A/N: After I posted this chapter and tried to continue with the next one, I realized I did a rather poor job of developing France and Robespierre's relationship. I barely explained why they meshed so well, why/how France is navigating his rapid mental shift, etc. I heavily, HEAVILY edited the last two sections of this chapter since posting. I hope you enjoy them.
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Le Château de Versailles
France had a calm and pleasant dream.
He was in Louis XVI's library, but the room itself was larger, much larger than the real room. At least the size of the War Drawing Room. Everything looked . . . elongated. The gilded square panels that decorated the walls above the bookshelves stretched into long rectangles to compensate for the bigger room. The bookshelves themselves, built into the wall, were normally tall and narrow. But here they expanded to cover every inch of the walls. The only section spared of books were the two windows on his right and a wide space on his left for the extended fireplace. Even the rug underneath his feet, normally covering half of the normal room, stretched to cover the entirety of the floor. The desks, knick knacks, globes, chairs, portraits, busts, and chairs all looked ridiculously small in comparison. It confused and disconcerted him, but he didn't care for very long.
In his dream a cloudless sunshine poked through the windows and lit up the room. The round table and chairs, normally in the center of the room, were off to the side, closer to the windows, and extra rows of standing shelves that weren't in the real room lined the other half. He was warm and comfortable; the fire was just the right heat for relaxation.
France took a few steps into the room, and turned back towards the chairs and tables. Spain and Prussia were sitting there. Chatting, laughing. He could see their mouths moving but couldn't hear what they were saying. And another man sat between them, not talking to them. Just sitting with his hands folded on the table. He looked completely out of place, with long, wavy brown hair and an incredibly long brown beard. Aged face, in sharp contrast to their youth. He wore a white cloth shirt, just a plain linen shirt. But he had a crown on his head that even in its simplicity put Louis XVI's to shame: a circlet, with two pearls and square jewels alternated around it. The roses that stuck up around the band alternated large and small.
France stared at him, knowing he was a King of France and knowing that he should know him, but not knowing his name. He stared and stared to the point of impropriety, looking into his brown eyes and at his hair and his crown, willing some tidbit of information to come to him and give it away. The man frowned back at him. Eyes never trailing anywhere other than France's.
His curiosity got the better of him. "Qui . . . "
"Je hebt gegroeid," he said to France in a language he didn't understand.
France just nodded, unsure of what else to do.
Behind him he heard the patter of tiny feet, and when he turned he saw himself. A giggling child with short, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes shot past him. He had on a blue and yellow tunic, and he was chased by an older man with long, curly brown hair. Had kind of a mousy, impish face - and a crown on his head. Louis III.
Austria stood by the window with his violin, simply tuning it. Playing open fifths between the strings and trying to adjust, and while he tuned Marie stood next to him, gabbing cheerfully. She only wore a shift and a pink silk robe over it. No opulent dress or ridiculous head piece. Hair curled, but down. She didn't seem to bother Austria, but Spain and Prussia did, as he would occasionally glare at them for the noise they were making.
England walked straight across France's vision, and as he followed him over to a bookshelf, England stood on his toes and snatched a book. France saw him wearing Tudor fashion - round, stiff ruff encircling his neck, a thick orange tweed jacket, with striped, puffy doublets and black tights. Wide hat with a feather. He opened up the book and started talking, pointing to the page. France blinked, and saw England talking to Louis XIV.
Le Roi Soleil interrupted him to turn to France. "I have plans for this land, Monsieur. You will be strong again. The first thing I'm going to do is make myself absolute monarch. I am the sole ruler of France, not these country dukes and marquises who claim to have a piece of my power." He turned away, and continued his conversation with England.
Philippe Auguste and Louis VIII stood together - between the two of them, everything France owned but a small part of Bordeaux was united under the French crown. Stared at a map on the wall and talked.
"Il me faut touts les territoires," Philippe said to Louis, sweeping his arm across the map, "être dans les mains de la France selon 1300."
He figured Louis XVI would be there as well, so he walked among the shelves. He found Italy and Romano cowering behind the first one. Both in their servants' outfits. Romano kept pushing Veneziano and Veneziano just cried and cried. Right behind them, strolling through the shelves with his hands clasped behind his back, was Philip IV. Smiling and walking as though he didn't see the two Italies. France kept walking, peering down each row as he passed to see who was there. The next row over, Italy was a little bit bigger, and he was with Holy Rome. They weren't talking, just holding hands and looking at each other. France paused, but Holy Rome peeked around Italy and stared at France. Just stared with a small smile. France moved along.
Charlemagne walked down the next row with his back to France, holding a little France's hand and talking to him. Long, brown tunic and tan leggings, cinched at the waist with a rope. Little France had on a long shirt that drug on the ground behind him. Louis VI appeared at the other end of the shelf and knelt down to talk to little France.
The last and final row of shelves was where France found Louis XVI. Dressed in his white marriage outfit. Solid white, the only color a blue sash across his chest. Standing with his shoulders squared to France as though he was waiting for him, but eyes glued to the floor. If nothing else, if nothing else in this whole world, France could say Louis Auguste de Capét XVI was consistent.
France walked up to him, and Louis smiled stiffly. He opened his mouth. Shut it. His eyebrows furrowed, and he opened his mouth again. Louis craned his neck forward, grabbing his throat. His chest expanded with a huge breath, but when he released it, all France heard was a dizzying wheeze. Louis sucked in breath after breath, wheeze after wheeze. He cleared his throat, the only sound to escape was an intense hiss of air.
Louis panicked. His eyes widened, he shook his head. Lips trembling from the strain. He reached forward towards France, grabbed onto the front of his shirt, clawing France and trying to haul him closer. Desperate to tell him something. France stepped back and shoved his hand away.
