September 18, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Louis' Bedchamber
"The fountain, really?" Louis chuckled. "Naked?"
France nodded, leaning proudly back in his chair. "Earlier in the night, u-hum . . . " The memory brought a smile to his cheeks before he knew it. The sheer stupidity of their night, and the fact that they enjoyed it so thoroughly without shame, was so ridiculous to him that he couldn't help but smile when he thought about it. He had to compose himself before he dissolved into giggles. "B-before we go outside Prussia told us that if we poured the alcohol on our skin we'd get even more drunk? By then we were a little tipsy so of course we believed him. So there I was, sitting in the garden path just covered in vodka, fully convinced I'm getting more drunk off the fumes. And then I saw the fountain."
"Wh-which one was it again?" Louis stammered, voice strained from the laughter he was trying to contain.
"The Latona Fountain. The four-tiered one with the frogs spitting out water and the woman Latona at the top, you know which one I'm talking about?"
"Yes, I know."
"Lemme tell you - I fell in LOVE with Latona. The moon was glinting off the water and off of her body and she was just glowing and I thought she was so beautiful that I almost cried. Quite honestly all my thoughts were occupied with-" He wanted to say, "Banging the fountain," but second-guessed the informality of his statement. Eh, it would make the story funny. Whatever. "My thoughts were completely occupied with banging this fountain."
Louis giggled a little harder, sputtering into his wine glass. "Oh good, he laughed," France thought.
"Cold out? Not a problem! Water's freezing? Nope! Don't even feel it! I'm about to get publicly naked and flirt with a statue? Eh, so what? The male form's a beautiful thing! I'd do everyone a favor-"
"Hahahaha-"
"Hon, honhon, I was so drunk, it made sense to me that if I did nothing else, the cold, wet fountain would be a good time. Next thing I know I'm trying to get my vest off but the buttons were like a chastity belt. Spain told me afterwards that all I did was rub my hands up and down my chest and wiggle my fingers and whine like a dog."
Louis burst into laughter. He laughed, actually laughed, and it caught France completely by surprise. For a split second he froze, unsure of this weird sound coming from Louis and if it was even real. Once he looked again and made sure that yes, that sound was coming from Louis, he realized that he had never, in all his time with Louis XVI, in 13 years, heard Louis laugh. Actually laugh. Not once. And it sounded NOTHING like how he would have expected Louis' laugh to sound. Throaty and loud, unlike his voice when he allowed it to speak. Not at all small, or tight, or meek, or compact. A bellowing laugh, straight from his gut. Each heave of his shoulders was clearly articulated by a distinct "HA!" that echoed loudly through the room.
France liked it. It suit a Louis that France wanted, and had been trying to build for 13 years. Confident, strong, hearty, loud, charismatic. It was contagious, and once he let his analysis slip from his mind he had to try hard to not let it infect him. He sipped his wine, chuckling weakly, enjoying the sight of Louis in hysterics in front of him for the first time.
"All of a sudden Prussia goes, 'GUYS I'M A MERMAID!' and starts singing as loud as he possibly can, and by this point I'm afraid. He's having so much fun in that beautiful fountain and what if I never get the buttons off? What if I never make it to her? What if Latona never gets a piece of the beautiful me? I'm ready to cry again, almost in tears, before Spain crawls over and helps me out. I remember, I think, watching his fingers like they're dancing on the buttons and they're just magically coming off. Like Spain was a wizard and I was in love."
"Hahahaha! Ooooh, that's too funny!" Louis said, wiping his eyes.
"Our faces were two inches from each other and we're both breathing really heavily from the walk over. Anybody walking near us with no context would have thought we were about to get it on, not me and the stupid fountain. I take the rest of my clothes off and go running to try and vault the side but I can't even walk straight. And I know I can't walk straight, and I think to myself, 'God, I can't walk straight.' And I feel like everyone is watching me even though there's only two of us. I crack under the pressure of all two people watching me, and mess up jumping in. So I have to turn around and assure everyone I'm going to jump in."
He sipped his wine again to regather his jumbled memories.
"I was actually extremely proud of myself - despite my impairment, I fully managed to make the most graceful swan dive I've ever made ever. Or so I thought. But I couldn't even get over the barrier so instead I did this awkward, kind of, kick-over - naked, mind you-" he stood up and walked around the back of his chair to demonstrate how he had to do it, kicking his one leg over and pushing off with the other to straddle the back of the chair. "And I faked it as best as I could. I swear, it was really convincing! And, since Spain and Prussia were both just as drunk as me they probably really enjoyed it. I had everyone fooled. At the time I didn't feel a whole lot but the next day you better believe my crotch was on fire-"
"Oh, mon Dieu!" he breathed, clutching his stomach between heaving laughs. "Where was Spain during all of this?"
"Oh yeah, haha!- Spain never made it. He passed out a few feet away after he got my buttons off. I ended up in the fountain, and I climbed the tiers - I crawled up them, actually. As if I could walk at that point. I use the term crawling loosely. I crawled up the fountain, and while I was making out with the fountain-"
"You at least asked Latona, right?"
"I don't know. I guess I did? I don't remember much, honestly-"
Suddenly, Louis cracked a joke, "There're children sculpted up there! You were about to- HAHAHAHA!" he belted. "You were about t-to violate a fountain with children watching! What is wrong with you?"
France laughed hard, rubbing his forehead in mock embarrassment. "Who is this Louis? Cracking jokes, making fun of me? I like him! Can I keep him?" he shot back. "I was drunk! WAAAY more drunk than I usually am, and honestly I didn't see them. While I was making out with Latona a guard came because apparently we were 'Behaving illegally,' and 'Splashing too loudly,'" he said, air-quoting with his fingers as he mimicked the guard. "We spent all day in the Royal Guard's custody, sobering up. And by that I mean me and Prussia threw up a lot and Spain slept for a day and a half."
"What did that to you? What is it you drank?"
"We had some Russian vodka," he said. "As in, a lot of Russian vodka. Three bottles of vodka. Too much vodka."
"Wow. . . Vodka? Where on earth did you get vodka?"
"Prussia brought it. From the Partition of Poland. Russia gave it to him."
"Wow . . . " he repeated. "Sounds wild."
"It was pretty fun, yeah. It was the most fun I've had in a long, long time and I would highly recommend it - in fact!" he yelled, cutting himself off. "I think you and I should get that drunk together some time!" The idea struck him like a lightning bolt, and he immediately berated himself for not thinking of it sooner. Not once in the last 13 years. Normally he might've said it as a joke, that way he wouldn't feel embarrassed if Louis took it as a joke. But not this time. He was completely serious. And he would press it as hard as he had to if Louis tried to make it a joke.
Getting drunk together, partying together, was the perfect opportunity for Louis and France to finally connect. To finally break the professional molds and bridge the gaps to friendship. To a comfortable, easy-going, but honest relationship. They could laugh over their wine first to remove their inhibitions, then they could talk about fears, confessions, triumphs, history, art, music, opinions - in a clichéed, stayed-up-all-night-talking type of way. If they could put themselves in a situation where they could speak openly and honestly to each other, and have some semblance of a get-to-know-you session . . . maybe start building the kind of friendship they should have had throughout the last 13 years . . .
