June 30, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, Queen's Apartments
Marie's Bedchamber
'Canada, mon cher,
Je vous écris en lettre en Française de sorte que la Bretagne ne peut pas le lire. Je ne vouloir pas il a lui de voir tout cela. Je n'ai pas rien d'important à dire; je veux lui à rends fou.
Je comprends tu n'as pas d'un anniversaire officel, mais il était à cette époque de l'année où Sa Majestée François I envoye Jacques Cartier au Canada. 1542, oui? Ou, était-ce en 1524? Je ne peux pas m'en souvenir. Bon anniversaire reconnu, á tout cas.
Je voudrais á dire je suis très désolé.
Tu mérites mieux que cela, mais c'est le mielleur que je peux faire maintenant.
J'ai plus des choses á tu dire. Trop pour une seule lettre. Il attendra. Je promets, je vais vous expliquer tout bientôt. Dès que j'atteins stabilité, equilibré.
Je ne suis pas dans une position á demander quoi que ce soit, mais s'il vous plaît, soyez patients. Pour moi les choses iront mieux, je peux le sentir.
J'essaierai rester en contact.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
{Canada, my dear,
I am writing this letter in French so that Britain can't read it. I don't want him to see any of this. Not that I have anything important to say, I just want to drive him a little crazy.
I know you don't have an official birthday, but it was around this time of the year when His Majesty Francis I sent Jacques Cartier to Canada. 1542, right? Or, was it in 1524? I can't remember. Happy recognized Birthday, at any rate.
I want to say I am very sorry.
You deserve better than that, but it's the best I can do right now.
I have much more to tell you. Too much for one letter. So it will wait. I promise, I will explain everything as soon as I can. As soon as I reach stability, balance.
I am in no position to ask anything of you, but please, be patient. Things are going to get better for me, I can feel it.
I'll try to keep in touch.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'}
'America,
Bon anniversaire - Happy birthday!
Eleven years, now...how does it feel? It's still so hard to believe that you accomplished what you did: physically, ideologically beating the strongest empire in the world (No, I don't have a problem admitting that. Britain may have that over me but at least I'm more beautiful). You have such a bright future ahead of you - personally, nationally, and Nationally! I can't wait for the next time I see you, so I can see how much you've grown. I wish you all the best in everything you do.
There are three purposes to this letter: The first was to wish you a happy birthday. The second was to apologize.
I don't know if you're still mad at me or if you were even mad in the first place before we stopped talking. Either way I still owe you an apology. A different type of apology than one I sent Spain and Prussia, and a different type than the one I still owe Canada. But an apology none the less, because I hurt you. And whether you were oblivious to the malice or are simply good at brushing things off, letting things go, forgetting things to maintain your cheery attitude, I need to bring it back up to do the right thing by me and appease this guilt I have.
Sorry if this is inarticulate or seems insincere. I've feel like I've already written out the deepest contents of my soul and borne them to so many people. I feel like I've already shared my thoughts and confessions, and expressed my apologies, free for everyone to see. But I cannot grow wary. I still owe too much to too many Nations to half-ass this one, or any other one I must do to make amends on every front possible. Just know that everything I say, I mean with all of me, with every fiber of my being.
I am so sorry for the last letter I sent you. It was so terribly rude, so uncivil, abusive in every way, obscene, and insulting. You were only trying to help, and I rebuked you with jealousy, and a bitterness and that shouldn't have been directed at anyone but myself.
The last reason for this letter is to thank you. You were one of the first people to suspect something was wrong with me, and you were the only one to write to me immediately. I couldn't appreciate your concern until later, when everything felt like it was crashing down around me. You're a wonderful friend, and such an inspiration to me. Everything you've done so far for yourself is amazing. Absolutely wonderful, and awe-inspiring. You should be proud of yourself, and you deserve every positive attribute that comes from forging your own path.
You changed the world, and whoever tries to step on that as I did is not worth your time.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France
P.S. I need you to do me a HUGE favor. Huge, huge, huge favor. I know I really am in no position to ask anything of you, but this could mean all the difference in my fight for normalcy. Can you expedite a copy of your Declaration to me? I need it, desperately, before the 6th of July. Please, please, please, s'il vous plaît, por favor, per favore, bitte? I'm not fooling around here, I really need it. If your offer still stands, consider it repayment for my assistance in your Revolution.'
France never imagined a moment when he would urge Marie to throw a party.
It hardly seemed like a time for frivolities on the crown's part, but he honestly felt as though she needed it. Everyone needed it. The ninth would mark what would have been the late Princess Sophie-Hélène's first birthday. Then ten days after that, the nineteenth, would mark the first month after her death.
Louis took it as well as he could, or so France thought.
France admit, he was fooled; he never noticed until a few meetings after his first with Brienne that Louis' professional, collected demeanor was a front. He put on a good show of full mental investment - or maybe it was true. Maybe he actually was trying to fully pour himself into his work for the sake of forgetting his pain. Kind of a lame way to forget pain if you asked France, but nobody did, so he kept his opinion to himself. Each time France remembered what had happened, that Louis had just buried a child, a beloved baby girl, an ideological daughter of France, he picked up on the subtle traces of grief. A hollowed, gaunt look his downcast face took on; a slight wandering of the mind where France would normally have his attention; an oh-so-slight watering of his eyes when he considered the weight of his loss, considered the life she missed out on, how upset Marie was, how to console her, how he would refill the hole in his heart and rebuild himself.
Feeling insensitive as soon as he noticed, France offered to yield out of consideration, to halt all political action until the emotional and physical turmoil passed, but Louis was adamant, still pressing to continue with Brienne. He admired Louis' resolve, for once ready and willing to roll his sleeves up, but he hated that it took a circumstance like this to make it happen. He still withdrew a bit, approaching more softly, disagreeing with less fire, keeping his emotions and his tongue in check. Still succinct, still influential, but delivered properly. Wrapped up in a pretty present so it wouldn't harm him.
Marie, on the other hand, was distraught. Inconsolable for weeks.
It hurt France's heart to see the ravages of grief on both of them. He took it upon himself to be as helpful and supportive as possible, sitting with her when she cried, holding her when she looked like she needed it. Though he'd never mention it to anyone, he noticed her usual priority on beauty shoved violently to the wayside in the wake of the situation. She sometimes wouldn't dress, wouldn't even get out of bed. Even if she got out of bed she wouldn't make up her face, let anyone do her hair. The palace was quiet, everything around the King and Queen stopped. Nobody wanted to intrude in case of offending her, but everyone wanted to be helpful somehow. Mostly the courtiers showered her with gifts of condolences that went unopened. (France couldn't help but notice for a few brief seconds that when he was sick, nobody wanted to help him, but he felt like a bratty child with a ego complex when he thought about it so he pushed it away, vowing never to call upon that train of thought again.)