"Are you going to say anything?" France asked him.
He kept trying and trying, growing more agitated with each attempt to make a sound. Finally, France shook his head. He moved past Louis, flattening himself against the shelf and shuffling along since Louis kept grabbing at him, still trying to speak to him.
France stirred, gently floating away from those people and that place. There was a moment, a feeling of happy weightlessness, then he dropped straight down. France flinched so hard he jerked himself awake.
The wall his neck was craned towards blurred instantly. The shape of the window slanted. The bright light blinded him, and he had to shut his eyes. The pink hue of the room and the glare of the gold panels on the wall still pulsed behind his eyelids, making shapeless patterns, dancing and spinning. "Where am I?" rang hollow in his head. It seemed like a distant problem. Like he'd be able to worry about it eventually. He had to get his head on straight first. He wanted to sit up, but he knew if he did, the room would start spinning again and he didn't want that. At all. It was bad enough when it happened involuntarily. He would not bring it on himself.
Everything felt heavy - his head pressed into the pillow, his eyelids, his limbs into his bed or couch or wherever he was lying - especially his limbs. He felt like if he moved them, it would take a momentous effort that he didn't have the initiative to take on. They felt unreal and disconnected from the rest of him, like phantom limbs.
His head was on a squishy pillow, at least. Which was actually very comfortable with the exception of his neck, stretched to one side. He was on his stomach. Whoever laid him there took that into account-
Wait.
Who . . . ? Where was he? How did he get there? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything that happened.
He remembered . . . the Hall of Mirrors. He remembered running down the Hall of Mirrors and running back. He remembered sitting down with Louis. They talked, but he couldn't remember about what. And every time he tried to think past that point, it was as if his mind shut down on him. There was just . . . nothing there.
Did he die? He didn't die . . . did he?
A sudden burst of fear stabbed into his neck and spread furiously down his spine.
Who killed him? They could still be there.
He kept his eyes closed but tuned into his surroundings. He mustered up the energy to stretch his legs, and though it took a moment, his toes finally uncurled. He could tell he was lying somewhere soft; his legs sank straight into the bed or couch or wherever he was laying. Silk fabric, warm on his chilled skin, under his fingers he felt silk fabric. On his stomach, so someone knew to lay him like that. Windows and sunlight to his left. He could tell from the way the sunlight hit his face and the glimpse of the window he got before he had to shut his eyes that he was in his room. His room at Versailles.
His room . . . how did he get . . . He was eating dinner with Louis and . . . and then what?
Why was he even eating with Louis in the first place? Louis wanted to talk to him. About . . . ?
The note! He received a note that morning. Louis wanted to talk to him about Brienne's party.
They talked. Louis talked about . . . he didn't want France to go to the party. But France knew that from weeks ago. Maybe they talked about it? Yeah, that sounded right to France. They did.
And then the wine was bad. It had a funny taste to it. And he heard Louis and someone else talking.
Louis. Louis drugged him.
The party! How long was he asleep?!
His eyes shot open. He scrambled up to a sitting position from where his was on his stomach. Bad choice. The moment his eyes were level with the room, his head instantly swam. He toppled over, luckily catching himself with his elbow. The bend in his skin made his back throb evilly, but the laudanum was definitely dulling most of the pain. "N-no! What day is it?" he asked to the air. "How long . . . " His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He felt sluggish.
"The 28th of August." France followed the voice and saw his favorite person sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed with his back to France. Next to his chest.
"The 28th?" In his head he tried to fit the pieces together.
Lunch was the 25th. The party was the 25th. And today was the 28th.
The party. He missed the party.
"You ass!" he spat to Louis. "I missed the party! You made me miss the party!" He blindly reached around himself and grabbed up the only weapon he had - a pillow - and chucked it at the back of Louis' head. Despite his cognitive impairment, and the three Louises he saw at once, the plush weapon slapped against the real Louis and glanced harmlessly away.
Unfazed. "And be glad you did," he said, far too casually for France's comfort. "You looked awful, France. Absolutely awful. You looked ready to fall over at a moment's notice. In fact, I think you did fall over at one point."
"No I didn't," France argued.
"Yes, yes you did," Louis insisted.
His voice irritated France. His voice, his arguing. With each word out of his mouth France's jaw clenched tighter and tighter. He remembered arguing with England like that when they were children. "No, I didn't! And how would you know? You haven't been watching me!"
"Not that you know of."
"You weren't, you- . . . " An insult that didn't sound like it came from a five-year-old escaped him. "You did this on purpose! You knew how badly I wanted to go to the party! You knew! But you didn't want me to go so you did the only thing you knew to do to keep me here! Against my will!"
"No," Louis insisted, shaking his head. It looked odd since he didn't turn and look at France. Not once. He was holding something. "I was concerned about you and your health." He paused. He fiddled with whatever was in his hands. France couldn't see it over Louis' head. "With the amount of laudanum that Buonnaroti and I gave you, I'm quite amazed it didn't kill you. Not that we were trying-" he added quickly, but France cut him off.
"What are you holding?"
Louis' back straightened against the foot of France's bed. " . . . You know, I often forget that you are not twenty years old." Louis sighed, as though fed up with something. With life. With France. With the situation. "I forget that you are a centuries old mind in the body of an twenty year old. Every so often I get a reminder. When you reference previous rulers that you met in person, or even when you mention my grandfather's childhood. And sometimes when I'm speaking to you you lapse into Old Provençal French that nobody's spoken for centuries. It's a surreal experience, the actual realization and understanding that you were there, and you've seen history with your own eyes. It's hard for me to wrap my head around."
