The Tuileries Palace had become a high-end pawnshop.
I walked down the Gallery of Diana, stepping over piles of loot. It was surreal.
On my left, a stack of Persian rugs seized from the Duc de Brissac's townhouse. On my right, a mountain of silver candlesticks from the Prince de Condé's estate.
Paintings by Fragonard and Boucher leaned against the walls like unwanted posters at a garage sale.
My decree—the "Liquidation of Traitors"—was working too well. The National Guard was stripping the Émigrés' homes bare. Every hour, another wagon rumbled into the courtyard, dumping the "assets" of the nobility onto my doorstep.
I stopped by a gilded clock. It was shaped like a shepherdess.
I recognized it. It used to sit on the mantle of my Aunt Victoire's salon. I had listened to it tick while she fed me sugared almonds when I was a child.
Now, it had a paper tag tied to it with rough twine.
PROPERTY OF THE NATION. LOT #405.
I felt a wave of nausea.
I wasn't a King anymore. I was a fence for stolen goods. I was liquidating my own family's memories to prop up a failing currency.
Jean appeared at my elbow. He looked tired. His coat was stained with soot.
"We have a problem, Sire," he said. He didn't bow. We were past bowing.
"Is it Danton?" I asked, moving down the hall. "Is he asking for more?"
"No. It's the delivery chain," Jean said, matching my pace. "We're losing thirty percent of the seizure."
I stopped. "Thirty percent? That's millions of livres."
"The wagons are being hijacked," Jean said grimly. "Before they reach the palace. Mobs are surrounding the convoys. They're dragging the drivers off and looting the loot."
"Send more guards," I snapped.
"The guards are the ones stealing it, Sire," Jean said. "Fournier's men. They say, 'Why should the King get the gold? It belongs to the people.'"
I rubbed my temples. Of course.
I had legalized theft. I had told the city that property rights didn't matter if you were a "traitor." Now, everyone was deciding who was a traitor so they could take a slice of the pie.
"The logic of the mob," I muttered. "If you break the window, you might as well take the TV."
"Sire?"
"Never mind," I said. "We need to secure the supply chain. If we lose the assets, the Assignat crashes again, and we're back to starving."
"We need soldiers who don't steal," Jean said. "And an officer who can make them listen."
"I have Lafayette."
Jean scoffed. "Lafayette is writing a speech about liberty while his men are selling your Aunt's silver on the black market."
He pointed toward the antechamber at the end of the hall.
"But the man from your letter is here. The artillery officer."
"He came?"
"He's been waiting for four hours," Jean said. "The Generals won't let him in. They say he smells like sulfur and cheap soap."
I straightened my coat. "Good. I like cheap soap."
The antechamber was a peacock farm.
Generals in blue velvet coats with gold epaulettes stood in clusters, gossiping. They checked their reflections in the mirrors. They ignored the war outside to talk about their pensions.
And there, in the corner, sat the wolf.
He was small. Shockingly small.
He wore a faded uniform that had seen too much weather. His boots were scuffed. His hair was lank and greasy, hanging over a pale, gaunt face.
He was reading a book on geometry, completely ignoring the peacocks around him.
But the intensity radiating off him was palpable. It was like standing next to a furnace.
I walked straight past the Generals.
"Lieutenant Bonaparte?" I asked.
He snapped the book shut. He stood up. His movements were jerky, efficient. He didn't have the grace of a courtier; he had the economy of a predator.
"Your Majesty," he said. His voice was rough, heavily accented with the sharp vowels of Corsica.
"You wrote to me about artillery vectors," I said. "In the Southern Command."
"I wrote about incompetence, Majesty," he corrected. "I told you your cannons were placed for show, not for kill zones."
The Generals behind me gasped. You didn't talk to the King like that.
I smiled.
"Follow me," I said.
I led him to the Map Room. I dismissed the guards. I wanted to be alone with this weapon.
I unrolled a large map of Paris on the table.