As he said, it hurt his heart, and he was sorry anything happened at all. But France wasn't close enough to the baby for her death to physically effect him in any way. In fact, neither he nor the French people had ever met any of the children. Not even the nine year old Princess Marie Thérèse, or the seven year old Dauphin, Prince Louis XVII. Maybe if he had been closer to the Queen, or maybe if the people had exalted Sophie's birth as heavily as the Palace did, he may have a different story to tell. But it simply wasn't the case. All he could do was maintain a painfully awkward, polite, surface level of sorrow and empathy. It didn't feel like his loss.
He supposed it wasn't all his conscious fault he couldn't bring himself to care more. To more violently mourn the death of the Princess, a baby. As an immortal being, loss, death, disaster, the coming and going of people was so commonplace. At one point, maybe, he was a bleeding heart. A harbinger of emotional relief from pain, suffering. Desperate to make everyone feel deeply loved and cared for. Desperate to make deep, fulfilling connections with anyone and everyone he encountered. He used to be so willingly and naïvely impressionable, so gullible. But not anymore. After 1431 . . . He learned in 1431 to grow deeply, profoundly attached to humans at his own emotional peril.
He turned his passions into momentary, temporary sentiments. He still craved the love - he was obsessed with love. Any kind of love. Platonic, romantic, sexual, sensual. He coveted that sort of arousing attention. Love in and of itself was not something to be wary of. If everyone in the world shared some form of love in their hearts, gave as well as received . . . how different the world would be. He simply desired nothing beyond a physical, momentary bond anymore, lest he be hurt again. The lesson Britain forced him to learn hit so hard, he would never be the same.
He shook his head of the introspection and returned his thoughts to the present, hoping Marie hadn't answered him while he was zoning. He was too afraid to ask for fear of insulting her, so he sat in silence for a few more moments. Her arms squeezed his torso tighter and he wrapped one arm around her back and the other to the back of her head, stroking her blond hair.
"We could . . . wait until September. When everything's calmed down," he offered. "I just think you and Louis need a little TLC. There's no better way to get people to fawn over you than a party. Good wine, good food, good music, dancing, canoodling, if Louis' in the mood." He said exactly what he was thinking next, "It'll get you out of your room. Get you cleaned up, dressed up. Bring about an air of normalcy around you."
"Normal?" she breathed. "I don't feel as though anything will ever be normal again."
France sighed. His heart sank as memories of the same feeling tried to burst forth. His eyes watered and he desperately tried to keep the tears contained, but his ears echoed with her screams and the flames' heat burned his face and eyes and each pop and flicker was a stab to his chest. He couldn't look away. He couldn't tear his eyes from Jeanne's even after she shut her own in pain and broke his gaze first.
He didn't speak, just held her close until he thought he could trust his voice, but as soon as he opened his mouth it cracked. "It will," he rasped. Hot tears spilled from his eyes and his breath hitched against her. "It will. Time is strange. It is both enemy and friend, both at the same time and different times. I c- . . . I can't exactly explain it." He blinked hard, forcing more of the relieving tears from his eyes. With each that fell his heart felt just a little bit lighter. "The pain is terrible, I know. I've been there. Someone close to me was ripped away tragically, too. The pain will always be there, there will always be a hole in your heart where their presence was. That's where the pain resides, waiting for you to call on it." He sniffed thickly. "T- Time becomes the foundation for you to rebuild your life. It lets you fill the hole in your heart with new experiences, new life. It helps you cover it up. You will achieve normalcy. I promise."
She looked up, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of his own tears falling with her own. "Thank you, France," she said, but he could tell in her flat tone she didn't believe him yet. Him, who'd already been hardened by centuries of loss. "September . . . isn't that when Spain and Prussia are coming over?" she asked him, changing her inflection.
He looked up, stunned. "How did you know about that?"
"The courier made a mistake. Your letter from Prussia ended up on Louis' desk. This isn't some excuse to entertain them, is it?"
"No, Marie." Spain and Prussia were just a perk at this point. "I just . . . I don't want you to be sad anymore. It doesn't become a beautiful woman such as you. The Queen of France." She smiled absently at his comments and looked up. He smiled emptily down at her and flicked a residual tear off her cheek. "Times are hard enough on their own for all of us. I know we disagree sometimes, you and I, and I know Louis and I fight constantly. I'm sure he has choice words for me when he's alone with you. But you're still my monarchs. I am still your Nation. I love you both, even if I don't often show it." Like an annoying brother and sister, anyway.
"Thank you," she said again, more strongly, peeling herself from him. "We love you too, though we often doesn't show it either. You used to scare me, you know, when I was a child."
"What?" He laughed at the hilarity of it - him, scaring anyone - before she chuckled.
"Oui, oui, you used to scare me! Remember when we first met?" she asked. Of course he did. As soon as Marie and Louis' marriage was arranged, Austria invited him to his house to meet her. France requested Louis go with him, which would have been horrendously awkward with the 12 year old he barely knew, but the bustle of people around him made excuses on his lazy behalf for a week. France went alone. "I didn't like you at first," she added, smiling regretfully up at him.
"Why?" he asked, playfully offended. "You wound me, Marie!"
"My mother interrupted my harpsichord lesson with Austria to tell me there was someone she wanted me to meet. I followed them to the foyer and when I first laid eyes on you I was scared to death of you! Everything about you screamed 'elegance'. You were so much taller than me, and you carried yourself with such poise! Such presence and confidence. . . Similar to Austria's presence, but distinct in its own way. He has an air of assertion and cold calculation, and so did you but you also felt very . . . sly. Very subtle and mischievous and playful. You had the sharpest, most alert blue eyes I'd ever seen, and your face was so handsome it made my heart flutter in my chest. I felt like I was wrong for even being in the same room as you."
"I have that effect on people."
"You offered your hand to me and i hesitated. Roderich was about to scold me, and then you knelt down and held up a finger to silence him. I couldn't speak French very well yet, so I had no idea what you said to me, but while you were talking I was captivated by your smooth, rich voice. You managed to coax my hand into yours and you kissed it, then pulled out a whole rose from your coat pocket and gave it to me. It was so ridiculous that I laughed as I accepted it and your alluring, glamorous smile."
France couldn't remember what he said either. But she had every other detail memorized. He felt deeply flattered by it, flattered that she felt comfortable enough with him to tell him. She continued, "We entertained you, having hot tea in one of the drawing rooms. I caught snippets when Mother spoke in German for Austria to translate, but you talked a lot about things that were over my head. Of course, at the time I didn't stock the experience. It was unpleasant and awkward to say the least. When we met again after the wedding, I didn't recognize you, or even remember that I met someone exactly like you."