"What are you talking about?" France scooted closer to him, and saw that Louis was on the floor of his room, legs crossed. Making him look childishly devilish. He had a stack of papers in his hand, papers of a much thicker parchment than what was normal. Folded in a square unlike the normal tri-folded letters.
He had some really old papers in his hand.
Papers old enough that only France could own them.
Papers that he recognized, weathered with age. Looked at so often that France had already memorized the crinkles and age lines. The dents where his fingers curled around them.
Louis picked one that he had already read off a pile on the floor. Opened it up. And read it aloud to France.
"Take this, for example! The language and syntax are a little archaic, and I had to read it a couple times before I understood it. 'I will speak Plainly: You are the only person who makes me feel Ultimately and Perfectly Loved. And we've now known each other for several Months, so if it is not in Haste, I feel it is the proper Time-'"
"What are you doing?"
"'-for me to Admit that I Love you as well. Unconditionally, with a Deep-Rooted Love that sees beyond the Outer Surface.'"
Jeanne's letters. The realization was a shot of adrenaline in his mind. A sharp jolt. In a sudden burst of clarity, he caught up with time. The room stopped swimming and spinning. The headache was gone, replaced by a cold sharpness. "Those are mine!" France yelled. "Where did you get those?!" He threw the covers off and leapt off the bed. Louis shot to his feet as well.
"'With a Love that Accepts you for exactly who and what you are,'" he babbled as quickly as possible. France ran towards him and Louis clambered away. "'Regardless of your Flaws, your Shortcomings, or your Faults. The same Way that you Love me-'"
"Give me those!" Louis took off. France bolted after him, chasing Louis into his drawing room like they were couple of children playing a malicious game of keep away. "Louis!" France screamed. Louis circled the outside of the room, and when France tried to cut across the floor to catch him, he quickly placed the settee between the two of them. His last line of defense between him and France. For the moment. "Louis, give me those!" he yelled.
Louis made a break for the door to the hallway, but having to fumble with the handle and throw it open forced him to hesitate. He only had one arm through before France quickly caught up, throwing all his weight into the door. Louis gasped, whipping his arm back through the door; the SLAM missed Louis' arm and fingers by inches, and the wind from it blew the curls of his wig back. He staggered back through the doorway, and in a second, all of Louis' playfulness was gone. His eyes were wide, and he was staring at France incredulously. Panting out of surprise or exertion. France couldn't tell.
"Are you MAD?!" Louis yelled. "You could've broke my arm!"
"Give. me. the. LETTERS!" he growled back through his teeth, placing the unspoken threat deep in the back of his throat. Like an animal. Like Prussia. His anger surged, and with it his eyes flared. Waves of rage rolled off of him in nearly tangible in the air. He felt his blood boil, igniting his heart in his chest. Choking him. His fists clenched at his side so hard they shook, like all he wanted to do was rip a vertebrae out of Louis' spine with his bare hands. His breath came fast, he felt like he couldn't breathe.
Rage had taken over, and rational thought had been pushed violently to the wayside. Louis' face was stuck with that dumb look of horror, his jaw on the floor. France ran forward and Louis backpedaled until he hit an end table, nearly toppling backwards and knocking everything off of it. France didn't hesitate. He grabbed Louis' lace cravat as hard as he could, making sure to shake him a bit as he twisted it in his fist and hauled him forward off of his feet. Inches from his own face, he hissed in Louis' face, "Give. me. the. letters." He could feel the heat of his own breath off of Louis' face. No more jokes.
"Please! T-take them, please!" he sputtered. He practically threw them into France's chest, and France threw Louis back so he could grab them before they scattered to the floor.
"These are my letters! These are MY. PRIVATE. LETTERS!" He flared his eyes, he let his rage shine in them with a threatening glint. Louis said France could intimidate with his glare? Good. He wanted to put the fear of God into Louis. He felt so . . . violated. He felt so violated and betrayed and his heart felt sick. He felt as though Louis had trespassed into the most intimate part of his heart. And he looted and he pillaged and he destroyed everything he found there. All of France's emotions, strewn about in the open rather than locked safely away where he could revere them. Like those people who broke into his home. His most valued and treasured secrets and heirlooms profaned and defiled in a violent fit of personal sacrilege.
"I'm sorry, alright? I'm SORRY!" he screamed back.
"SORRY DOESN'T CUT IT! You VIOLATED my privacy, and my-" His heart hurt. He felt like it was being squeezed, dragged down into his stomach. Forced back up to his throat, and then dragged back down again. "Where did you find them?" He knew exactly where Louis found them. He gave him a chance to either admit it or lie. "Louis, where did you get them from?"
"The chest in your room."
"I keep that locked! How did you get in there?!"
"I guess you forgot about my fancy for locks and locksmithing. That's okay, most people forget, you know. It's not exactly a very 'kingly' hobby," he rambled, spewing like the words could save him. Louis slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a rung of ten different lock picks and tension rods. "My father and my grandfather both used to tell me to abandon my fancy with locks. They said locksmithing should be reserved for the locksmiths, and it wasn't a skill that would be of any use to me as a king."
France reached out and snatched the rung from his hand, and Louis yelped in pain when France accidentally bent one of his fingers. "Easy!"
"No! You don't get to dismiss this! Why the HELL-" he yelled, hurling the rung across the room over his shoulder. He dragged Louis closer again, but it was awkward. His legs were stuck in a half-extended position behind him. He choked from the strain on his throat. "-were you going through my chest?!"
"I just wanted to look for correspondences from Paris," he admitted. I wanted to check and see if you were going to follow any leads or gather information or anything while you were there. Like what you did when you went to Paris a while ago."
