The pamphlet burned in my hand.
THE DECLARATION OF THE MOTHER.
It was pasted on every wall in Paris. It was being read aloud in every coffee shop from the Palais-Royal to the slums of Saint-Antoine.
I sat in the War Room, staring at the crumpled paper on the table.
Danton was pacing. He was furious.
"She is winning," Danton growled. "Winning! An Austrian princess is outmaneuvering the greatest orator in France! Do you know what they are saying in the sections? They are calling her 'The Lioness.' They are saying she saved the boy from the monster."
"I am the monster," I said dryly.
"Yes! You are!" Danton slammed his fist on the table. "You look like a tyrant who drove his wife away. And she looks like a saint protecting her cub."
He leaned over the table, his face red.
"We need to hit back, Louis. Hard. Give me the printing presses. Let me publish the rumors."
"What rumors?"
"Fersen," Danton sneered. "Let me tell the people whose bed she's really sleeping in. Let me call her a whore. Let me question the paternity of the Dauphin. If we destroy her reputation, this Manifesto becomes a joke."
"No," I said.
"Why? Are you still sentimental?"
"Because she is still the Queen," I said. "If you call her a whore, you call the Heir a bastard. And if the Heir is a bastard, the Monarchy collapses. I am trying to save the institution, Danton, not burn it down for a headline."
"The institution is already burning!" Danton shouted. "Fersen is gathering an army at Saint-Cloud! He has three regiments of Swiss mercenaries. He has the defecting officers. And now, thanks to this sob story, he has volunteers streaming out of Paris to join him!"
He pointed at the window.
"They tried to kill me, Louis."
I looked up. "What?"
Danton pulled down the collar of his shirt.
There was a bandage on his neck. White linen stained with fresh blood.
"An hour ago," Danton said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Outside the Cordeliers Club. A man in a Royalist uniform. He had a knife."
"Did you kill him?"
"I broke his arm. Then his neck," Danton said. "But not before he told me who sent him."
He reached into his pocket and threw a bloodstained note on the table.
It was signed by Colonel de La Tour—Fersen's second-in-command at Saint-Cloud.
Death to the Usurpers.
"They aren't just writing pamphlets," Danton said. "They are headhunting. They targeted me because I am your link to the street. If I die, you lose the mob. If you lose the mob, they march on the Tuileries."
I stared at the note.
The Cold War was over. Fersen had escalated. He wasn't just defending the Queen; he was actively trying to decapitate my government.
"The truce is over," Danton said. "Either we take Saint-Cloud tonight, or I unleash the sections. I will burn that chateau to the ground, and I don't care who is inside."
"My son is inside," I said.
"Then get him out!" Danton roared. "Because if that army marches on Paris, I will meet them in the field. And grapeshot doesn't distinguish between a King and a Prince."
He turned and stormed out.
I sat alone in the War Room.
The silence was heavy.
I looked at the map. Saint-Cloud was ten miles away. A fortress on a hill.
If I attacked with the army, Fersen would use the children as hostages. Or worse, a stray shell would kill them.
If I did nothing, Fersen would build an army large enough to crush me.
I was checkmated.
Unless I cheated.
"Jean," I said.
The spy stepped out of the shadows.
"Get Napoleon," I ordered. "And get me the blueprints of Saint-Cloud."
Ten minutes later, Napoleon entered. He looked at the map, then at me.
"We are attacking?" he asked. His eyes lit up.
"Not an attack," I said. "An extraction."
I unrolled the blueprints of the Chateau.
"Fersen has the perimeter locked down," I said, tracing the walls. "Swiss Guards at the gates. Royalist volunteers patrolling the grounds. A frontal assault would be a bloodbath."
"Agreed," Napoleon said. "But the east wall is weak. And the drainage culvert here—" he pointed to a small line on the map "—leads directly to the kitchens."
"No," I said. "Too risky. If you are spotted, they will kill the hostages."
I looked at Jean.
"You know the staff at Saint-Cloud, don't you?"
"I placed half of them, Sire," Jean said.
"Is there anyone loyal left? Anyone Fersen didn't fire?"
Jean thought for a moment.
"The Governess," he said. "Madame de Tourzel. She loves the children more than she loves politics. She stayed when the others fled."
"Can you reach her?"
"I have a way," Jean said. "A laundress who passes messages."