"Hm," he mumbled. "That was the same day I first 'met' Louis. You both were late, and the moment he got there he wanted to leave again. Your entourage saw you to your chambers, so I went there and talked to you. I hope," he began, staring pleadingly into her eyes, "that you hold me in higher favor than back then." France's eyebrows furrowed at the thought of how his opinions of Marie and Louis plummeted, and he quickly tried to cover up the change before she noticed.
"Of course," she said, nodding. "You are much less intimidating now."
He almost laughed. Brief flashes of the riots played behind his eyes, of the people he beat down without remorse, of his violence on the battlefield that used to bring him joy. How easy it was for him to lose himself in the fire, in the fervor, in the passion. That one moment in Louis' office when he threw the bottle at him, almost injured him before he regained his senses. The peoples' anger, bleeding into France. He hoped that Brienne and Louis could help him fix things before he snapped.
Snapped. That felt like he was making assumptions, jumping to the most melodramatic conclusion he could. But he had no idea how a worse situation would affect him. For all he knew he could snap.
"Thank you for comforting me, France." He took that as his cue that she wanted to be alone again, so he retreated a few steps and bowed to her.
"So, September? First week?"
"September."
July 6, 1787
Louvre, Paris
Le Palais des Tuileries, France's Chambers
Not usually a fusser, France couldn't even deal with his own stress levels.
On the way over, France stupidly tried to force himself to entertain the notion that returning to Paris and the Tuileries Palace was something to look forward to. That it would be another rejuvenating experience. He tried to tell himself that returning to his capital, placing himself among the people, the noises, the sights, the smells, the pleasantries, the attractions just like he did the first time would help him. He tried to think it to himself until he believed it, but in his heart he knew. France knew why it wouldn't be the same.
It wasn't hard to discern. He was scared. He dreaded this encounter and every possible outcome even more than the Assembly of Notables. At least with the Assembly he was putting his faith in Calonne, a man with a strong backbone. A man with passion, who could root himself in his own ideas. This time he was putting his faith in Louis. Solely, completely, in Louis. France didn't even think Louis knew what Louis believed. He just expected France to pump him with the right information to spew, which he may back out of spewing anyway.
The apprehension felt like it was actually killing France, sickening his heart, balling it up and dragging it down into his stomach until he couldn't function. Paris was the darkness in his dream, the monster that left the confines of its under-bed prison, rushing closer and closer, destroying everything in its wake. Born in the deepest recesses of his mind, it was the representation of everything that could go wrong - that he could be swallowed up, lost, dead and gone because of someone else. Only this time, he was running towards the gummy, erratic, chaotic, terrifying mass. Praying for the best. So dark he couldn't even see his hands in front of him, and he was going to try and wade blindly through, fight and claw and scratch with no idea where he was or if there was even an end to crawl to.
Every time he tried to run through what was about to happen in his head, there was nothing there to go off of. He felt like he was staring into a black hole and was simply expected to know what to do to get to the bottom. He abhorred thinking about it with every part of his soul, but there was no way he could ignore it until the actual meeting. There was no way he could wing it. Try to predict on the fly what they would say, and trust Louis to say the right things. He had to prepare for everything anyone could possibly say and how to cover for it. If they ask Louis this, and he stands firm, what could happen next? If he gives way, how can I save the situation and change his mind again before they carry it out? He just didn't know. It was mentally taxing, bolstering every level of uneasiness he had, and they hadn't even gone to the Palais de Justice yet. So he just chose to put it off for as long as possible.
When they arrived at Tuileries at 11:00 that morning and the staff unloaded his bags, he immediately went to his room and flopped on the bed to take a nap. He wanted to make sure he was rested and prepared for the afternoon of a lifetime. But his mind was moving too fast, shooting in a hundred different directions at once, all of them bad. He kept getting this image of facing a panel of judges, all white-faced and black robed, like executioners. Heads shaking no, Louis literally backing out of the room against a barrage of insults, their laughter swallowing up everything France had to say. Screaming, crying, pleading, but they couldn't hear him over the sound of their bellows. He grew smaller and smaller, they rose up above him, seven feet tall, and they laughed down at him. Pointed at him, condemned him. The scenario was burned into the back of his eyelids and he couldn't cast it away. A nap was out of the question.
He sat around the drawing room instead, looking at the details of the room and remembering some of the things the room had seen before operations moved to Versailles. The wine stain on the rug was still there, right beside the settee. If he remembered correctly that was . . . in 1660, under Louis XIV. The staff offered to replace it but France declined, insisting it gave the room a certain charm (After all, charm was the reason it got there in the first place, if you caught France's drift). It was as routine of a one-night stand as it could get. She boldly eyed him all night and he eyed her right back until he decided to go over to her. He didn't even have to say anything to her. He just offered her his hand. She practically led him to his room. Both drinking at the party, both drinking immediately before she made a move on him. Hence, the stain.
All the chairs were still there, in exactly the same places that he left them in. Apparently the staff dusted but didn't move anything. Fine by him. He used to personally entertain a lot in his apartments back then. He practically threw his own parties when Louis XV entertained. He remembered one specific time in 1741, when he was in Tuileries on official business. When everyone was too drunk and somehow a game of cards that risked clothing came about and eventually a woman ended up with only her undergarments on, which led to France purposefully losing, which led to him kissing her in . . . places, and it was just bad. Bad, bad, bad. Louis XV thought it was hilarious when he waltzed in on everyone. Jeanne Bécu, his Maîtresse-en-titre, did not. Which was SO hypocritical of her, his mistress, he suddenly thought angrily.
Nowadays, there were more chairs in there than people he would ever entertain again - he just wanted to be alone now. Absolutely alone except for emergencies of state. Armchairs, couches, chaises, all covered in the same white satin with green and purple flower patterns. Buds in every stage of bloom arranged on embroidered stems and vines. They were arranged in a circle in the center of the room. With the exception of the garish stain, the plush rug that covered the whole room had the same colors to match, and the same circle pattern. Art covered nearly every inch of exposed wall, on either side of the door to his bedroom, between each window, on tables, leaned against the walls, everywhere. Far too much to look at, but of course, it made the room look opulent. Flower vases everywhere, stands and bookshelves, holding all manner of books and knick-knacks. France made it a point to avoid looking at the timepiece, instead roving his eyes to the hole in the molding near the rear wall. One time in 1564, the fourteen year old King Charles IX was playing with France when he was (if France had to guess) ten or eleven years old, and they put a hole in the BRAND NEW palace wall. They were playing at fencing, and France went to thrust his cane into le Roi's abdomen when he wormed out of the way. The dull point still punched a hole so deep . . .