Maybe the idea was childish. It definitely was a stretch, a blind shot in the dark to try and hit something that couldn't be physically hit in the first place. And maybe he was being too idealistic. But if he was also being honest, he desperately wanted to be close to Louis. He wanted the type of companionship with him that he had with Spain and Prussia. (Granted, that was built over centuries, and had been soiled more than once with war and bloodshed, but Nations were different.) He felt like he was just on the outside of Louis' friend group. Not close enough to be invited anywhere with the group, but still on a "I'll talk to you when I see you," basis. They were both subconsciously working on bridging that gap, but a real opening up to each other would hopefully tear down any more walls they strategically built around each other.
They had a professional relationship. And on a whim, France assumed a real friendship was a step in the right direction for the two of them. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to get blackout drunk again. Either way. Win win.
Over the centuries he heard mixed opinions on whether or not he should make friends with his rulers as a Nation. Britain recently maintained that it should be strictly professional. Britain was a generally serious person. Plus, France thought, the context of the last time they talked about it was odd. 1720 - if France remembered correctly, that was when King George I of the House of Hanover was coronated. He didn't speak a lick of English, only German, and Britain couldn't connect with him. It only made sense that they had a strictly professional relationship.
Holy Rome always said it should be professional. France didn't know the dynamic of the Holy Roman court, though. Holy Rome never talked about Joseph II, or Francis I and Maria Theresa before him.
But did they run into the little problem France was having right now - honesty? And trust? Not necessarily, if the ruler still made decisions based on the professional advice of the Nation.
Prussia maintained that it could be whatever the Nation wanted it to be, but he only started saying that when Fritz was 18 years old and next in line for the throne. Buddies ever since the whole affair with Hans von Katte. Bonded in their hatred of the previous ruler, Frederick Wilhelm I. So close that at one point France grew jealous and resented Fritz in his youth.
Spain was good friends with Fernando VI even before he succeeded Phillip V. Spain and Fernando's Portuguese wife Barbara were probably the only rays of sunshine in that poor man's life, especially since his father's second wife and her children openly despised him.
Austria and Hungary both adored Maria Theresa, even after they moved in with Holy Rome upon her marriage to Francis I.
What was the downfall to the positive side of it? If a Nation became too close to their rulers, it could turn into a 'What happens when you're gone?' scenario like Prussia had with Fritz. The after-affects of the those rulers' deaths floored the Nations for a while. From what France heard, Prussia was devastated, absolutely devastated, for months when Fritz died a year ago. And according to Spain, he still cried about it, though he'd never admit it.
Oh, well. Pros and cons, this and that, blah blah blah. There was always a chance things could go wrong. But considering what France wanted, a chance not taken was always a potentially missed reward.
Louis' chuckle ripped France from his thoughts with a start. He didn't even actually chuckle, he just blew more air out of his nose than usual and looked away from France. He took France's suggestion as a joke, as France thought he would. A clear 'no'. France persisted. He was prepared. "I'm serious! I think we should get super, ridiculously drunk together!"
"France, I really don't want to be prancing in fountains naked-"
"Oh come on, there's no guarantee that would happen! There's no better way to become better friends than getting drunk together!"
"France, no."
"But we need to spend time together outside of work. It's male bonding! Come on!"
"And what would we do, hm?" he asked, swirling the wine in his glass. "If we got that drunk during this 'male bonding?'"
Okay, so Louis was briefly entertaining the notion. He was giving France a chance to plead his case. Unless he was working on his backbone, he'd probably change his mind. "Anything! Probably just talk." Okay, no, he decided, he had to be honest. "Laugh a little, knock stuff over, laugh some more, pee a lot. With hard alcohol you hit a point where you just start peeing and you can't stop-"
"France."
"I'm just being honest! We'll do whatever comes to mind! You've been wine drunk before, you know how it goes! You ease up, all the tension goes away and you're more confident. You get a little giggly. Sometimes a little emotional. Add something a little less distilled and you get louder and less flouncy. Which is something you desperately need."
"That was rude-"
"Then you start acting in your confidence. If you manage it well, that's all that happens."
"Yes, but you're suggesting we're going to go beyond managing it."
"Because that's when it's the most fun!"
"So what happens after that?"
"That's the fun part - you don't know!"
"How are you alright with that?"
"Because it's fun! Pleeeeeeeeeease?" He REALLY wanted Louis to have this opportunity to loosen up. Him and France could be friends. "You can kick everyone out of the palace and it can be just us! That way, if we do anything embarrassing the only people who'll see is Marie-"
"Marie, and my staff. And my children."
"Who among them will judge?"
" . . . "
"Louis, come on! I'm telling you, it'll be so much fun! I've only gotten that drunk a handful of times in my life, and every time it was amazing!
"Everything you remembered was amazing," he shot back.
"Details."
" . . . Hm. Maybe I'll consider it." He didn't even look France in the face.
"Oh, don't give me that! I know what that means!" France said, pointing playfully at Louis. "That means that you really don't want to, but you can't think of an excuse or polite enough dodge yet!" Louis opened his mouth to argue but France shook his head. "I haven't seen Japan in a while, since I think 1636, but I remember he always did that to me! That non-committal nonsense!"
"Just accept that I don't want to get drunk with you."
"Fine, I guess, we don't even have to get drunk! But you're going to miss out! When we run out of things to talk about while we're sober you'll regret it! Think, France, think!" How could he change Louis' mind? Blunt-force trauma to the ears wasn't working out. Mildly scare him into it? " . . . Fine. Fine! Fine, I can accept it!" he said, as the idea came to him. He stood quickly and went over to Louis' desk, grabbing a bare square of parchment and the pen from the ink well. Louis watched him curiously - France could feel his eyes on his back, scrutinizing him.
"What are you doing?"
"Writing." He dabbed the extra ink back into the well and started putting the obligatory addressing on it.
"France, really?"
"Really." He knew that wasn't what Louis meant. But purposed misinterpretation, right? "Okay, what should i write in this letter?"
"Oh, so it's a letter! To whom?"
"Technically it's an invitation."
"To whom?!"
"Angleterre."
"No, you're not inviting him here!" Louis shouted, suddenly serious.
"Why not?"
"Because I refuse to entertain the personification of Britain! Of our worst enemy!"
"I need someone to get drunk with since YOU won't do it! Plus, he can't hold his alcohol at all. So I'll get drunk and get a show!"
". . . B-but you hate Britain!" he sputtered incredulously. "I hate Britain! Why in the world would you ever want to invite Britain?"
"You've never even met him!"
"As if I don't hear the horrible things you say about him! You're not inviting him here-"
"We'll have soooo much fun without you-"
"France-"
"Louis-"
"I said no!"
"I say yes."
"Stop being such a child! This is manipulation! This is- this is blackmail!"
"No it's not," France insisted, glancing over his shoulder at Louis. "It's coercion." He winked coyly to let Louis know he was kidding, then leaned back over the desk.
"Same difference. I read some of the things my grandfather wrote about you two. I won't have you arguing and squabbling for a week straight, annoying all the rest of us."
"Oh come on, that was during the Seven Years' War! It's over now, we'll be fine!"
"On multiple occasions he said you two tried to murder each other! During diplomatic meetings! It wasn't just during the Seven Years' War, you liar! It's been your whole history!"
"I haven't seen him in so long-"
"And so you'll make the rest of us suffer? France, no."