He was lying- since when did Louis care? He didn't even listen to France about the lettres-de-câchet, or the tension in the streets that was steadily climbing with each of Louis' missteps. The word 'revolutionary' wasn't in there, before the word 'correspondences', but France heard it all the same.
The accusations, whether intended or not, felt like a cold-water bucket was dumped on him. Louis was so dumb. So stupid. So simple-minded and so vapid. And he was stupid enough to sink so low as to think that France . . . would sabotage himself? An ironic chuckle gurgled in France's chest, then died in his throat. It came out instead as a strange grimace. France let Louis go, backing away from him.
Un-be-lievable. "What do you think, that I'm a traitor?! Huh?! That I'm somehow plotting the ruination of myself?" Actually, the thought wasn't half bad. And the fatalistic irony! He started laughing. "Hahahahaha! At this point, why not?! Hahahahahahahaha! Why not just END it now?! You're moving waaaaaay too slow for me, Louis, so why-" A laugh caught deep in his chest, so loud and so forceful that he wheezed on the first two heaves of his chest. Tears sprang in his eyes. "Why don't I go ahead and try it myself! I c- AH!" he yelled, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I can't even do it! I'll just wake RIGHT back up!"
He caught Louis' look - half horrified, half confused - and he broke down even more. He doubled over, clutching at his aching stomach. "Hahahahahahahahaha - whoo! I can't believe you're that stupid! I can't believe you're that. stupid."
Louis' eyebrows furrowed in anger. "How dare you-!" France matched Louis' gaze, his laughter instantly quieting as though he was never laughing in the first place. Louis quickly retreated again. "Uuuuum, no. No, I don't think you're a traitor. I promise. I trust you fully and completely."
"You didn't even let me go to that party anyway! You drugged me!"
"I did that because of your health. And I only thought of the correspondences after the fact. I'm sorry."
"I . . . I'm so angry, I don't even . . . I can't . . . Why would you do that?" His heart ached. "This stuff is private. These letters especially! These are my memories! These are my history. These are me."
"I'm sorry," he said again. " . . . Put me down." France released Louis where he was, and he slumped to the floor, rubbing his throat.
"Get out. Get out of my room!" France screamed, jabbing his finger at Louis. "Don't you ever touch any of my things again. Do you understand me?"
Pause. "I'm sorry, since when do you set about ordering the King?" Louis asked.
There was a moment. A solid second and a half of silence, where France's dumbfounded soul left his body. He ascended to another plane of existence, overlooking everything going on in their conversation. The room faded away, Louis faded away, and he was alone. And he screamed into the black abyss of that plane. What? When he returned to his body, he had a response prepared. "Are you kidding me? You're gonna grow a spine now? Right now? And against me? No! No, no, no, you ABSOLUTE- . . . GOD!" he yelled. "Oh my GOD!"
"What's wrong? Are you somehow upset that I refuse to let you intimidate me anymore?" Louis' lips curled into a snobbish smirk, like he somehow checkmated France in their game of verbal chess.
"Hah!" France barked out a laugh. "Is that so? You can't even look me in the eyes and every time you do you look away within seconds! You don't scare me, Louis. And you never will." The words that would do his rage justice escaped him, too. "Don't you start with me. I refuse to play this game with you! I refuse to have the same conversation with you over and over and over again! You're gonna tell me you're trying and I should be grateful for it. And I'm going to tell you that you had years and years to get on this shit! And we're going to talk each other in circles until we're DIZZY!"
"Maybe I don't want to scare you. Did you ever think about that? Maybe the entire world isn't out to get you. Maybe you haven't noticed lately due to your perpetual whining, but I actually care about this country. I know this ship is sinking fast, but maybe, just maybe I'm not trying to take you down with me!"
"My whining?" France yelled incredulously. Louis thought France was the whiner? "Well maybe I have a reason to whine, all things considered. I've been trying to tell you-" He realized the direction of their conversation and slapped his palm to his forehead. "Oh my GOD. Here we go. And you know what? For the RECORD," he yelled, hoping to change the course of the argument. "I started ordering the 'King' around," he said, putting it in air quotes, "since he set about touching things that weren't his."
"And he only started doing that since he had a reason to believe that his Nation, somebody very important to him, was hiding something."
"Pfah!" France snorted. "Hiding something. Like, the social crisis? The hatred the Third Estate has for you? The ineffectiveness of the Parliament? I haven't kept anything to myself in regards to Nationality."
"Paris?" Louis asked. "You didn't tell me about you Parisian escapades."
" . . . " Crap. France decided to ignore him. "And if I've been 'important to you' this whole time, I'd like to see you not set me as a priority."
"Okay, I know I haven't exactly been the best ruler-"
"Understatement of the century-"
"BUT! But, I'm trying. I'm really trying."
What an idiot. "Would you SHUT UP about how 'hard' you're 'trying?' TRYING isn't GOOD ENOUGH!" France screamed.
"Which is why Jacques Necker returned to court yesterday. He has plans, France, and so do I. We're going to do something."
"Oh, wait, really? He's already here? That was fast."
"He says you owe him money."
" . . . That was . . . also fast."
"You do, then?"
"Yeah, it's from a while back but it's fine. I can repay him."
"Really? I thought we had no money!"
"This probably comes as a shock to you but I used to get paid by every monarch, starting with Louis VI. And that was in the 1100s. Towards the end of Louis XV's reign was the start of when the finances went down, so I took a freeze then. And actually, you're lucky I work for free. There isn't another Nation on this planet who would do that. So, in other words, you have no money, Louis. The state has no money."
" . . . Y-you . . . " Louis began. But he dropped his eyes to the floor, so France assumed he chickened out. He opened the door to the hallway and gestured grandly for Louis to leave.