France tried to cover it up with a painting, and they believed themselves to be clever. Until someone came to fetch Charles. They were found out immediately.
All in all, a very aesthetically pleasing and nostalgic room, if one knew what they were looking at. Otherwise, it was just confusing.
The only thing that didn't seem to match were the drapes over each window. They were a deep, solid gold, but the room itself brought them together with the gold trim on the white panels on the wall. Gold engraved above the door frame in floral patterns as well. Too busy, too much. Smothering, when looked at in the wrong light. To combat the squirmy feeling, France pulled his jacket off, kicked off his heeled shoes and padded over to the offending stain, getting down on his hands and knees to see if the wine's aroma was still there. He inhaled deeply and to his delight, he could still smell the ripe, distinct Bourgogne grapes, the rich Pinôt Noir from the prestigious Côte de Nuits vineyards. Faded and gentle, but still there.
Mmmmm, wine sounded excellent. And, he added smoothly, it would definitely help him sleep. He crossed the room and threw open the doors, and the staff stationed there bowed to him.
"Can I get you something, Monsieur?" one of them asked.
"Non, mon ami, merci. I just wanted a glass or two of wine, but I'll get it myself. Need to keep myself busy, you know?" he all-but babbled, not pausing to talk. Oh, well. He probably looked crazy anyway without his shoes on.
Before they left Tuileries, France swore he would remain calm. He told himself over and over that he had nothing to fear. He had nothing to fear, this would work, and everything would be fine.
It was a pathetic effort that worked for a while, maybe twenty minutes? For France that was fantastic, but as much as he thought he convinced himself, the moment they got in the carriage for Le Palais, he slowly slipped into the emotional wreck he knew he would be. As each meter passed beneath the carriage wheels, France couldn't stop the fluttering in his chest, the heat rising to his cheeks, the sweating that wouldn't stop, the shallow, fast-paced quality his breathing took on. He rested his feet on the floor and they rolled up onto his toes almost immediately. His leg started bouncing furiously, he started chewing on the skin around his fingernails, and he didn't realize he was doing either until he tasted blood.
"Monsieur France?" Brienne asked.
"Hm?" he grunted, simply raising his eyebrows. Brienne, ever the diplomat, didn't look nervous at all. He hid his tics well with a straight back and crossed legs. The only testament to any fear he had was the white-knuckled grip he had on his satchel. France didn't want to look him in the face. Didn't want to display his nerves anymore than he already was.
"Are you alright?"
No. No. Non. Nein. Nyet."Oui!" Brienne's eyebrow lifted skeptically, but France ignored it. "Okay! We're nearly at le Palais. Let's go over a few things," France said, rallying himself and his three-man army. "I think the most important thing to remember is that these men are not our friends. We are here to upset their established order. We are here to challenge their very way of life. They may begin with smiles and well wishes, Majestée, but as soon as we oppose them . . . We will meet passionate resistance, on the grounds of selfishness and long-standing tradition. It doesn't matter how they word it, how they try to twist it. That is their foundation for opposition. And we must. not. yield. Do you understand? Compromise is not an option. They either do what we want, or they do not. And if that is their decision, then so be it. That is what the lit is for. You know what you're going to say?" he asked, turning to face Louis sitting beside him.
"Oui."
"Tell me."
"I will first begin by declaring that the three of us have already accepted and approved everything on the itinerary. I will explain the figures and statistics of the new wages and tax reforms, calling upon Monsieur Brienne when needed. The two of us will answer any questions."
"And what if it becomes heated, or rude?" France prompted.
"I will remind them who they are talking to. If they continue to pester me, I can throw them out."
"Oui, Sire. Then what?"
"Then, you will propose the other half of this reform, the civil liberties. Give your reasoning, your experiences, anything you want or need to give. I will call for their deliberation, and we will meet as often as we need to until their decision."
"Oui. And what is the time frame we're giving them?"
"Until September."
"Très bien. I will say one more time, Louis: we don't have to go through the Parliaments at all-"
"We already went over this, France. If I do not go through them and try to call the lit, the very fact that I didn't consult them will be their loophole. For once I will not let them bend me. For once I will stand firm in my sentiments." He looked France in the eyes and nodded solemnly, and France softly returned his gaze. "I am in your corner now, France. As I hope you are in mine."
They fell silent once more, and as they crossed Pont Neuf France's senses went back into overdrive. He picked the tics back up, his senses sharpened from the adrenaline coursing through him. Everything took on a sort of ethereal clarity; colors brightened before his eyes, movements seemed slow and deliberate. He could barely listen to the short prayer Brienne led with his heart pounding so loudly in his ears. A sharp pain shot down the cut on his back and he squirmed, wincing slightly.
Everything had to run perfectly here.
The carriage clattered through the gate and right up to the steps, and France let Louis and Brienne out first when the porters opened the door. He stepped out into the Paris sun and gave Louis one final once-over, straightening his lop-sided cravat. "We'll be fine." He dusted off Louis' shoulders, tugged at the bottom of his vest, "We'll be fine," tucked a bit of sleeve back into Louis' jacket, "We'll be fine." He went to dust of Louis' shoes when he suddenly grabbed France by the shoulders.
"France! Merci. Allons-y." He gestured for France to lead the way. He almost declined, then thought better of it. This was such a fragile situation, and France knew he was the backbone of this whole operation. If he showed any sign of weakness he was sure it would shatter any confidence he managed to instill in Louis. He just hoped they couldn't see his knees shaking from the back. They climbed the stairs, every one seeming to get higher and higher to France until he could barely breathe. They entered through the huge, dwarfing doors and strolled into the first antechamber. A clatter rose up as everyone around the table went to stand, but Louis motioned for them to remain seated as he took his seat at the head of the table. France took up his position on Louis' right, and Brienne stood behind him on the left.
He looked down the entire time they entered, and when he finally raised his eyes he almost deemed it a mistake. They glared daggers at all three of them, so vehemently that France could practically feel the waves of malice rolling off of them. They hit his chest, hit his face like a hot gust of wind. Another twinge shot down his back, and he resisted every urge to drop everything - drop his eyes, drop his façade of calmness - and run. Run out of there and hide away and never speak to another human being for as long as he lived on this green earth. He was grateful when Louis wasted no time in beginning the meeting.
"Monsieurs," Louis began. "I would like to preface this meeting with a reminder."
What? No! Wrong, wrong, wrong, not on the list not on the list! He was supposed to start with the 'already been approved' bit! France stared hard at Louis, sending every single 'Please don't mess this up,' feeling he had.