"Please?"
"No!"
That wasn't an official order. France could tell. If Louis would've ordered it of him he would've felt his tongue and his pleas shut down. His emotions and desires would still be like a live wire, unfortunately, and he'd be unable to do anything but accept the order as if he were talking but someone else's affirmations were coming from his mouth. It felt vaguely like watching himself speak from someone else's point of view. But he could still plead and while he could still plead he was going to. "Pleeeeease?" He clasped his hands in front of him and ran over to Louis, throwing himself to his feet theatrically. "Pleeeeeeeeease, please, please, pleeeeeeeease? Just this once? I'm soooooooo lonely here!" he cried, laying the back of his hand across his forehead. "Spending days and days and DAYS by myself-"
"Spain and Prussia weren't good enough?"
"Britain is different company! Looooooooouuuuuuuuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-" He clutched at the bottom of his waistcoat until he shooed him away.
"Mon Dieu, tu es ennuyeux! Fine."
"YES! Merci, merci, merci!" He jumped up and threw his arms around Louis. "I'm so happy I could kiss you-"
"Please don't."
"Help me with the letter."
"No."
"Oh, come on! This requires nuance. Skill in the art of skirting around what I actually wanna say. You're the KING of vagueness, no pun intended."
"Well it was a pun, and it was rude. I don't know, I've never met Britain, and personally, I don't want to. Why would I ever want to voluntarily meet the physical representation of the country we've hated for centuries?"
"Then we'll skip formalities so you don't have to talk to him. Come on, help me! I need to word this so it looks like him coming over will harm me. That's the way with him: make him think he's in charge, pulling all the strings. Whether he actually is or not, just let him think he is. I should flirt - he HATES it when I flirt. I'm starting with, 'Dear Britain'. Next line: 'I know it's been a while since we've written.' Then what?"
"I don't know, but end it with, 'This is an invitation I'm expecting you to decline.' Make mention that you won't make any preparations."
"Wow. Now that's manipulation. That's devious and absolutely undermining. I love it."
'Dear Britain,
Louis and I can't really think of an appropriately-false cheerful introduction before I insult you, so I'll cut to the chase.
A mere glance about your visage raises in me the most abhorrent feelings of disgust and outrage, best described as the sensation of smelling cow that's been dead for months. Just picture it for a moment, and if it's vivid enough, your gag reflex may trigger as mine does.
Tell me - does your firm, round, perfectly pert English bottom ever get jealous of all the crap that comes out of your mouth?
I suppose your situation's not all bad, and maybe I could learn a thing or two about positivity from you! After all, you still love nature despite what it did to you!
"If you ever had a bright idea, it was probably beginner's luck." - Louis
And that was for Jeanne. Stay prepared - as if that were the last batch of sass in her defense. Until you apologize, it will not stop.
Now that we got that out of the way, I'd like to invite you to my house.
I miss you, you pig.
I haven't physically seen you since Yorktown, Virginia, The United States of America. 1781. And though five years, in the grand scheme of a Nation's life, is not very long, it's felt like eternity for me. So many things have happened in France. Some were good, some were not, but I've been forced to take things one at a time, and respond to them one at a time to maintain the balancing act I'm performing right now. Me and Louis, two performers in a circus that is not our own. I've got control of myself and my act, but the slightest misstep at this stage of the political game could spell our defeat, so I must be vigilant. Ah, but the constant vigilance is making the time pass at a snail's pace. Making me miss you. And so these five years have been a decade, a century, a millennium.
I think it's safe to say that I don't actually HATE, hate you. You just annoy me sometimes, and given the chance I would absolutely jump on the chance to kiss your entire face, including your ridiculous eyebrows. I'll trace them with my fingers, then slide them down your chiseled jawline and back to your nose to your thin and nearly non-existent lips and then press my own luscious lips against yours and . . .
I'd really like for you to come to Versailles. So I can speak plainly to you, give you an update on my status and France's status, have a drink. Or two. Or three. Or ten. I want us to get really really drunk together. So I can have another moment of mental peace. And, excuse me for being selfish but I need fun. I need fun, I need excitement, I need laughter, I need to cry, I need time away from work, I need to live again. And you probably need an excuse to eat anything other than your horrible food. And plus too, with alcohol no one will judge us when things start to get steamy and the clothes come off. You can't see it but I'm winking seductively at you through the parchment.
Gosh, I sometimes love writing to you better than talking. You know why? You can't fight back!
Since this is an invitation I'm expecting you to decline, I won't go to any extra trouble getting Versailles ready for your arrival. I won't warn the staff, I won't have them cook anything, I won't tell Louis or Marie about this since they'll say no anyway. I can just drink alone like the frog that I am.
Have a nice life, jerk.
I really do want to see you. Please consider coming to Versailles.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
Not at all the letter he intended to write. But it was sincere and hopefully Britain would at least feel guilted into coming, if not wanting to come on his own. All France had to do was wait for a reply.
September 20 ,1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Oeil de Boeuf
France didn't sleep well.
Maybe it was because he considered this his first time "returning to work" since Spain and Prussia's visit. Maybe it was because he could barely graze his scrape anymore, even with bandages covering it, before he was shooting awake and biting his tongue and doing everything in his power to suppress his pain. Maybe it was because France the country wasn't sleeping anymore. Everyone was constantly on edge, constantly plotting, constantly watching their own backs. It was a disaster.
He hadn't looked at his back since the Parliament meeting in Paris. At that point it was only bleeding. Now he was sure the bruise was back along with the hot, irritated ring around it. He didn't dare look at it now, nearly a month later. It was not only a testament to France's poor civil situation - the split between the people and the nobility - but it was also an omen. It was the way to quantify and assess the damage, and project the future damage he could withstand before everything fell apart. He didn't dare look, too afraid that it was a bad omen. That he would see that he only had a little more he could take.
The last time the doctor came and patched it up for him, France swore he felt his fingers peel the two flaps of skin apart slightly, though he adamantly denied it.
"Monsieur Bonnefoy?" reached his ears through the door.
"Hmngh!" he grunted exasperatedly into his pillow.
"Monsieur Brienne calls for you this afternoon. He says there is news on Paris' tax situation."
What all had he missed in his leave? He didn't know, and he didn't particularly care. Thinking about jumping back in to the fray felt like . . . He didn't know. His time off was supposed to be rejuvenating, and it was! It absolutely was! But when he thought about returning to all the emotional trauma, it re-exhausted him, like he never went on break in the first place.
Anyway, if he had to guess what he missed, it wasn't much. Brienne didn't even get his taxes passed in France's time off. France wasn't really sure how that was possible considering the Parisian Parliaments were exiled and the Versailles Parliament met Louis' lit-de-justice last time.
Unless the people were still trying to pull the 'États-Generaux' card. God, France hoped not. He thought back to when they first pulled it from their hand: "Only the États-Generaux has the power to determine taxes," or something on those lines. He sighed tiredly to himself, mashing his face into his pillow in exasperation. They were just going to delay things even longer until the États-Generaux even convened, let alone made a decision. And while they him-hawed, Louis him-hawed, and while Louis him-hawed, people grew angry. And while people grew angry-
"Nope! Don't think about that. Do not go there!" he thought to himself. He had no reason to think anything beyond the here and now. And maybe a few events in the future. The thought that they were delaying the processes on purpose crossed his mind, and he grew instantaneously frustrated. He was powerless to do anything about it. He did not at all doubt that there were people who wanted to ruin him. There were people who wanted to see France fall. Or maybe it wasn't that they wanted to ruin France so much as it was that they wanted to ruin Louis. But if they wanted to ruin Louis, they mustn't have had any idea of the consequences it would have. Because it absolutely would ruin France depending on what happened after Louis.