"This is the situation," I said, pointing to the Tuileries. "I have five thousand men. Half are unreliable. I have twenty thousand rioters looting the city. They are pushing toward the palace."
I looked at him.
"Lafayette says we should form a defensive line at the gates and negotiate. What do you say?"
Napoleon looked at the map. He didn't look at me. He traced the streets with a callous-hardened finger.
"Lafayette thinks he is fighting a duel," Napoleon muttered. "He wants honor. He wants a fair fight."
He looked up. His eyes were gray and cold, like the sea in winter.
"Physics does not care about honor, Majesty. If you defend the gate, you lose. The mob is a fluid. It will flow around you. It will crush you with weight."
"So?"
"You don't fight the fluid," Napoleon said. "You change the pressure."
He pointed to the Rue Saint-Honoré. A long, straight avenue leading to the palace.
"Here," he said. "And here. Long sightlines. Narrow choke points."
"Yes?"
"I don't need five thousand men," he said. "Give me two companies. And four cannons."
"Cannons?" I asked. "In the city? Against civilians?"
"Rioters are not civilians," Napoleon said. "They are combatants without uniforms."
He tapped the map again.
"I place the guns here. I load with canister shot. Nails. Scrap metal. Musket balls. When they charge, I fire once. The noise alone will break them. If they keep coming, I fire again. The street clears."
It was brutal. It was mathematical.
It was the logic of a man who saw human beings as variables in an equation.
A chill went down my spine.
This wasn't a soldier. This was a monster.
But I was a CEO whose company was being burned to the ground. I didn't need a PR manager. I needed a liquidator.
"They will call me a butcher," I said softly.
Napoleon shrugged. "Better a butcher than a victim. History is written by the survivors, Majesty. Survive first. Apologize later."
I looked at him. He was twenty years old. He looked hungry. He looked like he would burn the world just to see his name in the ashes.
"You are not a Lieutenant anymore," I said.
He blinked.
"You are a Captain," I said. "And you are in charge of the Tuileries perimeter. You answer only to me."
"And General Lafayette?" he asked. There was a smirk playing on his thin lips.
"Lafayette commands the parade," I said. "You command the defense."
I extended my hand.
He hesitated, then shook it. His grip was iron.
"Get your guns, Captain," I said. "The mob is coming."
We walked out of the Map Room.
Lafayette was waiting in the hallway. He looked immaculate, his white horsehair plume perfectly combed.
He saw Napoleon. He sneered.
"Majesty," Lafayette said, bowing stiffly. "I see you found... help."
"Captain Bonaparte is securing the perimeter," I said.
Lafayette laughed. "The Corsican? He doesn't know how to lead men. He's a calculator with legs."
He stepped closer to me, lowering his voice.
"Be careful, Sire. You are handing a torch to an arsonist. That man has no soul. I've seen his reports. He would shell a church if it gave him a tactical advantage."
"We are running out of options, Gilbert," I said. "The looting is out of control."
"We must appeal to their reason!" Lafayette argued. "We must show them we are brothers!"
BOOM.
The sound shattered the conversation.
The windows of the hallway rattled in their frames. Dust fell from the ceiling.
We all turned to the window.
Black smoke was rising over the rooftops to the east. Thick, oily smoke.
"The Rue Saint-Antoine," Jean said, running up to us. "The warehouse district."
"They set it on fire," I whispered.
"The mob broke into the spirit depot," Jean reported breathlessly. "They're drunk on brandy. They've torched the grain stores. They're marching this way."
I looked at Lafayette. He looked pale. His "brothers" were burning the city's food supply.
I looked at Napoleon.
He hadn't flinched at the explosion. He was watching the smoke with a critical eye, calculating the wind direction.
He smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a wolf seeing a wounded deer.
"The mob is knocking, Majesty," Napoleon said softly. "Shall I answer?"
I looked at the black smoke choking the sky. I looked at the piles of stolen heirlooms in the hallway.
I had tried reason. I had tried law. I had tried bribery.
Now, there was only one tool left in the box.
"Answer them," I said.