"I want everyone here to remember why we are here. We are here out of concern for the State. For the current well-being, and future prosperity of the State. For France's needs. Not our own. Do you understand what I am saying to you, gentlemen?" France could tell in their gazes they knew exactly what he was saying. It was a sly dig at all of them for their selfishness, and a warning that Louis already saw through it. They would not pull one over on him. He received a few measly nods in reply, but a majority of the men never broke their cold gazes. France immediately went to Louis' defense, hardening his own gaze in spite of himself and sharpening the glass in his eyes. He would not let them intimidate him or Louis. He roved his eyes around the table and took pride in every man who met his scrutiny and had to look away.
"Okay. Let us begin. I have two major propositions for this council. I believe that the implementation of these points will mean an immediate improvement of France's financial, economic, and social situation which, as we all know, is threatening collapse. I was extremely, extremely disappointed in the unfavorable reaction I received from the national Parlement at Versailles. Thus, I have brought these changes to the Parisian council with the hopes that you will see the overall benefits as I do and make the appropriate decision. Both of these ideas already have my full confidence and support. The only thing that I ask for is yours.
"The first item on the list is a wage increase for the Third Estate, specifically agricultural employees of the Second and First Estate. I had Monsieur Bonnefoy round up old population estimates from the previous century, this century, and the last decade." (Secretly they were France's own writings, observations, and recordings from back then, when he really started growing under Louis XIV. But nobody had to know that. Technically they were official documents. And at the very least, he set them up to look official. France silently thanked himself a thousand times over for his meticulous writing habits.) Louis beckoned Brienne forward with a finger and he pulled a stack of papers from his satchel, handing them to Louis. "Of course, these are only estimates, but France's population has expanded tremendously, from an estimated. . . " he led on, dragging his finger down the paper to find the figure he was looking for, " . . . 15 million in the mid 1600s to . . . " He flipped to the next page and found the next number as well. " . . . 18 million in the early 1700s. Only recently an estimate by Jacques Necker in his Administration des Finances rounds out at a shocking 25 million in 1784. Please, gentlemen, peruse these documents. They bear witness to what I say." He held them out to France and he walked around the table to hand them to the closest person before returning to Louis' side. "According to Monsieur Brienne, the Third Estate makes up 97 percent of the population. I'm not sure what you all think, but 97 percent of the population is, and always has been, substantial."
Just as France thought they would, they didn't look over the papers nearly as closely as they should have to realize anything was amiss. Most of them glanced them over and quickly shuffled them along, while those who looked merely sought to find the figures Louis found. As soon as they reached Brienne on the other side of the table he neatly jogged the papers on the table until they were back in a pristine stack. Louis continued, "With those numbers in mind, I will defer to Monsieur Brienne to tie it all together with the economic projections."
He began speaking immediately. "I have much to discuss. If there are any questions, do not hesitate to ask. I wish to begin with brief proportions of land. In Upper Brittany and Normandy we see nobility owning 50-60 percent of land. In Orléanais, 40 percent. Burgundy, 35 percent. Picardy, 33 percent. All across France we see large disproportions, including here in Paris. Why is this important?" he prompted. "Because the Third Estate is having problems owning their own land. They are forced to be tenant farmers. France abolished the mortmain principal in 1779, during Necker's first term as finance minister, but many nobles never put it into practice despite the governmental mandate. We still see many nobles holding land unalienably, and a vast majority of the Third Estate still indebted to that land to make their meager living. In fact, some tenant farmers and cooperative farmers are forced to borrow from their landlord until the next harvest. Some do own land, and there are some who can live exclusively off of working their own land as well as conduct successful trades on the side as artisans. But most do not own enough land to live comfortably. The poorest are those who work as day-laborers, hiring themselves out on a day-to-day basis. They are at the mercy of their proprietors. I want to make it extremely clear to the men of this council how difficult it is for the Third Estate to better their own financial situation. They require legislative assistance, and, being 97 percent of the population, a boost to their capital would better France's economy indefinitely.
"So, what do we have in mind as far as their wages? The average foreman makes a wage of 84-90 livres. A carter: 54-66 livres. An ox-driver: 30-36, a stable boy: 60-66, a maidservant: 24-33. These are not exceptional wages, and when the taxes are deducted from them - dues, admission to status payments, rent, tolls, market and fair, tithes, taille - it amounts to roughly a 36 percent deduction. From the lowest wage, that is 8.25 livres. That is only the most basic mathematical assessment. It is impossible to account for every individual addition made by each noblemen. What's more, due to the unpredictability of the weather . . . "
With each uninterrupted word Brienne spoke, France started to relax. He started to gain control of his breathing; his heart didn't feel like it was going to rip through his chest anymore. But it wasn't over, and he knew that. He still had to prepare for his piece. The civil liberties. Which, he suddenly thought, was the hardest part. It was difficult to argue with hard facts, statistics, calculations, like Brienne had. France had none of that, just a feeling, a National hunch that he was going to have to verbalize exactly the right way to make them take him seriously. Otherwise, they were going to laugh him out of the room.
Oh, God, he wasn't ready for that. He suddenly realized with a brand new chill that shot down his spine that he could very well be the one to ruin the entire thing for all three of them. If he screwed up, even the slightest, they would reject all of it. How ironic. He was so worried about Louis he never even considered the chance that he could be the one to ruin everything. His heart palpated again, his knees literally shook. All he wanted to do was sit down. People were asking questions, responding, arguing with Brienne, with Louis, but France zoned out for the rest of Brienne's speech, trying to settle down and carefully plan out what he was going to say. He just couldn't focus. His mind kept reverting back to, "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu."
He briefly tuned back in to check where they were and make sure Brienne was still doing alright. "Uniformity is the key here. Weights and measures differ from province to province, village to village even! In some cases, taxes are determined and distributed by elected officials of the province. In others it is determined by direct agents of the King. In parts of Berry, Anjou, Poitou, and others, there are civil laws that direct. I anticipate that there are over a hundred different customary laws in effect at once. Over 100 different ways of regulating the same body - France . . . "
"Ok, France. When they turn it over to you, start with . . . Mon Dieu, ummm . . . Merde! Ok, start with . . . What did we even talk about? Freedom of assembly, start there. Oh, mon Dieu. . . Be honest with them. People are unhappy - no what's a better word? Discontent? Ok, people are discontent with . . . with the mismanagement of everything Monsieur Brienne mentioned . . . mon Dieu! No, start over. I believe more civil liberties to be the key to - to WHAT? . . . I can't do this . . . Voltaire wrote - merde!"
"Francis!" Louis said, startling him out of his mental panic session.