Unless, France suddenly thought, they had a plan for a coup or something and had somebody lined up - oh, GOD what if they were planning a coup?
Ugh, he had to get up now. Enough thinking. He had to save his mental strength for whatever it was Brienne was about to tell him. If they had to work around any roadblocks, he wanted to be able to think his way around it.
He quickly dressed, throwing on bland, tan breeches and a solid navy jacket. No vest today. He didn't feel like trying. He just over-tucked his shirt into his pants.
France dreaded this encounter. He knew nothing had gotten done. He just dreaded it being told to his face. That meant he had to come up with something clever. Some loophole to exploit to get around it. But he was just too mentally tired. He was emotionally exhausted. He didn't want to put in any effort.
Sometimes, being a Nation was so fun.
As he opened the doors to Louis' drawing room and strode in, he cast the first person he saw - Louis behind his desk - a purposefully bleary-eyed glare to hopefully convey how tired he was. And that he was not in the mood for anyone's crap today. He just wanted to be in, out, done, as soon as possible. Louis didn't react at all to the look. He mustn't have understood it. So France shot it to Brienne instead. "Ok," he sighed heavily, mentally trying to prepare himself for the discussion. "What are we looking at?"
"The tax reforms-"
"Yes, I know 'the tax reforms!' What are we looking at? Did they pass? Did they not pass? What happened?"
"Well, as i'm sure you already know, they did not pass." He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at his shoes, bracing for France's negative reaction.
"Why not?"
"I'm not quite sure, exactly!" Brienne said brightly, looking up at him with that perpetually alarmed look to his wide eyes. "The Estates-General was offered again. Claims that only the Estates-General has the power to levy taxes, you know. And there was also talk of simple refusal to pay. Oh! And they mentioned the peoples' reactions to new taxes - which is completely not a factor considering the new taxes only apply to the upper class. People even tried to speak for the clergy, saying that God was opposing them. Which I am completely disputing, as a man of God myself. So I think to answer your question, I'm not quite sure. I reached so many different and flimsy oppositions that I can't quite find one strong enough to pin it on."
France sighed again, running a hand through his hair.
"You seem surprised," Brienne muttered.
"Not surprised, just . . . tired. I'm tired of these people always getting their way when we have the King of France on our side."
"They keep finding loopholes in his power. Whoever wrote it all down made sure to include just enough clauses to worm their way around anything. I'm not saying it would've made much of a difference, but we could've at least had somewhat of a better shot with you there, arguing and putting some of them down with your inherent knowledge of the situation. Why did you stop going to the meetings?"
"I just . . . couldn't do it anymore," France said, rubbing his eyes. "When your physical body hangs in the balance, and people are poking and prodding it and pushing it around, you tend to not want to be mentally there when it all happens. You tend to want to detach." He let the conversation die, and it was quiet for a long while as everyone pondered the mental picture associated with France's imagery. To fill the gap, he added, "If ever you find yourself in a position to ask a group of us, 'What's the worst part of being a Nation?' I guarantee every one of us would say civil war. Some may make it a little more general and say war, but I would fight the Seven Years' War a thousand times over and get stabbed and shot and clubbed and have my dead body danced over by Britain a thousand times over if it meant I didn't have to go through all this nonsense. Who's saying what, who's doing what? How does each individual person's actions affect me and affect my political situation and who does it benefit and why and this and that and the other and so many things going on at once and I can't keep track of all of it."
"Hm," Brienne grunted. He couldn't think of anything appropriate to say back, and France did not blame him in the slightest. He could never relate to France's situation, and France never expected him to, and never would expect him to. "Well, at any rate," he finally said, changing the subject. "I've been blocked."
"I'm confused," Louis said. "I've exiled the Parisian Parliaments, but can't pass these new taxes in Paris?"
"No, because the Versailles Parliaments are saying you don't have the authority to do it in Paris without some sort of legislative body," France interpreted for him. "They claim it's the Estates-General, and that's why they want to call it."
"Then why did I exile them in the first place? I can't overrule the Versailles Parliament with a lit-de-justice like I did before?"
"Not while the Estates-General has even come up as an option. They'll just keep using some random legislative body as a block. The same block Calonne hit, though they probably offered the no's to Brienne far more nicely than they did to him."
"So we're stuck?"
France nodded to Louis. "We're stuck."
"Well, we have to do something," Brienne said exasperatedly. "I have to do something to show the people we're trying, isn't that what you said? We'll never exactly quiet them, but we can at least placate them!"
"What, then?" France suddenly snapped. He just wanted to be done with this. Every word out of everyone's mouth was like hands piling on top of each other and pushing down on his shoulders. Making him tired and sluggish. "We have nothing for them, no choice to make! Of course we have to call the Estates-General! That's not even an option! Because until we do, they'll just-"
"Okay, that's fine! We'll call it!" Louis yelled over him. "We'll schedule it if that's what they want, but we need an immediate solution to the taxes, not the meeting!"
"And we're trying!" he yelled back, taking a few steps towards his desk. His last line of defense between him and France's anger. "But I'm all out of ideas, here! What else is there to do? We have to do something! But what, damn it?"
Louis collapsed back into his chair, and the conversation lulled again as each man thought of something, anything they could do to make some minuscule sort of change. Either that or they were sulking, which was mostly what France was doing. It was hopeless, and he didn't want to be there. They were doomed - could he go back to bed?
"I could . . . " Brienne said, perking up. He paused, blinked, thought a bit, then slumped back down. "No, never mind. Hmmmm . . . wait! What if . . . Actually, no. Never mind. Aaaah, but wait, maybe if I . . . "
"Yeeees?" France prompted. "Remember what I said about sharing all ideas? With debate a half-hearted idea could turn into a plan of action."
"Yes, but . . . Well, it could work, if . . . Sure, but . . . I'll just . . . I mean, I said I wouldn't, but . . . I don't think it'll help anything, but . . . The people definitely won't like it, but . . . "
"WHAT?!" France yelled, making him flinch.
"I'll just extend the vingtième. The income tax across the board. The twenty percent."
After all that build up he gave, only to let . . . only to settle . . . France's bubble of anticipation popped quickly. His shoulders slumped, he visibly deflated. "What?! No! After all that work! After all that planning, all that confrontation, all that - everything we did, you're just going to settle on the vingtième that's already in place? After they spoke to you directly and said they didn't like it?"
"I know, I know! I'm thinking. Give me a moment. We could change the vingtième. What if we make it a smaller percentage?"
"That won't do anything!" France scoffed.
"It'll do something," Brienne countered calmly.
"Hang on a moment," Louis interjected. "Calm down, France. They want to call the Estates General, no?"
"Yes," Brienne began, unsure of where he was going. "But we have a problem with that. We don't want them to delay everything anymore- "
"Well why not? If all we're going to do is extend the vingtième, maybe a delay is what we need. Maybe we could use the same excuse to delay that as well."