"I don't really care. You should go."
"You can't just do that!" Louis said. "You can't just pick and choose what parts of your job you want to be associated with! Some days you say you are the state and represent it, some days you couldn't be far enough away from it! Some days you want to work with Brienne and me, and some days you want nothing to do with either of us!" Louis' weak voice grew stronger and stronger with each word, until he felt powerful enough to raise his eyes. "You come and go as you please, and that's not right!"
"Name one thing! One! That I didn't see through to the end before I backed out!"
"The Assembly of Notables! You went to one session, and backed out."
"Oh, so what? That was a bust before it started! Calonne was digging himself a hole long before that ever convened-"
"That's not the point! You didn't stay! You quit the Assembly and you quit on Calonne. You ran away to Paris, and I had to bring you back by force. You quit on Brienne, too. You left me halfway through Brienne's run, and I had to beg you to come back for bits and pieces of it - which were shots in the dark. The taxes? Maybe France wants to do that. The Declaration of the Fundamental Laws of France? Absolutely not! France really isn't feeling up to that one today," he said sarcastically.
"You want to talk about picking and choosing? Fine! You were perfectly okay with raising taxes to aid America. But when I mentioned raising taxes on the Second and First Estates for real problems in France? All of a sudden it's not okay anymore! What else? That letter about disbanding Parliaments? What do you do as soon as I get back? Did you disband them?" France stared up at the ceiling, eyebrows furrowed, in mock thought. "Mmmm, nooo, it took you, me, and Brienne giving them a taxation ultimatum that they then refused before it even became an option in that messed up rationale of yours! You're mad at me for picking and choosing what I want to do, but then you pick and choose what you want to listen to me about!"
"Then I guess we're both good at cheating people, aren't we?" Louis said dismissively, crossing his arms. His face curled into a childish pout, and he arrogantly stuck his nose in the air.
"No, you're good at cheating people. You're good at lying, and making promises you know you can't keep to the people you should be working to please! All I'm good at is knowing when to get out before something gets ugly. Because when things get ugly, who do they harm, you? Maybe, in reputation, but no more than that! No, when things get ugly, I pay the price! Well you know what, I'm going through some stuff that isn't even my fault. You'd think that since you're the cause of my pain you could cut me some slack every once in a while. What, are you too selfish to care, or are you genuinely too dumb to see it?"
"God, France, take some responsibility for ONCE," Louis yelled as loud as he could, "You pathetic excuse for a Nation!" His outburst shocked much of the rage right out of France. "Someone as old as you - and yet you're acting like you've never had a bad King in your life!"
"Never one as bad as you-"
"Maybe I was bad in the beginning, but it was right around the time that I started taking an initiative that you quit! And now you want to tell me that I'm to blame for every one of your problems, even after? Even after you quit and ran away you're still trying to pin all of this on me?" he asked, jabbing his finger violently at himself. "I'm so sick of you thinking the world has to stop for you. That my world has to stop for you! I'm so sick of you thinking you have it so much worse than the rest of us! It's like, your problems are always worse than everyone else's! It's always France's crisis, and it's never anyone else's. You walk around like you're the only one trying to deal with this when in reality you're the one moping and whining, while I have an entire financial cabinet trying to run the country. You have a whole country, including me, trying to run itself in your absence without tearing itself apart! Guess what: it's not working!" He rubbed his face tiredly. "No one else is allowed to have a crisis because France's problems are worse! Well grow up, France! Pull your head out of your ass! Look around you, at the state! Look at what it's become! And maybe, just maybe, when you're not too busy moping you can get off your ass and stop depending on people like Calonne, or like Brienne or Necker to fix it for you. And maybe, just maybe, you and I could collaborate and work to FIX this mess, rather than me picking things at random, basically behind your back, and seeing if it makes things worse or better!"
France leaned in, and for emphasis he lowered his voice. Dangerously low. "I warned you. I warned you over and over again what you had to do to fix me. And you. didn't. do. it," he enunciated slowly, poking at Louis with each word. "GOD!" he screamed. His anger surged once again. If he weren't holding Jeanne's letters . . . Instead, he stomped over to the settee and planted his foot into its side, shoving it so hard it slid into the wall, chipping away some of the pristine white and gold plaster. Louis jumped, backing away from him once again. "And what about you, you hypocrite? You think I'm the one depending on people like Calonne or Brienne? You think I'm the one who has no idea how to run a state? RRgh!" he growled. "Trying to have a conversation with you is like . . . It makes me want to gouge out my eyes with rusty spoons."
"Trust me, the feeling's mutual."
The rage in his heart festered, traveling up his throat. A maliciousness coated his tongue like poison, and the words floated quickly and effortlessly from his mouth. " . . . Just wait," France warned him. Louis thought Necker was going to just walk in and save everything? No. France wouldn't allow him that. France wanted to ruin every hope Louis had. "You brought in the most two-faced man you could've possibly brought in, and you didn't even realize it. You didn't have the situational awareness or people awareness to know. You don't think ahead, you definitely don't plan ahead. And you don't have the manipulative techniques to take things as they come. You have no clear conception of France, or Europe. You're a poor judge of character and you let everyone you know influence you. I bet Necker lasts . . . mmm, six months. If that. Calonne liked the money and Brienne genuinely wanted to help, but Necker? Necker has better and closer ties to the people than he has to you. If that doesn't scare you, it should. Know why? Because he's not going to stick around like the other two. He's smart enough to know when this job isn't worth it anymore, and he's going to know when the people are the safer option. He'll betray you without a second thought. And when you're left all alone, facing down a mob of angry Frenchmen, you won't even have me to help you."
