Paris had begun to speak his name.
Not loudly.
Yet.
But in the back rooms of bakeries, in taverns choked with pipe smoke, in narrow streets where news traveled faster than royal decrees, people whispered of the strange prince who refused sweet cakes and shamed ministers.
Louis-Auguste had never stepped beyond the gates of Versailles without escort, yet somehow the image of him was walking freely through the city.
A child who trains like a soldier.
A boy who reads ledgers instead of fairy tales.
A Dauphin who stands against corrupt ministers.
The people did not know his face.
They only knew his reputation.
And reputation was more powerful than crowns.
Inside Versailles, this unsettled the nobles more than open rebellion ever could.
During the weekly court assembly, Louis felt their stares as keenly as blades. Étienne Moreau stood at his side, silent, eyes roaming.
The Duc de Noailles leaned toward Calonne and murmured something that made the minister smile.
Louis noticed.
Later that day, a carriage accident occurred near the southern gardens.
The Dauphin's carriage.
The wheel cracked clean through, sending the vehicle lurching sideways — directly toward a stone balustrade.
Étienne leapt.
He wrenched open the door and dragged Louis clear moments before the carriage shattered against marble.
Dust clouded the air.
Cries rang out.
Louis did not scream.
He rose slowly, eyes cold.
This was not fate.
This was intent.
That night, Necker confirmed it.
"The axle was weakened deliberately," the minister said, voice tight. "Someone wanted you injured."
Louis nodded once.
"So we mark the board."
Necker hesitated.
"Your Highness… if you continue on this path—"
"I will die," Louis said calmly. "But not today."
Silence followed him like a cloak.
Two days later, Louis ordered the opening of the eastern gardens to the public.
It was a minor decree.
And it terrified Versailles.
The people entered hesitantly at first — mothers clutching children, artisans in worn coats, soldiers in faded blue. They expected to be chased out.
They were not.
Louis appeared on the terrace.
He did not speak.
He bowed.
The crowd froze.
A prince bowing to commoners was unthinkable.
Then someone cheered.
Then another.
By sunset, all of Paris would know.
The Dauphin of France had acknowledged the people.
And in doing so, he had made himself something no French king had ever been.
Visible.