"Good," I said. "Here is the plan."
I looked at Napoleon.
"I don't want an army, Captain. I want a squad. Ten men. Your best. Men who can move quietly and kill silently."
"Grenadiers aren't known for stealth, Sire," Napoleon noted.
"Then find men who are," I said. "Tonight, under cover of darkness, you will infiltrate the grounds. Jean will arrange for the kitchen door to be unlocked."
I traced the path through the chateau.
"Up the servants' stairs. To the nursery. Secure the Dauphin and Madame Royale. Then to the Queen's chambers. Secure Her Majesty."
"And if she resists?" Napoleon asked.
"She will resist," I said. "She thinks I'm a monster. Drug her if you have to. Carry her. But get her out."
"And Count Fersen?" Napoleon asked.
I paused.
I thought of the broken toy horse. I thought of the assassin with the knife. I thought of the man standing next to my wife, whispering poison in her ear.
Fersen was the architect of this war. As long as he lived, Marie would never be safe. She would be a pawn in his crusade to restore the Old Regime.
"Fersen is a liability," I said.
I looked Napoleon in the eye.
"Liquidate him."
Napoleon smiled. It was a cold, sharp smile.
"Understood, Sire. No prisoners."
"Just the family," I corrected. "Everyone else is expendable."
The night was moonless. Perfect for wet work.
I stood in the courtyard of the Tuileries, watching the squad assemble.
Ten men. They weren't wearing uniforms. They were dressed in black. They carried knives, pistols, and chloroform rags.
Napoleon checked their weapons. He moved with a quiet, deadly efficiency.
Jean was there, handing a sealed note to one of the men. The signal for the Governess.
"Bring them home," I whispered.
They mounted their horses and rode out, not as a thundering cavalry charge, but as shadows slipping into the dark.
I returned to the Solar to wait.
The hours dragged by. Midnight. One AM. Two AM.
I paced. I drank coffee. I stared at the Black Ledger.
If this failed...
If Napoleon was caught...
Fersen would kill them. Or he would parade them in front of the world as proof of my tyranny. " The King sends assassins to murder his wife!"
It was a gamble. An all-in bet on a single hand.
Three AM.
A sound in the courtyard.
Hoofbeats. Fast. Too fast.
I ran to the window.
A single rider galloped through the gate. His horse was foaming, stumbling with exhaustion.
It wasn't Napoleon. It was one of the squad.
He fell off his horse and scrambled up the steps.
I met him in the hallway. He was covered in mud and blood.
"Sire!" he gasped.
"Where are they?" I grabbed his shoulders. "Where is the Queen?"
"It... it was a trap, Sire," the soldier choked out.
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"The kitchen door," he panted. "It was unlocked. But when we got inside... they were waiting."
"Who?"
"The Swiss," he said. "Dozens of them. Hidden in the pantry. In the halls. They knew we were coming."
Jean let out a low moan behind me. "The laundress," he whispered. "She must have turned."
"Napoleon?" I demanded. "Is he dead?"
"He's pinned down," the soldier said. "In the wine cellar. He held them off so I could escape. He said to tell you..."
The soldier swallowed hard.
"He said Fersen knew. Fersen was there. He laughed at us."
I staggered back.
Fersen had anticipated the move. He had turned my black ops raid into a shooting gallery.
"And the Queen?" I asked. "Did she see?"
The soldier looked down.
"She was standing at the top of the stairs, Sire. With the Count. She... she gave the order to fire."
The world tilted.
She gave the order.
My wife. The mother of my children. She had looked at my men—men I sent to save her—and ordered their deaths.
The split was absolute. It wasn't just a political separation anymore. It was war.
"Napoleon is alive?" I asked, focusing on the only asset I had left.
"For now," the soldier said. "But they are surrounding the cellar. They will burn him out."
I looked at Jean.
"Wake Danton," I said. My voice was dead.
"Sire?"
"Wake Danton," I repeated. "And sound the general alarm."
I walked to the window and looked west, toward the invisible hill of Saint-Cloud.
I had tried to be a husband. I had tried to be a CEO. I had tried to be a spy.
None of it worked.
Fersen wanted a war? Marie wanted to play General?
Fine.
"Tell Danton to ready the cannons," I said. "We march at dawn. And this time, we don't knock."