" . . . Are you saying you're done?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying. If you don't even trust me enough to respect my privacy, then you can't expect me to stick around and help-"
"You won't leave me."
France stared into Louis' eyes, even going so far as to bend down and hold eye contact when Louis ducked his head. He poured every conviction he possessed into his eyes and whispered, "Try me."
France expected Louis to back away like he always did. But instead, Louis' fists clenched at his sides and his eyes flicked back up to France's. His own eyes flared, and he fired back for once. "No! I won't let you intimidate me! You won't leave me. You won't! You tried it before. You've been saying you're done time and time again. And you always come back. It's your job."
"Try me," he repeated. He didn't even care if his own words held any merit. He didn't know if he'd be back. But he wanted Louis to know that even if he stuck around the palace this time, he was halting all of his political actions. "You're on your own." Louis opened his mouth to reply but France cut him off. "Do you even know anything about Jacque Necker's policies and thoughts on the status of France? You better read up on him. And if you're not on the same page as he is you better get on the same page as him because he is quite literally," he said, chuckling darkly. He rubbed his forehead against the thought. "He is quite literally your last hope. You won't get another chance." France backed away from the door. "I'm gonna need you to leave now."
" . . . " Louis' mouth opened. Closed again. His eyebrows furrowed. He opened his mouth like he was going to yell, then closed it again. "You can't just-"
"I QUIT!" France yelled. "DONE! You don't betray my trust this many times and get away with it. You crossed a line with me- you just destroyed EVERY last desire I had to help you! You crossed a line with me you can NEVER re-cross. You're a coward, and a failure as a King and a person. Get out. I don't even want to look at you anymore."
France turned away, carefully uncrinkling the letters in his hand as best he could. He folded them back up into their square, following the folds already creasing the letters. He closed them on themselves, locking away the beautiful and cherished words in themselves. He put them in order. He smoothed them out. He took meticulous care of them, but a heavy-hearted misery still sprang up in his heart. He let someone violate her privacy as much as his. He let someone else wreak havoc on her most secret thoughts and feelings. He betrayed her as much as he himself had been betrayed. And he felt horrible about it.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, clutched the papers close to his chest. "I'm so sorry." He walked them back into his bedchamber, shutting the door behind him. The chest at the foot of his bed lay open, the padlock still open and hanging off the latch. He gathered up everything Louis had strewn on the floor. Not bothering to look through. He didn't care what else Louis saw. He saw the letters. And that was enough to set his grief alight. He put the letters back in their proper place, in a small box in the bottom, and stacked everything on top of it. He closed and locked the chest, and sat on the floor with his ear against the door until he heard the soft snick! of his drawing room door close behind Louis.
September 11, 1788
Le Château de Versailles
'Francey-pants,
Hello? Where are you?
Haven't heard from you for a couple months. You still okay?
What the heck is going on over there?
Don't take this the wrong way, but you're still doing your job, right? No, wait, what I mean is, King Louis is still consulting you on the finances and the policies and the diplomacies and everything, right? I'm only asking because Thomas Jefferson's been my ambassador to you for years now. And he says he hasn't met you once. He says any diplomatic meetings have been between him, King Louis, and the Parliament. He says he hasn't interacted with you on any political front.
King Louis hasn't bypassed you, has he? Because he can't do that. Can he? I don't know how direct monarchies work, but technically some stuff should still require your signature. Right? If King Louis is as bad as everyone says, and on top of that he's not even consulting you, that's bad news.
I'm honestly scared for you. Britain told me what happens when a Nation's boss doesn't listen to them about important stuff. He told me what happens to a Nation when civil war breaks out. And he says that's where Louis is taking you. Just do me a favor and stay safe. Do your best to stay afloat, and do your best to keep your wits about you. I don't want to see you suffer, and I don't want to see you fade away.
And if you need someone to slap Louis around a bit you know who to write to. I'll be over there faster than he can say, "Baguette."
Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America
I'm thinking of changing my name soon. I'm not sure, though. My Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton thinks I should change it to "Alexander" for obvious reason, but Alexander F. Jones doesn't feel right to me. George Washington suggested something rugged but simple like Jeffrey or Thomas - but George named one of his dogs Sweet Lips so I don't know how much I trust his naming talents. One of my best friends is a French immigrant and he thinks I should pick something French but give it an American spelling. Like John Claude or something, but I definitely want it to start with "A". What do you think? Send me back suggestions.'
Oh, America. France had too many problems to go and worry about America's identity crisis.
Speaking of, how long had France had the name 'François?' Keeping a name only worked for about fifty years or so before arousing suspicion. A vigilant Nation could maybe swing seventy-five. It was easier next to monarchs, when people were cycled in and out constantly, with both young and old people at Court. Not that France was in any danger, but he could use it as a bit of a fresh start. A positive but monumental change that he, and only he, was in control of. He only had three names that he kept on a cycle: François, Louis, and Jean-Pierre; though he rarely used the last one anymore unless he was feeling old-fashioned since it was pretty outdated. He usually picked a surname at random, or sometimes he even kept the Bonnefoy name. All he had to do was say he was someone's son, or cousin, or nephew, and he was good to go. He could draft his own papers in less than a day, too.
"I think I will change my name," he decided. It sounded exciting and fun. Maybe he'd even pick Jean-Pierre this time considering how sour the name 'Louis' was on his tongue at the moment.
Jean-Pierre Dubois, Jean-Pierre LeChiffre, Jean-Pierre Saint Martin . . .
Maybe after this Louis ran his course France would change it. Whatever course that may be.