"But the vingtieme is already in place," France said uncertainly.
". . . And?"
"And? What do you mean 'and'?"
"What do you mean what do I mean 'and'? So what if it's already in place?"
"Well taxes don't just go away when nothing changes. An extension isn't like we're enacting something new. It's already in place. We don't have to do anything, and it'll still be collected. We'll effectively do nothing." He sighed again. He was doing that a lot lately. "The people are going to hate this. We're just going to give them another excuse to . . . What a disaster. Every step we take, we inch closer and closer to disaster. They have to be doing this on purpose. I swear they are. They want to push us towards disaster."
"I don't know about that." Brienne said.
"No, I do. They are. They have to be."
"I just don't . . . Who are you referring to? The people as a whole?"
"To everyone!"
"What would the peoples' purpose be? I think you're confusing the upper classes as the people as a whole, and their intentions."
"And how in the world would I confuse them"
"Because for once their interests are aligning in the Estates-General. The nobility and the people do not stand together. Though they may say it, they do not operate with the Third Estate in mind."
"You think I don't know that? I've been calling that bluff since 1774! Since the 1600s! And I know what everyone wants!"
"I'm not sure you do. You keep saying delay, delay! You're acting like that is the peoples' excuse for violence. Like the nobility called it for the people. But what about the peoples' own benevolent causes? The Assembly of Notables, though it collapsed, was about hearing grievances directly from each estate, and enacting heavier taxes on the upper class. The nobility want to delay those taxes, so they call for the Estates General. On the other hand, the people want the Estates General because it is another chance for representation and change. You're mixing the two up. You're merging the reasons as a personal attack against you, France. I know what you're implying - overthrow. Anarchy. But you're confusing who wants that. Really, if anarchy is anybody's end goal is should be the peoples'. Why in the world would the nobility want to overthrow Louis, when he-" He paused.
"What?" Louis said, squaring his shoulders to Brienne.
"Nothing."
"No, no, say it!"
" . . . I . . . "
"Monsieur, say it."
Brienne looked to France for help but France had no idea where Brienne was going with it in the first place. He couldn't even come up with a good lie to cover the man. He shrugged his shoulders, abandoning him to the fate of his words.
He sighed. "Why would the nobility want to overthrow Louis when he's so impressionable as a King," he muttered, staring at the floor. "You have to keep them separated, France. Because we don't want to uintentionally help the upper class when we want to help-"
"I'm sorry, what? Pardon?" Louis asked, cocking his head. "What did you say? I'm impressionable? Is that what you all secretly think of me?"
"Oh, don't you get upset!" France snapped, shaking his head furiously. "I've thought that since you stepped into power. I've said it to your face countless times, that you're too soft. You let people push you around and push you where they want you to be pushed. You've agreed with me, even. Grow a spine, Louis. Grow a spine, and stand up for yourself, and we wouldn't have to take it into account. Don't act like you're so offended when it's one of your most acknowledged insecurities. An insecurity that you expect the two of us to fix."
"How dare you-"
"How dare I?" France growled, narrowing his eyes at Louis. "You think. You think looooong an hard about just how I dare."
" . . . " Though he held France's gaze and didn't quite back down, he didn't answer. France tacked a point on his mental scoreboard.
"B-Back to business . . . ?" Brienne offered. France nodded and Brienne stared at Louis. "I'm sorry, Majesté."
"Pas de problème," he grumbled. "France is right."
"As I was saying, France, you're confusing the two people, and their end goals. The people who could potentially want anarchy are the benevolent causes behind the Estates General. The people who are complacent are the malicious causes. Our goal is to help the people's side of this. The benevolent ones, the suffering ones."
"I know that! But we can't when the nobility are delaying us!"
"I know. But we have to do something."
"Extending the vingtième will do nothing!"
He sighed again. "I'm sorry. But I'm all out of ideas. Louis, any ideas?"
He shook his head.
September 22, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber
'Frog,
I was going to write some insults back, but I've decided to let you live. I'll let you keep your lice-infested life. George encouraged me to be the bigger person here.
I will say this: I was going to try and be nice and see things from your point of view, but then I remembered that I'll never get my head that far up my ass.
To answer the underlying question of your horrendously inappropriate and near-sickening letter - no. Absolutely not.
I cannot leave my post at this time. I'm sorry. Or maybe I'm not sorry. Why would I ever want to voluntarily spend time with you? With the person who just fought the Seven Years' War against me? I'm just far too busy, and I have far too many things to worry about right now to go getting involved with you. And while I am genuinely glad to hear that things are finally looking up for you again after my last update, I must cater to my own needs before the needs of you and the French.
You understand.
I'm having a little bit of trouble with things at present. I won't regale you with all of the details, partially because I don't want you knowing my business and you need to learn to keep your snubbed French nose up in the air and out of everyone's business. But I will tell you that George is not well. The American Revolution and the Seven Years' War have taken their tolls on him, I think. He claims he is fine, but I am not so sure. About a month ago I started noticing some slight changes in his speech patterns, his behaviors - just subtle things. Nothing major. But still present in him.
Then just last week he started declining more rapidly. He shakes now. Not just his hands, either. His whole body trembles, and when I confronted him about it he was rather dismissive. He blamed it on the chill of late fall but I don't buy it. Then, sometimes while he talks he'll trail off and won't finish his sentence. When I probe him to continue he won't remember what we were discussing in the first place. He's doing the opposite a well. He sometimes lapses into speech for minutes at a time, babbling incoherently.
William Pitt and I are working diligently to protect Britain and ourselves in case the worst should happen, though I remain in high hopes it will not. George is under much pressure and stress right now. He will persevere.
As I said before, I am going to have to decline your . . . articulate offer. I just cannot leave George or William or the House of Lords right now.
You wouldn't want me to come over anyway. I'd absolutely shave your head in your sleep.
May you put on fresh stockings and step in a wet spot,
Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Britain'
King George III, ill?
France wasn't quite sure how to react to the news. It just didn't feel real.
Nothing ever really sank in with him anymore if it didn't somehow involve France. He was so focused on himself and his own needs for so long that hearing about the world outside France was strange. It was disconcerting to learn that the earth still spun around him even though he stopped.
That was ONE thing France was graced (cursed?) with - Louis' health. And Marie's health. And the health of his oldest daughter Marie Thérèse, and his youngest son Louis-Charles. Louis-Joseph, the older son, the one who was meant to become le Dauphin, was holding on desperately through his illnesses, but France was too afraid to include him in any future plans lest he . . . not pan out. France would never voice any of those thoughts in public about Louis-Joseph. He knew how cold and heartless he sounded when he thought about it, and if the wrong person overheard he could be arrested for treason or sedition or whatever they came up with.
France wasn't close to any of the children. They just didn't meet at all as he went about his day. His daily routines around the Palace of hiding in his room and only leaving when Louis wanted him kept him away from them. Maybe, he thought, he should try and remedy that. Maybe get to know the children a little better, especially when one of the sons would become Dauphin, no matter if it was Louis-Joseph or Louis-Charles. He could think about that later. Maybe make that a project for 1788.
And maybe Britain would have a dry spell.
October 4, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber
They couldn't know he was trying to sneak out.