"Hm? What, what? What's wrong?" he blubbered.
Louis gestured to the table. "You'd like to discuss the second part of the agenda: the civil liberties?" he said, shooting France a questioning glance. France looked around at the men at the table, momentarily confused after being so lost in his own mind.
"O-oui, Majestée." He cleared his throat. And it went in an entirely different direction than he thought. "Ummm, I actually don't think I need to explain why the Third Estate is so, ummm, frustrated based on Monsieur Brienne's assessment of their financial station. Rather, I think I need to explain why it is coming to a head now. Why do they threaten violence now? Why not a century ago? The French monarchy is the longest standing, most successful monarchy in history, but let's be honest. Inequity has been the feudal system's driving force for centuries, and people have just calmly accepted it as tradition and way of life. So why, all of a sudden, are the people calling for change? I think the answer is in the writings and teachings of Enlightenment thinkers, and the example set by America.
"Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Réne Descartes, Voltaire, and Montesquieu. You all know their names, and their fame. I'll even bet some of you have read their works. They are all widely, widely published in America and France both. The people are constantly steeped in their educated views, their opinions. They're political. Analytical. Appealing to both reason and emotion. No error or inequality left unaddressed. No human folly uncriticized. They whisper destruction and revolt. But at the same time they scream hope for a new future. For a reconstruction of a system that craves justice and loves liberty.
"Rousseau in particular is extremely popular because he relates to the common man's struggle in this society we have. His Emile, or On Education claims the importance of education, and comments on its inaccessibility to the public and its extreme influence on citizenship. The Third Estate agrees because they, funny enough," he said, injecting a new sarcastic fire in his voice, "don't have access to education." There. Good. He finally rooted himself in what he was saying. He finally felt comfortable. "His Discourse on Inequality states that the basis of all inequality is personal property, and the Second Estates' questionable sense of entitlement to that property! How ironic, considering the Second Estate feels entitled to everything Brienne mentioned-"
One of them opened his mouth to probably scoff or laugh but France scowled directly at him, narrowing his eyes. He practically paled and promptly shut his mouth.
"Most importantly, though, is his Social Contract, which argues against the idea of Divine Right, that monarchs are divinely empowered to legislate. Of course that idea would appeal to them - Who says they cannot improve their stations? God? How can that be, they argue, if man has free will? Nature dictates that men are free, and are only oppressed by other men, not by God. So who says they should be enslaved simply because of how they were born? Also along those lines is John Locke, the English philosopher! His Second Treatise - the natural state of man! Voltaire - freedoms of expression, speech, religion, criticisms on the church! Montesquieu - despotism and the division of powers!" He took a second to pause for dramatic effect, allowing them to comprehend for themselves the ripples across society those writings created.
"Of course, they are based solely on ideals. On genuine convictions and thoughts. Believing in ideals and sentiments is easy. Acting upon them, putting peoples' convictions under pressure is often where people fall short. Not the United States. The United States of America did not fall short. Formerly a British colony. Under the same political, economic, social oppression that our Third Estate feels now. They took those writings to heart. They acted upon their pursuit of justice, their questions, their challenges of subjugation, their fears. They began with small protests, rejecting Britain's taxation, not paying and not enacting the laws passed overseas for them. With their success came more and more support. Then we saw the Boston Tea Party in 1773. The battles at Lexington and Concord. Major victories in Charleston, Trenton, Yorktown by militia. A group of ragged, disorganized men with little to no prior fighting experience, with only the might of their metaphysical, abstract beliefs behind them. We literally see the system challenged, and we see a victory against it. What do you think that showed the world, Monsieurs?
"I managed to obtain a transcribed copy of the American Declaration of Independence from an American correspondent. Based heavily, heavily on the writings of those I mentioned earlier including Englishman Francis Bacon, and Americans Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson just to name a few. I will read this passage to you from the Declaration that summarizes every sentiment the American people have acted upon, and the French people want to act on: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness - That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed - That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.'
"We're teetering on a dangerous, dangerous social scaffold. America has proved too much to them. America has proved that they can stand up to their oppressors. They can defy tradition, they can defy their tyrants, they can defy everything they've been told their whole lives, and they can begin anew. They can start over and build a society based on them rather than the nobility, where they are free to live their own lives, to improve themselves. Whether we are aware or not, we ARE the oppressor. We are what Britain was to America. We. Look. Like. Their. Enemies. The slightest show of physical animosity towards them will light the spark. I think we need something - anything - to temporarily placate them. These ideals are never going to go away. They're going to gain strength, and if we don't show them that we desire their happiness as much as we want to maintain stability, society will collapse. Mark my words. I suggest we give them what they want. Civil liberties. The things Voltaire wrote about. The freedoms of expression, the freedom to convene as they want. Personally I don't care if you actually DO care about them or not. Threaten their station, France," he reminded himself. "But if you care at ALL about maintaining your status, maintaining the aristocracy and stability of the monarchy, you will cater to the people. There is no government without the people, gentlemen. There isn't even God without people."
He nodded to Louis and he immediately stood up, motioning to Brienne to leave the official signed and sealed document with each reform on it on the table. "Look this over, and we will reconvene next week for discourse and deliberation. Right now I wish to return to Tuileries." The other men stood at once, bowing to Louis, and the three of them strode out of the room to head back to Tuileries.
The second France shut the door behind him he collapsed back against it with a loud THUMP! He put his hand over his pounding heart and took the largest breath he could muster, sighing it out in a tense release. Shrugging off his coat, he bunched it up into a ball in his hands and pressed it to his face, resisting the urge to scream as loud as he possibly could into the fabric.
"What?" asked Louis, gently squeezing his arm. "Was that not good?"
"Oui, oui." He shook his head, letting out a hopeful chuckle. "Oui, Majestée. C'était parfait! The ball is in their court, now. We came so prepared we'll be able to answer every single one of their questions. At this point, we delivered it so articulately that the only reason I can see rejection is because of defiance. Then we have an official testament to the selfishness and character of these men, and we can send them away with little to no public opposition if we must." He raised his head to the sky. "Dieu merci."
Louis nodded at France, allowing a small smile stretch across his lips. "Très bien. Nicely done, France, Monsieur Brienne. Let's go back to Tuileries. Have some wine. After you," he said, gesturing to France.
Before he peeled himself from the door he was shocked to find his nose was runny. He sniffed, methodically pulling his handkerchief from his pocket to wife at it. When he pulled the cloth away from his face, a splotch of vibrant red caught his attention. His nose was bleeding. He quickly got up and passed Louis, desperate to hide it, but the man gasped. "France, your back."
France arched his back and tried to peer over his shoulder, but he couldn't see what Louis meant. "What's wrong?"
