The most beautiful palace on earth had just become a prison cell with gold bars.
I stood in the center of my private study, the Emperor Leopold's letter crushed in my hand. The ink was barely dry on my victory, and already the price was being demanded.
Bring the Royal Family to Paris. Live among your people. Prove you are not a captive.
It was a brilliant, ruthless checkmate. Leopold knew exactly what he was asking. He was stripping away the walls, the distance, the mystique that kept us safe.
I didn't waste time pacing. I walked straight to Marie's chambers.
She was sitting with the children, reading a story. The domestic peace of the scene felt fragile, like glass about to shatter. She looked up, saw the expression on my face, and closed the book. She motioned for the governess to take the children into the next room.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice tight. "Did he refuse?"
"He agreed," I said, placing the letter on the table between us. "He accepts the explanation. He will not invade."
She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for days. "Thank God."
"But there is a condition," I said.
Her head snapped up.
"He demands we move to Paris," I said, keeping my voice steady. "To the Tuileries Palace. Immediately."
The color drained from her face. "Paris?" she whispered. "Louis, that city is a slaughterhouse. They put a head on a pike two days ago. You are asking me to walk into the lion's den with our children."
"If we stay, he invades," I said, blunt and brutal. "If he invades, the mob storms this palace and kills us all before his army crosses the border. We die here."
She stood up, her hands trembling. "So we are to be hostages? Paraded for the mob?"
"No," I said, stepping forward and taking her by the shoulders. "We are repositioning. Versailles is the past. It is a target. It is indefensible."
I looked deep into her eyes, trying to transfer my own desperate conviction into her. "The Tuileries is a fortress in the city center. If we are there, we control the narrative. We show them we are not afraid. We show them we are their King and Queen, not their enemies."
I squeezed her shoulders. "I need you to be brave, Marie. Not for me. But for the history books. If we look like we are fleeing, we lose. If we look like we are leading, we win."
She stared at me for a long moment, the fear warring with the steel spine of a Habsburg archduchess. Finally, she took a deep breath and nodded.
"Then let us lead," she said.
The decision made, the palace erupted into controlled chaos.
I treated the eviction of the French monarchy like a corporate office move. I stood in the main hall, barking orders to terrified servants and bewildered courtiers.
"Pack the archives first!" I shouted over the noise of trunks being dragged across marble. "Every decree, every ledger, every treaty. That is the government. The furniture stays. The art stays. We take only what we need to rule."
The courtiers were in a panic. They realized the party was finally, truly over. The rats were realizing the ship wasn't just sinking; it was being decommissioned.
I saw a valet, a man I recognized, trying to shove a gilded clock into a travel bag.
"Put it back," I said, my voice cutting through the din.
The valet froze, looking at me with wide, guilty eyes.
"We are the King and Queen of France," I said calmly. "We do not loot our own house."
He slowly placed the clock back on the mantle and bowed, shamefaced. It established a tiny shred of dignity in the face of collapse. We were leaving, but we were leaving with our heads high.
There was one piece of baggage I had to collect personally.
I walked to the chambers of the Comte de Provence. The guards stepped aside. My brother was sitting amidst his packed trunks, looking unbothered.
"So," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "The Emperor forced your hand. You're taking the circus to town."
"Get in the carriage," I said.
"I think not," he drawled. "I prefer the country air. I will stay here and... maintain the estate."
"You're coming with us," I said, my voice cold. "You'll ride in the carriage right behind mine."
His smirk faltered. "And why would I do that?"
"Because you are my beloved brother," I said, stepping close to him. "And because if the mob attacks the convoy, I want them to have a choice of targets. You are my insurance policy, Provence. If I go down, you go down with me."
The smirk vanished completely. He realized, with a dawn of horror, that he wasn't just a prisoner. He was a human shield.
"Get up," I ordered.
An hour later, the convoy was ready. A line of heavy, black carriages stood in the courtyard. The rain had started to fall, a dreary, gray wash that turned the golden gates of Versailles into dull iron.
I stood by the door of the main carriage. I turned back to look at the palace one last time.
The Hall of Mirrors was dark. The windows, usually blazing with candlelight, were black, staring eyes. The fountains were silent. It looked like a dead thing. A magnificent, golden corpse.
I realized I would never see it again. This life, this world of absolute power and divine right, was ending right here, in the rain.
I walked to the massive oak doors of the main entrance. I took the heavy iron key from my pocket. I locked the door myself. The click of the lock echoed in the silence. It wasn't just a door. It was the closing of a century.
I pocketed the key.
"Let's go," I said to De La Tour.
We rolled out of the gates, the wheels splashing through the mud. The convoy was huge—carriages, supply wagons, a full escort of Lafayette's National Guard. But in the gray light, it felt small. Vulnerable.
We didn't get far.
Just past the town of Versailles, the road was blocked. Not by soldiers. Not by a barricade.
By a sea of women.
Thousands of them. The famous market women of Paris. They had marched twelve miles in the rain to "escort" the King back to the city. They surrounded the carriages, a churning ocean of sodden skirts and angry faces. They carried pikes, kitchen knives, and heavy sticks.
They were chanting. Singing. It wasn't a hymn. It was a bawdy, aggressive song about bread and blood.
My carriage slowed to a crawl. The National Guard was powerless to stop them without causing a massacre. We were engulfed.
A face appeared at my window. A woman with rough, red skin and missing teeth. She banged on the glass with a dirty fist.
Marie gasped, clutching the Dauphin to her chest.
I forced myself not to flinch. I lowered the window.
The rain blew in, cold and wet. The woman leaned in, smelling of cheap wine and wet wool. She grinned at me, a look that was half-affectionate, half-predatory.
"Don't worry, Baker!" she shouted, her voice raspy. "We've got you now! We're taking you home! You won't get away from us again!"
It sounded like a promise of protection. But as she laughed and slapped the side of the carriage, looking at us like prize cattle she had just bought at market, it felt exactly like a threat of captivity.