He had to do this as quietly as possible. If the butlers heard him stirring they would come in and tend to him. And depending on what stage of the job he was in he'd have to drop whoever he had to drop. They were just doing their job. But he couldn't let word spread around the Palace that he was a deserter of some kind, or a leak for the people. They would call for his removal and Louis wouldn't be able to defend him. Nobody could. He didn't have anyone at Versailles who knew enough about his intentions to help him. Not even Brienne.
Overreacting? Maybe. Protecting himself? Most definitely.
He allowed his bare back to freeze for a little while longer before he determined it was okay to get up and do something. He kicked the heavy covers off of his legs and stretched out as far as he could without aggravating his back. As he sat up, he paused to peer over his shoulder at the bloody bandages, using the same silence to take stock of any activity outside his door. Nothing. He was in the clear for now.
Something inside of him kept saying, "Paris. Paris. Paris." Over and over again. "Where should I go?" "Paris." "What should I do?" "Go to Paris." "What's in Paris?" "Just go to Paris." He needed to get to Paris. The urge was like little charges pulsing through his whole body, and into his fingers. Shooting back and forth, jumping from nerve to nerve and triggering pins and needles in waves. They felt like little burning snakes slithering underneath his skin, and he just knew going to Paris would calm them down, get them out of him.
It unnerved him, not knowing what was in Paris or if it would help or hurt him. He didn't want to get wrapped up in the peoples' messes again like last time. He didn't want to kill anybody else. He barely remembered it, like he was possessed. He didn't want anything other than his consciousness to take over. But he knew he had to do it anyway. He knew he was at the mercy of whatever nature had in store for him.
How hypocritical of him.
If he snuck to the stables and took two horses he could make the trip tonight. Or, at least by morning. Then he could spend the day in Paris and by the time Louis even knew he was gone he would be back at the Palace by the next night. Maybe he could steal the two Andalusian horses Spain gifted Louis and Marie. From the Palace to Paris it was . . . he didn't know the exact distance in leagues but it was more than manageable by two horses bred for war. At a dead sprint, two paced horses would be more than capable. Of course, he would run into the problem of having such nice horses tethered outside a parlor in Paris, but he could deal with that later. If something happened and Spain wanted his horses back France could give him two Pottoks. Spain's weights and measures system was so ridiculously messed up he'd probably accept them anyway. Just happy for a gift.
He shuffled over to his armoire and slowly pulled open the sock drawer, grinding his teeth against the squealing of the wood on the frame. He froze and listened for the butlers, but their silence greeted him once again. He inched the drawer out until he could shove his hand through the space and grabbed the first pair of stockings he found. He held them out in front of the window's moonlight and determined they were navy, or black. They would do. The strong urge to run through his mental clothes database charged through him, and he had to force himself to stop trying to match clothes. He had to go with whatever he found first right now. Besides, nice clothes would only be a detriment in Paris.
France pulled open the drawer with all his pants in it, and ended up being more selective anyway. He wanted a beige or a tan. Something generic without a colored stitch or an embellished stitch. He dug and shoved clothes around until he found the specific pair he was looking for and slunk back over to his bed while he pulled both pieces on. That way if anyone heard and came looking he could at least lie down and pretend he was asleep. For a jacket he just selected something dark, and solid. Nothing special on it. Very nondescript. For the final touch, he committed personal blasphemy and tucked his thick, blond hair into a small newsboy cap. He very nearly put his shoes on before heading to the window, but he realized they would most definitely hear his shoes clacking obnoxiously on the floor. Instead, he grabbed them and padded over to the window, throwing it open first. He turned around and did one last sweep of his room, making sure he grabbed everything he needed to grab - oh! Money! And his gun.
Damn it! Every task he had to add was another second wasted and another chance they could hear him. He could see his money pouch there on the dresser. He could hear its horrible chuckles filling his room as it laughed at him from his perch. France put his fingers to is lips and shushed it before he realized what he was doing. Smacking himself lightly on the forehead, he crept over and snatched it, clenching it in his fist to keep the coins from jingling. He practically ran back to his bed and snatched his pistol. He stuffed the gun in the front of his waistband and slithered to the window, dropping the purse. Waiting for the soft plink as it hit the ground. He slid his shoes on and spun around, putting one leg out the window at a time and on the stone ledge.
He shimmied himself down until he was hanging by his fingertips and crouching over his legs, then he pushed off and let himself drop. He fell a full story and landed in a crouch. He let out a muffled "Oof!" as pain sprang in his ankles, making them go numb for a second. He staggered forward a few steps, and as soon as he regained his footing he rolled and stretched them. He'd be fine.
The fresh, crisp air seemed to numb his back through his coat. Almost relieve him despite his layers on top of his scrape. Or maybe the fact that he was acting on his impulse was making him feel better - That's what he forgot: a heavier coat! Oh well. He'd just tough it out. As if to spite him his breath made a particularly thick cloud in front of him. He became consciously aware of the cold. Every pin the cold started to shove into his fingertips. The harsh air cutting into his nostrils. The wind nipped his nose and fingers and cut through all his clothes, so he gathered his jacket around himself.
His room was on the east side, if looking at the palace. The same side as the Grande Écurie, where the saddle horses, and horses meant for Louis and Marie's personal use would be. He ran the length of the side wall to the front of the palace and crouched there on the corner, peeking around to check for guards. He checked behind him one more time just to be sure, but if anyone was going to patrol along the wall they'd have a long way to go before they spotted France. There were guards patrolling the courtyard, revolving the statue of Louis XIV. France could cross the Place d'Armes and risk being spotted heading into the stables, or he could go down a few major streets and risk being caught by the city patrol. Either way he had to get to the Avenue St. Cloud, one of the three major roads that lead to Versailles. St. Cloud ran on the right flank of the Grande Écurie.
He decided to go down the side street. He could pose as a regular townsperson if he acted right while he walked. They'd wonder what he was doing so close to the palace, but he could make up a lie if he had to. He jammed his hands into his armpits and huddled over, making himself look even more undistinguishable. It was probably better he forgot a coat. All the heavy coats he had were nice ones. He walked quietly, making fresh footsteps in the light frost.
France wasn't stopped, even as he crowded close to the stable's side of the street. He didn't pass any guards. It was as if the stars aligned for this night, for him to get to Paris. So far so good. He reached the gates of the stable, right at the edge of the Place d'Armes. He kept to the shadows as much as possible, sliding around the corner and into the stables when he was over fifty percent sure the guards hanging out around the Place d'Armes weren't looking.
He knew which horses were Spain's instantly. They were far more well-tended to than the other horses. Their brown coats were shiny and sleek and their manes were long and black and beautiful. And, they simply stood a little taller than the other horses. Like they knew their purpose and they were trying to act the part as much as possible. France quickly found two saddles and geared them up, making sure to pack blankets for while they were standing outside. Mounting one and tethering the lead rope to a buckle on the cantle, he disappeared out of the small side door, leaning low over the horse's neck while he squeezed it through.
