I woke up to the smell of strong coffee and the news that half the countryside was on fire.
My first morning back in Versailles should have been peaceful. Instead, I was staring at a charred, crumbling piece of parchment that Jean had placed on my breakfast tray, right next to the buttered toast. It smelled of smoke and old ink.
"It's a tax ledger, Your Majesty," Jean said, his voice tight. "From the Duc de Montmorency's estate. Or what's left of it."
I picked up the blackened paper. It crumbled in my fingers.
"The Great Fear," Jean continued. "That's what they're calling it. The peasants heard rumors that the nobles were hiring brigands to destroy the harvest. So they decided to strike first. They aren't waiting for your laws. They're canceling their feudal debts with torches."
I rubbed my temples. I had just stopped a war in Paris, only to have a thousand tiny fires start in the provinces.
If I didn't get ahead of this, the peasants would slaughter the remaining nobles in their beds. And if that happened, the foreign powers wouldn't need an excuse to invade; they would have a righteous crusade.
"I need to go to the Assembly," I said, standing up and abandoning my breakfast. "We need to legalize the destruction before it becomes a genocide."
The National Assembly hall was a madhouse.
It was usually a place of spirited debate. Today, it was a pit of terror. Delegates were screaming over each other. A terrified Baron from the south was demanding the army be sent to crush the "peasant animals." A radical deputy from Paris was shouting that the nobles deserved to have their throats cut.
Robespierre sat in his usual spot, watching the chaos with a grim, silent satisfaction.
I didn't walk to the gilded throne set up on the dais. I walked straight to the center of the floor, into the eye of the storm. My presence quieted the immediate screaming, but the panic was still thick in the air.
A Duke, his face red with rage and fear, lunged towards me. "Your Majesty! You must act! They are burning my chateau! They are hunting my family! You must send the regiments!"
I looked him in the eye. "And how much, My Lord, does it cost to garrison your estate against ten thousand angry farmers?"
The Duke blinked, stammering. "I... the cost is irrelevant! It is my right!"
"The cost is everything," I said, my voice cutting through the room. "You are asking the state to spend millions to protect a system that generates pennies."
I turned to address the entire room. "Feudalism is a bad investment. It is a toxic asset. It is a liability that is dragging this entire nation into bankruptcy and civil war."
A shocked silence fell over the nobles. They expected moral arguments. They expected philosophy. They didn't expect their King to talk about their heritage like it was a failing subsidiary.
"We have two choices," I said, holding up two fingers. "Option one: We try to fight the people. We spend blood and treasure we don't have, and we lose. Option two: We liquidate."
"Liquidate?" a Bishop asked, horrified.
"We give it up," I said. "All of it. The hunting rights. The tithes. The tax exemptions. The seigneurial courts. We throw it all onto the fire."
"But that is our property!" the Duke cried.
I leaned in close to him. "Give up the titles, and you keep the land. Keep the titles, and you lose your heads. It's a simple cost-benefit analysis, My Lord. Which do you value more? Your sash, or your neck?"
The room wavered. They were terrified, clinging to the past. They needed a push.
I looked at the Duc d'Aiguillon, one of the richest landowners in France, and a known liberal. I gave him a sharp nod.
He understood. He stood up, pale but determined.
"The King is right!" d'Aiguillon shouted. "These rights are a burden, not a blessing! To save France, I voluntarily renounce all my feudal privileges! I abolish my tithes! I declare my peasants free!"
He unbuckled his ceremonial sword and threw it onto the central table with a clatter.
It was the spark that lit the powder keg.
Another noble, the Vicomte de Noailles, jumped up. "I renounce my hunting rights!" He threw his sash onto the table.
"I renounce my tax exemptions!" a Bishop shouted, tearing off his heavy gold cross and adding it to the pile.
It became a fever. A frenzy of renunciation. It wasn't just patriotism; it was a competition. They were terrified of being the last one holding onto their privileges. They rushed the table, throwing down swords, sashes, deeds, and seals. They were stripping themselves of a thousand years of history in a single, hysterical night.
I watched from the center of the room as the pile of discarded feudalism grew higher and higher. It was a bonfire of vanities, fueled by fear and guided by the invisible hand of my ultimatum.
By dawn, the Old Regime was legally dead.
The session had run for ten hours straight. The delegates were exhausted, slumped in their seats, their wigs askew. But there was a strange, euphoric energy in the room. They had survived the night. They had done the impossible.
"Long live the King!" someone shouted. "The Restorer of French Liberty!"
The chant was taken up by the weary delegates. I forced a smile and waved. I was the hero of the hour. I had saved their lives by making them poor.
As the hall began to clear, Robespierre approached me. He wasn't cheering. He looked at the pile of discarded symbols on the table with a skeptical eye.
"A historic night, Your Majesty," he said softly.
"It stopped the burning," I said, rubbing my eyes.
"You have given them paper freedom," Robespierre said, his voice sharp. "You have destroyed the old system. But a peasant with no feudal dues is still a peasant with no bread."
He looked at me, his gaze penetrating. "You have torn down the house to put out the fire. What will you build to shelter the people in its place?"
It was the question that haunted me. I opened my mouth to answer, to tell him about my plans for economic reform, for a new tax code.
But before I could speak, the doors to the hall burst open.
Fournier stomped in. He was still wearing his National Guard sash, stained with sweat and dust. He ignored the shocked gasps of the lingering nobles. He ignored protocol entirely. He marched straight up to me, his face a mask of fury.
"Your Majesty," he growled, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall. "Save the speeches. You need to come to the granary. Now."
"What is it?" I asked, a cold knot forming in my stomach.
"The grain convoy from the north," Fournier said. "The one we've been waiting for all week. It just arrived."
He paused, his hands curling into fists.
"It's empty."