"Your scratch. It's bled through the bandages, and your shirt! I though it was only seeping before!"
"It was," he muttered, shrugging slightly. "I'll get it tended when we get back. Nothing I can do now. Let's go. I'm anxious to sit down."
July 19, 1787
Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris
Le Palais de Justice, Front Antechamber
'Francey-pants,
I hope the Declaration got to you in time, and i hope it served you well. Use it however you have to. Show it around, send it to as many people as you want! Hell, publish it in the papers! I don't care! Show the world what me and Washington have done! What we built together in the wake of Britain's ugly defeat.
As for your apology, don't worry about it. I'll tell you something I was told as a child that has stuck with me ever since.
Before you, Britain, the Netherlands, Finland, or Sweden ever landed on my shores, I used to wander a lot. I didn't consciously go anywhere. I just kind of meandered around, surviving off the land, comfortably fending for myself until I inexplicably and inevitably found a native tribe willing to house me for a week or two. I spent a lot of time with one Powhatan tribe in particular after a pack of coyotes attacked me. Turns out we were hunting the same deer. The coyote pack won. Tore me up pretty bad, too. Took me about a week and a half to heal if that tells you anything. When I woke up the tribe called me "Wapi", meaning "Lucky".
Anyway, one night two of the tribesmen got into a fight over something - I can't remember what it was about now. They fought, nearly trading blows over it before the Weroance, or Chief, broke it up. The next day they were talking and laughing around the fire as though nothing happened. I asked Chief Wahunsenacawh about it. "Weren't they fighting yesterday? Aren't they mad at each other?"
He said - and here's where the wisdom is - "Wapi, unforgiveness is the poison one drinks every day hoping that the other person will die."
I still carry that pearl with me in my heart wherever I go. I hope that explains how I feel about your letter, and your apology.
Ah, thinking about that stuff makes me feel bittersweet. Nostalgic, bordering on painful. It makes me realize how estranged and detached I've become from my native roots. I don't like that. I miss the purity of life, my spiritual connections to nature and the earth. Don't take this as an accusation, but I often wonder how things would have been different if Europeans had never landed here. If America would have remained undisturbed. It definitely would have been more peaceful, that's for sure.
I can't say I completely want to return, though. I'm far too immersed in Western ideas now. The European world still holds that touch of wonder, of admiration and awe. When I think about all the possibilities, all the growth I've done, I feel like a kid looking up into the majesty of the stars. Not to mention the EXCITEMENT of the Revolutionary War and the Declaration and the new Constitution we've got in the works . . . I'll tell you all about it when we get a finalized copy.
Geez, I'm so off-topic. My point is I forgive you, and I hope the Declaration helped. Consider us even!
Au revoir,
Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America'
"Monsieur Bonnefoy, the men of this council still have a few questions for you before we make a decision regarding the credibility of the statistics you found. Also, we wonder why you feel these new civil liberties will quell the people, rather than incite violence."
Louis snorted dismissively. "Are you implying that my advisor and my finance minister have falsified documents and information? To do so is to question my credibility and accuse my own statements of falsehood and fabrication!"
"Grounds for treason," France added smugly like a toady.
"Not at all, Majestée. We only want to make sure Monsieur Bonnefoy is providing you with correct facts, figures, and information. To lie to Sa Majestée in general, let alone to his face, is also treasonous."
"I trust him," Louis asserted. "I trust him fully and completely . . . " His voice lost power at the end. In a panic, France quickly made strong eye contact with Louis, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
"Louis, no," he mouthed. Louis winced as though in pain, then nodded, gesturing to the men at the table.
"Very well. I suppose if you must be sure, Monsieurs Bonnefoy and Brienne will submit to your questioning."
"We have nothing to hide," he snarled, staring directly at Louis.
August 1, 1787
Luxembourg, Paris
Le Jardin du Luxembourg
'Francis,
How cold and dull and dreary Versailles seems without your warming presence.The joys and beauties of nature and summer remind me of you and give it color; you were the ray of sunshine that dispelled the clouds and brought together the beautiful elements of that which can only be described as the loveliest of days. The happiness that we shared together is incomparable to any other thing that I have experienced, and I hope your business in Paris is swift and successful, that I may again hold you in my arms upon your return.
I love you.
Tell me you love me, too. Whisper those words in my ear, down my neck. I want them to roll off your tongue and seep into my skin again.'
It was the third time he read it already. Just that top section. The rest of it didn't matter. France hugged Gwen's letter close to his chest, crinkling up the parchment as a cheerful smile stretched across his lips. Amidst all the stress and anger and loathing in Paris, she was his own ray of sunshine. He shut his eyes tightly and tilted his head up to bask in the sun, remembering the warmth of her body as he hugged her close, recalling the way each strand of his hair ran through her petite, soft hands. He could still feel where her sloppy, inexperienced kisses pressed to his own skilled lips. He could still hear her sighs, smell the cool, fresh mint she chewed on.
God, she set his heart aflame.
The rest of his pleasant walk was garnished by the chirping of birds, a slight breeze that carried the scents of the gardens to him, and an odd, delightfully pink tint to everything, like a film over his eyes.
August 2, 1787
Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris
Le Palais de Justice, Front Antechamber
"I haven't the time anymore for your petty squabbling!" Louis yelled out, furiously rubbing his face. "France hasn't the time! I wanted to give you until September out of courtesy, but one month was more than enough time than this council deserved! I need your decision. Now. Yes, or no?"
France watched every one of their faces fall in shock in the wake of Louis' outburst, himself included. He always knew Louis had something of a fire in him all along, but he didn't realize he could be that authoritative. His chest swelled and he almost smiled with pride before he realized the importance of looking serious.
His hopes were instantly dashed as they all started shouting at once. "You cannot expect us to pass . . . NO facts here . . . how dare you . . . not enough time . . . NO decision . . . Impudence! You're feeding lies to the King . . . " Each word they said crawled into France's ears and wormed its way down under his skin, like an itch. They set his teeth on edge, his head flaring in pain. He just wanted them to shut up shut up SHUT UP-
"LOUIS CALLS A LIT!" he yelled, slamming his palms on the table.
" . . . Pardon?"