By the time he got to Paris, he had no idea where he was going. He just walked the horses, taking lefts and rights wherever they felt right. It reminded him of battle. When there were multiple engagements going on at the same time, the Nations usually ended up at the more important ones. He didn't know where he was going, he just knew that some directions felt right and others felt wrong and he just had to follow the right ones. As if he could follow the wrong one anyway. He felt it was right to stop when he reached a small parlor on a nondescript rue that he didn't care to take a moment and learn the name of. He was there on a mission, whether or not he knew what it was himself, and he would accomplish it. He was freezing and shivering, his eyes were cold and watering, his fingers and toes were numb. He couldn't feel his face or his lips. And his nostrils kept freezing from the running snot he kept snorting up. He was glad when he reached his destination. A small parlor.
He dismounted, knees collapsing when they hit the ground. France took a moment to regain his balance and tethered both his horses to a rung outside. It took him forever. He kept trying to feed the rope through but his fingers weren't responding. Eventually he gave up, wrapping it around the whole post instead of the rung. He pulled off both saddles and checked for sores or rubs, then checked their hooves for pebbles or stones. Throwing their blankets over each of them, he patted one's neck and muttered, "Thanks, Spain." Then, addressing them both, he said, "I'll get you warm water and food, I promise."
He knew where he was. He recognized this place from his last time in Paris. He spoke to the tavern owner after closing one night. Étienne, his name was. The dad-like man, who looked out for him. France practically threw the door open and crossed the threshold, the warmth on his face an instant relief. The people closest to the door stopped talking, and started staring. Already suspicious of an unknown person potentially hearing something they maybe weren't supposed to. France dutifully ignored all of them. He had to, absolutely had to. It was imperative that he not start any fights or raise any doubts. He needed these people to trust him. He crossed the room to where the kegs were lined on the wall, the seat where he first spoke to Étienne, before he was cut off.
"Help you?" a maidservant offered, throwing her hands on her hips. Blocking his way into the parlor any more.
He could only talk slow. His lips were too numb and too slow and too thick. "'M looking fffor Étienne," France suddenly realized that was all he knew about the man. He only met him once that day in Paris. If they probed him for more information he would have none to give, except a description of him. "He owns this p-place, right?"
"Who's asking?"
"T-tell 'm FFFrançois is here to talk to 'mm. Describe mmme to him. Blond hair, bright blue eyes. He'll remember m-me."
She looked him up and down skeptically, eyebrow raising slightly before nodding. She disappeared, and France stared at the spot where she was standing before he realized that he'd probably look a little crazy if he didn't blink every so often. He looked around and made eye contact with as many people as possible - nicely, hopefully putting down any feelings of threat they felt. A few moments later she reappeared, him following behind.
"François?! I heard your name and didn't think it was true! I don't believe it - how have you been? Nice to see you!" He looked the same. Same round, dad-like face, just salt and pepper hair and beard instead of the brown France remembered the last time he saw him. Firm but slight frame, smiling and trusting face. It was a relief compared to the chilly looks he received when he entered. France probably looked exactly the same. He closed the distance and when they met he wrapped his big frame around France's in a crushing hug.
"You too."
"Woooow, you're cold! You haven't changed a bit! Should I get you a drink?"
"No, that's alright. I need to talk to you. It's urgent."
He pulled away and held France at arm's length, studying the seriousness of his face. He himself grew instantly serious. "Of course, of course. Let's go in the back."
They shuffled past all the tables and stares and on his way past the maid stepped up behind him. He spun around quickly, thinking she was going to attack him or pick his pockets. "What are you doing?"
"May I take your coat?" she asked, simultaneously taking a step back. France instinctively gathered it around him. "Um, n-no, merci. I'm pretty cold." He nodded his thanks as weak repayment for overreacting, then followed the man to the back where he emerged from.
"Mon Dieu, you're shivering! Let me get you a hot chocolate-"
"No, please-"
"I insist-"
"Don't trouble yourself. I won't be here long."
"Oh nonsense! It's no bother. Besides, you're staying the night!"
"No, please-" He disappeared, and though France felt bad about making him fuss, sitting there shivering was really making him excited for his drink. Soon a teacup and pot of the warm, pleasant-smelling liquid was placed in front of him, and he helped himself before he realized it.
Étienne watched him for a moment, allowing him a drawn-out sip of the drink before probing him.
"I really don't want to impose."
"Would I offer if you were? What do you want to talk to me about?"
He took another sip. " . . . Everything," France muttered as soon as he swallowed it. It was too hot, and burned his throat all the way down. "I need to know what's been happening in Paris."
"I was wondering where you've been," he said. "Thought maybe you were locked up or something. The Bastille gets fuller every day. You haven't been getting into trouble, right?"
"I've been in Versailles."
His gaze shot back to France, confusion furrowing his eyebrows. "Why were you in Versailles?"
"Long story. Anyway, everybody talks to the tavern owner. What's the word on the street? What's been going on lately?"
"I don't know. A lot of things. Hmmmm . . . " he trailed off, leaning back in his chair. "I guess I'll start with the penal letters."
October 8, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber
France opened his eyes and saw a face inches from his own. He jumped a mile into the air. "Merde!" he spat on impulse, instantaneously on guard in case this intruder attacked him. He shot up and actually put his fists up, and as he blinked his eyes into focus Louis started talking.
"It's past four in the afternoon."
"C'est quoi ce bordel?" France yelled.
"You've been sleeping all day. For the first few days I thought maybe you were ill, but then I realized those nightly excursions must really be taking a toll on you."
France froze. So Louis knew he was leaving at night. He looked up at Louis. "How did you know?"
"The guards have been seeing someone lurking around outside lately, and when I noticed you and my Spanish horses more tired than usual, I made the connection. Where are you going?"
"Actually, I have something to ask you first!" France said. "What is this lettre de cachet business?"
"What?"
"I've heard-"
"From who?"
"Sources. I've heard from sources that there are handfuls of people being imprisoned daily because of different reasons! Without trial or any chance to prove their innocence! It's eight to ten people a day in and around Paris!"
"Are you going to Paris?"
"None of your business!"
"It absolutely is my business! Especially if you're stealing my horses to go!"
"Answer the question first," he sneered.
Louis sighed. "Don't be a child," he said, but the fire was gone from his voice. He clearly didn't want to fight. "Seditious speech is a serious danger at a time like this. There are people publicly criticizing Brienne, publicly criticizing Marie and I, and publicly criticizing our governmental system and how we run things. You somehow managed to keep your name away from their mouths and their suspicions while you were in Paris. Lucky you," he spat bitterly. "Speech meant to incite violence will incite violence. To protect myself and the stability of the monarchy, I've done what is necessary to imprison the people who would say such things."
"That sounds like you read that out of a standard-issue grievance or something! Did Parliament write it up for you? Louis, you can't just imprison whoever you want to, whenever you want to! No matter what people are saying! The people don't see that as helpful, they see you as their enemy!"
"What do you want me to do? Let people just say whatever they want against me and my policies? You and I both know what that will do to their attitudes!"
"As if they could get any worse! . . . Get out of my room. I want to be alone right now, okay? Don't talk to me again until I tell you I want to talk to you."
October 14, 1787
Popincourt, Paris
The door to the tavern burst open.
From a third-person point of view, France watched what happened when he first burst through that door. In stormed six blue uniforms and tall, triangular black hats. Red facings and silver lace. The same uniforms he saw everyday at Versailles. A detachment of Louis' personal guard. The entire tavern grew quiet. The cold air forced itself around the whole space. Every conversation stopped, like ripples across a wave. Some people even stood up, hands on their guns, already on guard at the sight of the Royal Guards' bayonets. They strode in and stood proud and tall against the onslaught of harsh glares and sent their own glowers across the tavern. People looked away and looked down, and those strong enough to hold their gazes held them in fear more than challenge.
