The carriage ride from Saint-Cloud was a coffin on wheels.
I sat opposite my wife. Her black dress was stiff with dried blood—Fersen's blood. She stared out the window at the passing countryside, her face a mask of porcelain and hate.
Beside her sat Danton.
The Minister of Justice was cleaning his fingernails with a large hunting knife. He hummed a revolutionary tune, enjoying the discomfort. He took up too much space, his massive thigh pressing against the Queen's silk skirt. She shrank away from him, pressing herself into the corner.
On my lap, the Dauphin slept. Louis-Charles clutched my coat with both fists, his tear-stained face buried in my chest. He smelled of smoke and fear.
"Cheer up, Citizen Queen," Danton rumbled, inspecting his knife. "You're going home. The people are dying to see you."
Marie didn't blink. She didn't look at him.
"She doesn't speak to butchers," I said quietly.
Danton laughed. "She sleeps with traitors, but she won't speak to butchers? That's the aristocracy for you. All manners, no morals."
"Enough," I said.
"Is it?" Danton leaned forward. "Look at the road, Louis. Look at them."
I looked out the window.
The road to Paris was lined with people. Thousands of them. They had marched ten miles to see the King return.
They weren't cheering. They were watching.
They saw the King in his dirty uniform. They saw the Queen in her bloody dress. They saw Danton, their idol, sitting beside her like a jailer.
It was a victory parade, but it felt like a prisoner transfer.
We reached the outskirts of Paris. The silence broke.
"LONG LIVE THE PATRIOT KING!"
"DEATH TO THE AUSTRIAN!"
The contrast was physical. When they saw me, they threw hats in the air. When they saw Marie, they spat.
A rotten cabbage flew from the crowd. It hit the carriage window right next to Marie's head with a wet thwack.
She flinched. For the first time, the mask cracked. I saw terror in her eyes.
I shifted my weight. I moved to the window, blocking her from view.
I stared down the crowd. I didn't smile. I didn't wave. I glared at them with the cold, hard eyes of a man who had just ordered an execution.
The cheering faltered. They saw the blood on my coat. They saw the look on my face.
"Back!" I mouthed.
The crowd surged back. They were afraid of me.
Good.
We rolled into the Cour du Carrousel. The gates of the Tuileries closed behind us.
The carriage stopped.
Danton kicked the door open. He stepped out, raising his arms to the National Guardsmen assembled in the courtyard.
"The nest is cleared!" he roared. "The birds are caged!"
The soldiers cheered.
I stepped out, carrying Louis-Charles. He woke up, blinking in the torchlight.
"Papa?" he whispered.
"It's okay," I said. "We're home."
I turned to help Marie. I offered her my hand.
She looked at it. Then she looked at Danton. Then at the soldiers surrounding us.
She stepped down without taking my hand. She nearly stumbled, but she caught herself. She stood tall, chin high, ignoring the jeers of the soldiers.
"Escort the prisoner to her apartments," I ordered.
I used the word. Prisoner. It tasted like bile.
Four guards stepped forward. Not the Swiss. These were Sans-Culottes in uniform. Rough men. They grabbed her arms.
"Don't touch me!" she snapped.
"Move," the sergeant grunted, shoving her toward the entrance.
We walked up the Grand Staircase. The air in the palace was stale, dead.
We reached the landing outside the Royal Apartments.
Marie stopped. She turned to me.
"Give him to me," she said.
She reached for Louis-Charles.
I stepped back.
"No," I said.
Her eyes went wide. "He is my son. He sleeps in the nursery. With me."
"The nursery is empty," I said. "The Governess is gone. The staff is gone. You are going into confinement, Marie. Solitary."
"He is a child!" she screamed, her composure shattering. She lunged for him. "He needs his mother!"
The guards grabbed her shoulders, holding her back. She fought them, clawing at their uniforms.
"Louis!" she shrieked. "Don't do this! You can't take him!"
"I have to," I said, my voice shaking. "If I leave him with you, you will poison him against me. You will teach him that his father is a monster. You will teach him to be a victim."
I held the boy tighter. He started to cry again, reaching for her. "Mama!"
"He is the Heir," I said, hardening my heart until it felt like stone. "I need to teach him to be a King. A King who can survive this world."
"You are stealing him!" she wailed. "You are killing me!"
"Take her," I ordered the guards.
They dragged her down the hall. She kicked and screamed, fighting every inch of the way.
"I hate you!" she screamed. "I hate you, Louis! I hope you burn!"
The heavy oak doors of her apartment slammed shut. The lock clicked. The bolt slid home.
Her screams were muffled, then silenced.
I stood in the hallway.
My son was sobbing into my neck. "Mama... I want Mama..."
I stroked his hair. My hand was trembling.
"I know," I whispered. "I know."
