. I stood in the middle of it all, the noise washing over me, a strange, icy calm descending. This wasn't court intrigue anymore. This was a hostile takeover. And I, Alex Miller, the accountant, was the CEO whose company was about to be liquidated.
Marie's hand found mine. Her grip was firm, her knuckles white, but her eyes were locked on my face. She wasn't looking for a king. She was looking for the man who had dueled in a back alley for her son. She was looking for a plan.
I squeezed her hand once, then let go. It was time to work.
My mind shut out the noise. I forced it into the cold, clean logic of a spreadsheet. I visualized the threat board, the key players laid out like cells in a formula.
Asset 1: Comte d'Artois, the Mad Dog. He was abroad, trying to light Europe on fire and start a foreign war. A major threat, but not an immediate one. He was the endgame.
Asset 2: Comte de Provence, the Snake. My dear brother was right here in Versailles, at the heart of the "legitimate" opposition. He was the one pulling the strings on this coup. Patient, smart, and utterly ruthless.
Asset 3: Duc d'Orléans, the Jackal. Circling, always circling. He was a creature of chaos, waiting to see who bled first so he could feast on the remains. A dangerous wild card.
Asset 4: The National Assembly, my Fragile Shield. Six hundred men who now believed I was their partner. They were my only source of legitimacy with the people, but they were politically naive and completely defenseless. If they fell, I fell.
And now, the immediate crisis. An army. French soldiers, led by old guard nobles, marching to crush my only shield.
"Silence!"
The single word cut through the panic like a whip crack. The room went dead quiet. Every eye turned to me. They saw a king. I hope they couldn't see the terrified accountant running the numbers on his own survival.
"Panic is a luxury we don't have," I said, my voice dangerously low. "It is also useless."
I pointed to my Secretary of War. "You. Get me every report on the regiments marching. I want their names, their numbers, their supply lines, and the name of their commanding officer. Now."
He scrambled out of the room, relieved to have an order.
I turned to Captain De La Tour, who stood like a rock by the door. "Captain, I need you to do something more important than prepare for a battle."
He raised an eyebrow. "Your Majesty?"
"Forget the cannons. I need data. Find out one thing for me, and find it out fast. When were those soldiers last paid?"
De La Tour stared at me for a second, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, but he was a professional. He nodded sharply. "As you command."
As he left, I caught the eye of Jean, my locksmith. He had been standing in the corner, a ghost in servant's livery, ready. I jerked my head, and he followed me into a small antechamber.
"The nobles are a closed book," I told him quietly. "But the men who serve them are not. Talk to the cooks, the grooms, the valets. Anyone who serves the officers of those regiments. I want to know what the common soldiers are complaining about. Rumors, grievances, debts. Everything. I need to know what they're saying when they think no one important is listening."
Jean's eyes, usually so bright, were grim. "They will talk of treason, Your Majesty."
"Good," I said. "Treason has a price. I need to know what it is."
He nodded and melted back into the palace's hidden pathways.
Marie had followed me out. "And what is my task?" she asked, her voice steady. She wasn't asking for a place to hide. She was asking for a job.
I looked at her, at the fire in her eyes, and my resolve hardened. "Be my memory," I said. "Stay with me. Don't let me miss anything."
She simply nodded, picking up a pen and a sheet of paper. The Queen of France was now my chief of staff.
We walked back into the council chamber just as my brother Provence swept in. His face was a perfect mask of grave concern. He looked every bit the loyal, worried brother coming to his king's aid in a time of crisis. The man was a better actor than anyone on the London stage.
"Brother," he said, his voice resonating with false sincerity. "This is a terrible business. An act of open rebellion by a few misguided officers. But you must act decisively."
I waited. The snake was about to show me the apple.
"The Swiss Guard are loyal to the crown," he urged, his eyes full of fabricated earnestness. "They are the finest soldiers in Europe. You must order them to man the palace walls. It is your sworn duty to protect the National Assembly. To protect France."
I almost smiled. The trap was so beautifully, elegantly simple.
If I ordered my foreign, German-speaking Swiss mercenaries to fire on French soldiers, I would become a monster overnight. A tyrant who used foreign killers to slaughter his own people. The National Assembly would denounce me. Paris would riot. The rest of the army would join the coup. I would lose everything.
But if I did nothing, the marching army would arrive, dissolve the Assembly, and arrest me for being a weak, incompetent fool who couldn't even protect his own government.