'Mi amigo,
Just checking up on you! Prussia and I haven't heard anything, and we want updates! How's Louis? Is he better? Is he worse? Has he been making decision by himself? Are they based on your suggestions? Is he using your help? Are they improving the state? How's the Estates General moving along? Everything planned and ready? Also Prussia wants to know if the rumors are true about Marie Antoinette and Count von Fersen.
THESE ARE THE THINGS WE NEED TO KNOW!
I hope you're not answering because you're too busy fixing the state.
If you need anything, I'm your next door neighbor. Just ask me!
Maybe me and Prussia can stop by again sometime soon, too? I'd like to see Louis in action. Maybe I can scare him into listening, just in case he's not.
I hope you're doing okay!
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España'
He was most certainly not doing okay.
'Beauty,
Brute-y here! Yeah, that's right, Spain told me what he said about the three of us that one time in a letter! He thought I'd be mad, but I kind of like it. It's perfectly suitable to each of our personalities:
1. You've got a nice, naturally sexy face.
2. And then Spain's butt is a work of art! I bet he could crush fruits between those cheeks.
3. And me? I'm the most rugged. I'm fierce, I'm driven, and determined, and Awesome in every way.
I like boasting about the fact that I'm still the most powerful out of all of you. So actually, maybe I should thank Spain for those completely true descriptions of the three of us. Every time I think about it, it reminds me of how cool I really am.
Anyway, down to business: you need to send me and Spain updates. Some more rumors are spreading, and you're definitely not answering anybody, so we're just a little worried for you. Plus, I heard a little thing about Queen Marie and Count Axel von Fersen and a certain Diamond Necklace Affair that I want confirmed or denied. Either way. Spain said I'm being too nosy, but I don't think so!
Let us know what's happening so we can help you if you need it. Spain will provide the booty and I'll provide actual military assistance that's going to help people.
You're welcome,
Gilbert Beilschmidt; Das Königreich Preußen'
Hm. France couldn't quite remember all the details surrounding the necklace. It was in 1785. Why couldn't he . . . ? What was he doing in 1785?
Oh. Paris. France was in Paris at the time. When Louis XVI kicked him out of Versailles. He only knew about it because it was all over the papers and all over every pamphlet in France and he dutifully ignored it. He heard the rumors, but at the time he was too afraid of what it could do to him if he was fully aware of it.
How did Prussia even remember it, and why was it just surfacing now for him? And Count Fersen? Whatever. He didn't want to deal with it.
'France,
Under normal circumstances, I'd begin this letter with an insulting introduction. Especially so, considering the nature of our last exchange. But these are not normal circumstances, and I want to remove all pretenses of loathing right from the very start. I want you to know right now that I write to you out of genuine concern. I want you to know that I care deeply for you and for your well-being, and I don't want you to suffer through this, or worse, fade away. So you better read, and listen, carefully, because what I am about to say could make your pain all the more easier to bear:
I've been keeping tabs on you. I've been watching, and listening. Your situation has not improved from what I've heard. Your social system is unraveling from the bottom up. Your finances are failing, your people are starving, the social unrest is palpable and I swear to God above it's choking me from over there! What's more, you're being affected physically by all of this.
Let's be frank: physical injuries do not come from internal and infrastructural problems. They come from war. The fact that Louis XVI's reign is harming you physically - I cannot stress enough how frightening that is. That means that whatever Louis is doing to you is destroying you. Literally destroying you.
I will not let that happen.
I recently did some digging through my old belongings, to look for anything and everything that may help you. Or even help me help you. I looked through my mother Britannia's writings; Brittany's; Saxony's; what I own of Normandy's since you probably have the other half; and especially William the Conqueror's treatises. OLD stuff - nearly deteriorated in my hands. I should've taken better care of it than I did, but either way, I found what I was looking for in William's writings.
You see, by the time he was finished with England he already had his court in Normandy all set up and ready. With two courts, he could effectively rule from either place in a pinch - which he often did. He wrote all the time about exploits in Normandy, and I'm sure you probably have her records of his excursions to England somewhere.
So, with the crown of Normandy and the crown of England on his head, where did that leave his Nations? He set up an ingenious system for Normandy and I: when he was absent from Court, the Nation in question was to act as regent until his return. For example, when he was in Normandy, I would have been acting regent for England had I been old enough. And when he was with me in England, she was to act as the Norman regent. It also works in the reverse - if William was in England, but Normandy was ever unable to perform her duties, I was to fill in for her. And if I was ever unable to perform my duties while he was in Normandy, she wold fill in for me.
The clause was never written out of policy. Instead, it was phased out of practice as soon as the thrones split once again to two human rulers and two Nations. But, since it was never officially ABOLISHED, I can use it to both of our benefits. I brought the documents before His Majesty and William Pitt (Who is the Prime Minister, just in case you've forgotten), and explained the situation to them. I also admit I may have exploited my political and personal sway as the National representative of the Kingdom of Great Britain to persuade them that I needed to leave my post and become the de facto National representative of the Kingdom of France.
After speaking to both of them and to the others in Parliament, I've received a leave of absence to go and attend King Louis XVI's court and take your place as his Chief Advisor. I would sit in on any and every personal meeting, every Parliamentary meeting, every financial cabinet meeting, everything he could possibly convene as the King. I would take your place at his side and advise him and perhaps influence him to help you. Not only would it give me a perfect assessment of his true political aptitude, but it would also allow me a chance at Parliament, and at Louis - and perhaps I could begin to turn things round again in your favor.
This is not the norm for all Nations - unless their rulers set up specific circumstances as William did. For example, I wouldn't doubt that Austria and Hungary set something up with Maria Theresa once she became both the Archduchess of Austria and the Queen of Hungary. They could fill in for each other, but no others could fill in for them. Ours is specific to you and I, and technically still in effect.