I felt like I had just ripped my own heart out of my chest. But I couldn't put it back.
If she raised him, he would be Louis XVII, the Martyr King. He would die in a prison cell at age ten, eaten by fleas and tuberculosis.
I wasn't going to let that happen.
"Come," I said to the boy. "We have work to do."
I carried him to the Solar.
It was late. The candles were burning low.
Napoleon was there. He was sitting at my desk, studying a map of the Rhine. He didn't stand when I entered. He looked at the crying boy.
"The Heir?" Napoleon asked.
"My son," I corrected.
I sat Louis-Charles down on a chair. I poured him a glass of water.
"Drink," I said gently.
The boy took the glass with two hands. He drank, his breath hitching. He looked at Napoleon with wide, fearful eyes.
"Who is that?" he whispered.
"That is Captain Bonaparte," I said. "He is your new tutor."
Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Tutor? I am the Minister of War, Sire. I don't have time to teach alphabets."
"I don't want you to teach him alphabets," I said. "I want you to teach him reality."
I looked at my son. He was soft. Pampered. He had spent his life in silk and velvet, protected by Swiss Guards and governesses.
That world was gone.
"He needs to be tough," I said to Napoleon. "He needs to understand logistics. Geometry. Artillery. He needs to know that power isn't given by God. It's taken by force."
Napoleon looked at the boy. He stood up and walked over.
He looked Louis-Charles up and down.
"He is small," Napoleon noted. "And soft."
"He is six," I said.
Napoleon smirked. "I was reading Caesar at six."
He pulled a small wooden soldier from his pocket—a piece from a strategy game. He handed it to the boy.
"Do you like soldiers, Little Capet?" Napoleon asked.
Louis-Charles looked at the toy. He nodded slowly.
"Good," Napoleon said. "Soldiers don't cry. Soldiers reload."
He looked at me.
"I will take him," Napoleon said. "I will make him a wolf. But be warned, Sire. If I teach him... he might bite the hand that feeds him."
"Better he bites me than the Austrians," I said.
I kissed the top of my son's head.
"Listen to the Captain," I said. "He is going to save your life."
I walked to the door.
"Where are you going, Papa?" Louis-Charles asked, his voice trembling.
"I have a meeting," I said. "With the men who want to kill us."
I left the room.
I walked down the hall to the Council Chamber.
Danton was there. Talleyrand was there.
They were arguing.
"The Austrians are mobilizing!" Talleyrand was saying, waving a dispatch. "Emperor Leopold knows about the Queen. He knows about Fersen. He is furious. He demands her immediate release."
"Let him come!" Danton shouted. "We'll cut off his head and mail it back in a box!"
"Gentlemen," I said, walking in.
They stopped. They looked at me.
They saw the change.
Yesterday, I was a desperate husband trying to save his family.
Tonight, I was a widower in all but name. I was a father who had just drafted his son into the army.
I sat at the head of the table.
"Sit down," I said.
They sat.
"We are not releasing the Queen," I said. "And we are not waiting for Leopold."
"Sire?" Talleyrand asked. "If we don't negotiate, it means war."
"It was always war," I said. "We just didn't admit it."
I looked at the map on the table. The blue of France surrounded by the black of the monarchies.
"We are going to export the chaos," I said.
Danton grinned. "Now you're speaking my language."
"We invade," I said. "Belgium. The Austrian Netherlands. We hit them before they hit us."
"With what army?" Talleyrand asked. "The officers are gone. The ranks are filled with peasants."
"Then we give the peasants a reason to fight," I said.
I looked at the Black Ledger, still sitting on the side table.
"And we need money," I added. "War is expensive."
I turned to Danton.
"The prisons are full of aristocrats, aren't they? The ones we arrested in the purge?"
"Packed," Danton said. "I was planning to start the trials tomorrow. Clear some space."
"No trials," I said.
"What?" Danton scowled. "You want to let them go?"
"I want to sell them," I said.
The room went silent.
"Sell them?" Talleyrand asked, a smile creeping onto his face.
"A Patriot Tax," I said. "We set a price. A Duke costs one hundred thousand livres. A Baron costs fifty. If their families pay, they go into exile. If they don't..."
I shrugged.
"Then you can have your trials."
Danton laughed. He slapped the table.
"You are turning the Terror into a grocery store!"
"I am turning it into a business," I said. "We need capital to buy cannons. The nobles have the capital. We have the nobles. It's a simple liquidation of assets."
"It's brilliant," Talleyrand murmured. "And incredibly cynical."
"I learned from the best," I said.
I stood up and walked to the window.
I looked out at the city. It was dark, but I could see the torches of the patrols.
I had imprisoned my wife. I had hardened my son. I was about to ransom human beings to fund a war of aggression.
I was the villain of this story.
But villains get things done.
"Prepare the decree," I said. "We invade at dawn."