Provence had built the perfect cage, and he was trying to politely usher me inside.
I looked him dead in the eye, letting the silence stretch. I let him see the coldness in my expression.
"Thank you for your counsel, brother," I said, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I will consider it."
I turned away from him, dismissing him as if he were a minor courtier. I saw his composure flicker for just a second. The surprise in his eyes was magnificent. He didn't know if I was a fool who had missed the trap, or something else entirely. He was no longer certain which game we were playing.
Just then, De La Tour burst back into the room, his face grim but energized. Jean was right behind him. They had been fast.
"Your Majesty," De La Tour said, his voice low and for my ears only. "The commander is the Baron de Clovis. He has extensive gambling debts, most of them held by associates of your brother."
My eyes flicked to Provence, who was pretending to study a tapestry on the far wall. Of course.
"And their pay?" I asked.
De La Tour's lips thinned into a grim line. "The three regiments marching haven't been properly paid in seven weeks, sir. Their wages were allocated, but 'lost' in the bureaucracy."
Jean stepped forward. "The servants say the soldiers' morale is poison," he whispered. "Their boots are worn out, the food is rotten, and they have no money to send home to their families. They march because they are ordered to, but they are cursing the Baron's name with every step."
That was it. The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
A laugh, a real one, almost escaped my lips. I choked it down. They had made a classic management mistake. An amateur CEO's blunder. They saw their soldiers as assets on a balance sheet, as unthinking pieces on a game board. They had forgotten that soldiers are employees. And employees with grievances are a liability.
This wasn't a military crisis. It was a payroll dispute.
And I knew exactly how to solve a payroll dispute.
I turned to my stunned Minister of Finance. "You," I commanded, my voice ringing with absolute authority. "Go to the royal treasury. Open it."
"Y-your Majesty?" he stammered. "For what purpose?"
I gave him a smile that felt like showing teeth. "I am authorizing a triple-back-pay bonus for every single soldier in those advancing regiments. Effective immediately. I want the gold and silver counted out and loaded onto wagons."
The minister looked like he was going to have a stroke. "Madness! Your Majesty, the treasury is already strained! We cannot afford such a—"
"What we can't afford is a civil war," I cut him off, my voice like ice. "A war costs millions. It costs lives. This... this is just an overdue invoice. Pay it."
He stared at me, then at the look on my face, and fled to do my bidding.
Just as the room began to buzz with the sheer insanity of my order, the doors opened again. The Duc d'Orléans stood there, a predatory gleam in his eye. He was dressed impeccably, a faint, amused smile on his lips. He was smelling the chaos, and he had come to see what he could kill.
"Your Majesty," he said with a deep, theatrical bow. "I have heard troubling rumors. I have come to offer my sword, and my network, in service to the people's King."
Perfect. The jackal had arrived just in time for feeding.
I gestured for him to approach, walking him away from the council. "Your Grace," I said, my voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Your loyalty is appreciated. And I have a task for you that no one else can accomplish."
His eyes lit up with interest.
"I need you to ride to Paris. Now. Use every agent, every printer, every gossip in your network. I need you to spread a new rumor. A true one."
I leaned in closer. "Tell the city that the King, hearing of his loyal soldiers' hardship, has approved a massive bonus to reward them. But their corrupt officers, men like Baron de Clovis who are loyal to the old guard, are trying to stop the payment. Tell them the officers want to march on Versailles to steal the gold for themselves."
Orléans's smile widened. He understood immediately. It was a vicious, brilliant lie wrapped around an even better truth. It didn't just neutralize the army; it turned the soldiers against their own commanders.
"And when is this... bonus... to be paid?" he purred.
"Tomorrow morning," I said, delivering the final, critical piece of the plan. "The wagons of gold will be waiting for them. And I will be there to distribute it. Personally."
The Duc d'Orléans stared at me, his amusement turning into a look of genuine, dangerous excitement. He saw the sheer, magnificent audacity of the gamble. I wasn't just stopping a coup; I was hijacking it.
"This," Orléans whispered, his voice filled with a thrilled, almost manic energy, "will be the most magnificent chaos. I accept."
He bowed again, a flourish of his wrist, and swept out of the room, a predator unleashed. I watched him go, a cold knot tightening in my stomach.
I had just solved one problem by handing a lit torch to the most elegant arsonist in all of France.