"We're looking for a Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy."
A chill stabbed into France's neck and spread down his back. He slowly sat back down, hoping his movement didn't call attention to himself. Surprisingly, and to his immense relief, no one's eyes or head swiveled to him, giving him away.
"Monsieur Bonnefoy?" he called louder, addressing the whole room. "By the order of His Royal Majesty King Louis XVI, you are to return to the Palace of Versailles, and to the service of King Louis XVI."
He slunk a little lower. Shit! They were going to think he was a royalist. They were going to think he was an informant. If anybody was angry they didn't show it. They saved him for a while longer. A few heads swiveled his way, but not enough to call attention to him.
" . . . "
"If he refuses to give himself up, by order of His Royal Majesty King Louis XVI, any civilians seen aiding or abetting Monsieur Bonnefoy will be found and charged with treason-"
France couldn't let that happen. "I'm here," he said, standing slowly. He left his place at the table and crossed the room to keep them out from among the other people.
"For the theft of two of His Royal Majesty King Louis XVI's horses, you are summoned back to your place at Versailles for immediate disciplinary actions. From there you will return to your post and duties as royal advisor."
France shook his head. "Monsieur Brienne-"
"You will return with us-"
"I'll return," he enunciated slowly, carefully choosing his words, "when I choose and how I choose." He couldn't think of anything better to say. He was stuck. They backed him into an extremely dangerous corner, shattering everyone's trust he earned over the last month. He was furious. He just didn't want to act out. Not now. Not while there was a potential for an innocent person to be shot or killed. Not while there was a chance he could be shot or killed in front of the people.
"By order of King Louis XVI-" One of them grabbed his shoulder roughly.
It was pure impulse. Years of battlefield reaction. He slid out from under the guard's hand and threw a punch to his chin.
He could've had them both on the ground in two seconds. He could've been bolting for the nearest door or window before they would even call for help. The urge to do something was like those snakes coming back, sending their poison coursing through his veins. He couldn't. He didn't know why. He just couldn't. No matter how badly the snakes burned, his arms stayed locked in their position behind him, gripped at the wrist and the bicep. Thinking about doing something sounded so momentous and exhausting of a task that he stayed still and silent.
They were walking him quickly, and he tripped several times when the dry seepage of his back cracked open or when they wrenched his arms back at the wrong angle. He got a second's reprieve while they waited for the porters to open the door to Louis' offices, then they drug him into the room. There Louis was, slumped over his desk with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. Face illuminated by the candelabra, dark circles rounding out the eyes. Powdered wig off, letting the brown color show through in one of the only times France ever saw him without it. Night shirt on; truly a worried and tortured soul.
France almost laughed.
As soon as he saw him, the spark exploded inside of him.
"Laissez-moi!" he yelled, struggling to pull his arms out of their grasp. Lucky for Louis, their grips strengthened and they held him back.
Louis misinterpreted his intentions, thinking he just simply wanted to get away because he was uncomfortable. He held up his hand, palm out in a gesture of peace to the guards. "Thank you, gentlemen. Release him, and leave us. I need to speak to him."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
They loosened their grasp and he ripped his arms away from them, dusting off and relaying his jacket. He stood up straight, he glared straight down his nose at Louis. He waited for their footsteps to retreat from the room. He waited for the door to shut before he let loose on Louis.
"What the hell was that?!" France yelled, crossing his arms. "Why did you send guards after me? Why did you bring me back like that?!"
"I'm sorry if I scared you-"
"Scared me?" he said, barking out a laugh. "You think your guards scare me? You think you at all scare me? No, no, no, you embarrassed me! You've isolated and insulted me! You effectively ruined every Paris connection I could've possibly had! Those people were my only authentic source of information. They were my only source of knowledge to the truth of the Third Estates' thoughts and actions! You idiot, don't you understand what I'm saying? Now I look like a stupid ROYALIST!"
"Don't talk down to me, France! I brought you back because I thought you weren't coming back! I've watched you leave and leave again despite my explicit warnings, still stealing my horses! And every single time I've expected you to simply not return. Anybody would have thought the same thing! And you can't leave me! I need you."
"And who said I was-"
"And are you not a royalist? You've told me you support the monarchy and want to keep tradition. Has your mind changed? Let me remind you that those letters apply to any subject in the kingdom."
" . . . Are you . . . are you threatening me?!
"You snuck away in the middle of the night! The butlers had to go in and find your bed empty and your window open!"
"You're ridiculous," he muttered. "You're selfish. You're stupid. Just leave me alone. I don't owe you anything!" He stormed out of Louis' office. "Now I'm abandoning you. Anything you do from now on you do on your own. I'm done."
"France-"
"I'm DONE! I'm leaving. Don't follow. Don't you dare follow me!"
October 27, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Louis XVI's Library
"I've made a decision."
"About what?"
"All this inaction is driving me insane. And I'm sorry, but something needs done, and that will happen faster if I just give the nobility what they want. I am recalling and reseating the Parisian Parliaments."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
"That's it? That's all you have to say?"
"Okay. I'm done fighting you."
A/N: So I was at mass this past Saturday, December 19th (I'm Catholic), and I realized I made a historical mistake in Chapter 4! Roman Catholic mass wasn't translated away from Latin to the vernacular languages until 1962, with the Second Vatican Council, or Vatican II. It would have still been completely in Latin, almost completely done by the priest alone facing away from the people, with little to no response from the people attending mass except for a few amens. Where I confused myself was in equating the Wycliffe Bible and the many different translations of the Bible to the vernacular to be the same as the translation of MASS, and that's not the case. Mass wasn't translated until Vatican II.
France wouldn't know the Lord's Prayer in French, because it wouldn't have been in French for him to know! He would have to know it in Latin (which I believe he WOULD considering the history of the Latin language and the Catholic Church to the nobility), and even then he probably wouldn't have said it in mass, only the priest would say it. That being said, I'm debating on whether or not I should go back and change it. I like the way the chapter flows and I like the idea that France would know it in either language after translating it himself, but I owe it to myself and my readers to make my story as historically accurate as possible and acknowledge my mistake. Let me know your opinion - change or no?
*BACK TO NOTES*
If this chapter seems rushed, or kind of . . . glossed over, that's a good thing! I want the readers to feel France growing more desperate, and less mentally . . . there . . . if that makes sense! He's literally running out of fucks to give. Let me know if you got that, or even if you DIDN'T so I have something to work on for a while!
I hope you guys liked this chapter! It was difficult to get a start on, but it's here now and it's getting down to the wire! We're a year and a half away from Bastille Day, which is when everything goes to hell! Thanks so much to all who followed/favorited/left a great review! I love all of you!
-Keyblader
*******1/3/13 - This is REALLY important! For the next chapter: If you can listen to music while you read, type this URL into youtube and listen to it WHILE YOU READ THE PART THAT TAKES PLACE IN THE BASILICA OF SAINT DENIS! It's Gregorian Chant, which would have been sung in the Basilica while France went in. It adds a whole new level of authenticity that I think you'll really appreciate!******
watch?v=D5ubvYqOh1M