"Ecoutez, très soigneusement. Il convoque UN LIT-DE-JUSTICE!" His nose started bleeding - he could smell the blood even before it left his nostrils. He struggled to drag his handkerchief out of his pocket, still trying to ignore it and press forward. "You know," he said, sniffling thickly, "Louis wanted to be polite. He wanted to be the bigger person and get your approval before pulling the rug out from under you like I told him to do." He gestured wildly to himself, trying to hide the red splotches on the cloth. "All you did was confirm my and his worst fears. That you are all self-serving, arrogant, egotistical, ignorant, and STUBBORN! We are . . . "
He trailed off as suddenly a hot, feverish feeling rose in his cheeks. His breathing quickened before he could regain control, and he watched helplessly as the room started to swim dangerously in front of his eyes. "Non, non, non, pas ici. Pas ici." The room was silent but the white noise still seemed to fade away from his ears and the light seemed to fade from his eyes. A sharp spasm raced down his cut and his mind went blank from the force of it. His knees collapsed and he luckily threw his elbows over the table to hold himself up. Brienne moved to help him but he held up a hand towards his general direction, frozen there until his senses returned back to normal after what seemed like at least an hour. "Désolé," he muttered, swallowing thickly. "We are getting this reform passed whether you want it or not." He tried to reclaim the fire that he lost, but it was long gone. He finished pathetically, "And we are going to do whatever we have to do to pass it. Even if it means bypassing Parliaments completely."
Whether it was awkward silence at his (embarrassingly open) display of pain, or stunned silence in the wake of his outburst, he couldn't tell. Either way, he wanted to rub it in. To sacrifice dignity and maturity for the sake of feeling like he won something against these men. He spread his arms wide, openly daring any of them to oppose him. He wished they would. He wished they would confront him, try to fight him on it. He had years and years' worth of evidence to support his own claims that they were the reason nothing was being done. He gave them five seconds to say something - anything - then turned to Louis, cocking his head towards the door.
"Ah! Just a moment!" France turned towards the voice, but couldn't pinpoint who it came from until they spoke again. "You mentioned yesterday, Monsieur Brienne, of noblemen not enacting some of the bans on mortmain principles. I'm concerned that the same should happen here. What if . . . " he began without the slightest touch of question, "some noblemen across Paris find it outside their best interest to lessen their collection of taxes? Or improve the wages of their workers?"
"Most of you are King Louis' intendants, directly appointed to districts to carry out royal law. You've all heard the decrees here. It is up to you to implement them. And if some of you don't, then those people would meet the crown's justice," France spat. He didn't want them to figure out if there was any merit to that claim or not, considering he didn't even know himself. He roughly grabbed Louis' shoulder and pulled him from the room.
August 25, 1787
Le Palais des Tuileries, Antechamber
"Again!"
"Monsieurs . . . " Louis began hesitantly.
"Louder!" France ordered, so forcefully Louis flinched.
"Monsieurs," he said more confidently. "Until-"
"Look me in the eyes," he said, lifting Louis' chin. He pointed his pointer and index finger at Louis' faded, fearful eyes, then to his own piercing blue. "Right here. If you can face me when you say it you can face them."
"Monsieurs, u-until now, I have let, ummm, my Parliament-"
"Your father's Parliament," he corrected.
"Oui, my father Louis XV's Parliament govern under my rule as well." He dropped his eyes to France's shoes again.
"Ah! Ah! Look here!" he shouted. Louis shot his eyes back up and continued.
"Henceforth, I rule alone. I shall, u-uh, I shall govern on my own. You will council me if I request it. I order . . . I order . . . "
"You order them-"
"Non, je peux le faire. I order you to sign nothing, not even a passport, without my consent. Such is my will, gentlemen. Now you must obey it."
"Très bien. Again."
"Just a moment. Are you sure? About this? Are you sure it's enough? It seems, well, it seems rather . . . short."
"It's succinct, Louis, articulate. An articulate speech, worthy of the articulate Sun King. He was trying to get rid of the Parliament and govern on his own, just like you are now. It worked for him, and so it'll work for you."
"Le Roi Soleil really said these exact same words?"
"I tweaked the speech a TINY bit to better fit this situation, but for the most part, yes."
Louis fell silent, and France could see the frown begin to mar his stoic face. "Quoi? Qu'est-ce qui ne vas pas?"
He sighed deeply. "I am not Le Roi Soleil, France."
" . . . I know that."
"In fact, I am so far removed from his image that I feel . . . I know I will never reach the majesty he had. I know that you have seen better days, and I know I am not nearly the best ruler you've had in a while. So when I am compared to him, I just feel that if he could see what I've done here during my rule I fear he would laugh. My reign pales in comparison. And I am humiliated by that. I am embarrassed to face you sometimes in its wake."
France sighed as well, taking a moment to think carefully about his reply. He remembered a time when his tongue was like silver and he knew how to stroke any man's ego with the smallest utterance. Those times were gone. He never learned how to read this Louis. How to work him. He never fully discovered everything there was to know about him, and he doubted he ever would. The man was too hidden for too long, and now that he was only beginning to open up to France, he felt there was still a wall there. "I know you're not Le Roi Soleil. You are Louis XVI. He lived a hundred years ago, and you're dealing with different problems. Of course your rules are going to be different. Don't ever think I expect you to be anyone other than Louis XVI. And I don't think he'd laugh."
"Why not? I myself feel it justified if he did."
"Maybe initially. Maybe before 1784. But now? Absolutely not. He would not laugh. Because he'd see the same thing I see. And that is a man who is admittedly scared, upset, betrayed, but still brave enough to stand his ground. He'd see him continually try over and over and over again to set things right despite the number of failures. He'd see a man facing a MOUNTAIN of problems, and he'd see that same man doing whatever he knew how to to climb it. He'd see you NOT GIVE UP, as I have seen you. That is something honorable. Again, Louis."
"How do you think history will remember me? Will that be my legacy? Not giving up, or will it be . . . discordant complacency, or apathy?"
"Je ne sais pas, Louis. I tend not to worry about things like that. It makes me feel odd about myself and ask existential questions I'd rather leave untouched. Don't worry about the future, or the past. Worry about now. Now is what is important. After this meeting, we can worry about the future." Louis nodded, and France raised his eyebrows. "Again."
"Monsieurs, until now, I have let my father Louis XV's Parliament govern under my rule as well. Henceforth, I rule alone. I shall govern on my own. You will council me if I request it. I order you to sign nothing, not even a passport, without my consent. Such is my will, gentlemen. Now you must obey it."
"And what do we do next?"
"We walk out. No explanation, no nothing. The guards will remove them if they must."
"Très bien. Again."
A/N: Geez, that was a long chapter! I hope it was a good one, also! I move in to my sophomore year of college on August 14th (Friday), so I hope that no matter what happens I can manage to squeeze chapters in whenever I can. Let me know what you thought of this chapter in the reviews if you have time to leave one! Thank you to everyone who's followed/favorited so far! I love each and every one of you.
-Keyblader
One more thing! The speech France is making Louis recite I borrowed from Gérard Corbiau's movie Le Roi Danse (2000).