I have not officially signed any of the papers yet, nor has George or William. George at least wants me to stay for another month or so, until we solve this anti-Catholic rioting we have going on over here. But just know that I plan to come over there and stay for as long as I have to. And if Louis has a problem with it, I'm going to bring William the Conqueror's writings with me. I'm told Louis speaks fluent English. I wonder if he can read Middle English? I don't suppose he will, and if he does I'll just make sure he knows who's in charge anyway.
Don't forget what I told you. You're too strong to fade away. And I suppose I'd miss fighting with you if you did. Hold on, be strong, and do your best until I get there. Whether you like it or not I'm coming.
Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Great Britain'
The letter disgusted him.
God, if Britain came over . . . The thought of it disgusted him, irritating the knot in his stomach so much he scoffed out loud. That would be awful. So completely embarrassing! And no way would Britain ever let him live it down.
He was annoying. He was callous. He was rude, and dull, completely ungraceful and inelegant, socially awkward, and he was abrasive - no way would France let him just waltz in and wreak havoc on his already havoc-wrought Court! No way would France let Britain corrupt his self-governing and . . . autocratic . . . state . . . He could govern himself, thank you very much! And no, Britain was absolutely not staying in Versailles in the first place.
God, if Britain came over. " . . . Don't be stupid!" he scoffed. He kept up the façade for about two more seconds before sighing bitterly in defeat. "Don't be stupid." How much of France's disdain was from his assumed hatred of Britain, and how much of it was from the fact that he so desperately wanted Britain to come? He just wanted Britain to come in and take over and deal with Louis for a while so he could rest. He could alleviate some of the pain (and, most definitely, take some on himself), and France could feel relief for once and just . . . not function Nationally for a while. Of course he needed Britain to come over.
So, he supposed, the real question was how much of his pride was he willing to put aside to accept the help? He could just wait for Britain to step in on his own and save him some of the shame. "I refuse to accept your help, so you'll have to force it on me," type of deal.
Louis spoke English fluently, so that wouldn't be an issue. And even if it was, France was certain Britain spoke French. He just adamantly denied it anytime someone brought it up. Still, though, a bit of indignation made France doubt. What would Britain do that France couldn't? He thought of Britain's reaction style: when France met opposition, he said his piece and then waited for the reaction. When Britain was met with opposition he huffed and scoffed, but was usually quick with a shut down and convincing counterpoint. Hopefully he'd be able to deliver it with enough fervor to convince Louis to do something right. He'd still have to go through the Parliaments, same as France. He'd still have to deal with Louis' indecisiveness. If Britain stepped in, would he bring in King George's policies and ideas and the British methodologies on governing? What if those methods and ideas were completely different, and nobody had any of it? He'd be no better off than he was now.
"Well, at least he'd try," he thought to himself, but quickly dismissed it. France just yelled at Louis for 'trying'. If trying wasn't good enough for Louis in France's eyes, then it was hypocritical to assume it was good enough by his own standards. Trying wasn't doing anything anymore. Action, and specific action, was the only thing that would help him now.
'France,
What's this business about "you've quit your job?"
And why am I hearing about it in a letter from Florimond Claude, Comte de Mercy-Argenteau?
Once again, your lack of correspondence is putting me and my Court in a very precarious position. Britain thinks you're heading for revolution - a violent revolution. You're probably in pain, and if you've given up, that's fine. I honestly couldn't care less at this point. But I will not let your apathy bring harm to Maria Antonia. To my princess. If the French people revolt, I will have no quarrels with sending an army over to escort her out.
And I'll leave King Louis XVI there for the masses.
Don't make me come over there again.
Roderich Eidelstein; Kaiserthum Oesterreich'
Should he talk to the Comte? Even when France was politically active he never really had many interactions with him. The Comte had spent all of his time with Marie as her advisor.
Maybe. He'd maybe talk to the Comte.
Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy
Chief Advisor to H. R. M. Louis XVI,
I, H. R. M. Louis XVI, King of France, personally invite you to attend the convocation of:
The Second Assembly of Notables,
opening on
the 5th of October, 1788.
The purpose of the Second Assembly of Notables is to discuss the fairest and most appropriate way to proceed with the organization of the Estates General, that I am determined to convene in 1789. Your participation in this Assembly would be invaluable to the continued stability of the state. I pray that you can be with us on the date, and offer your well desired and well respected thoughts and opinions.
For this Assembly, you are assigned to the:
First Bureau.
You and your other bureau members will answer a series of questions pertaining to the logistics of and the representation of the Estates General.
You will also be given an optional position next to me, H. R. M. Louis XVI, and my personal finance minister, M. Jacques Necker. In this position, you will be allowed full representation of the entire state as you require and desire. All decisions of each Bureau will be run through you, where you will decide the best course of action from each.
You may refuse the position, and still attend the Assembly with the full respect that you deserve.
I pray your intense desire to aid the state compels you to make the right decision.
Signed,
Louis
The 11th of September, 1788'
Irony everywhere. Hypocrisy abounded. Every sentence of Louis' 'personal' letter (written by someone else probably) dripped with snide comments. Subliminal torment. Delivered with the utmost of precision to poke the right kinds of buttons inside of France.
In reply, the throbbing in his back that seemed to be his constant and only companion shot up his neck and into his temples. He groaned in reply. "Please don't," he muttered, as if it would help. France pressed his thumbs into the sides of his head and closed his eyes, massaging furiously. He flopped back onto his pile of pillows.
About halfway down he remembered his ripped the bandages off his back earlier.
He tried to arch to his side, but he was too far down. His skin slapped against the pillows, and the agony was instantaneous. His bruise ached, the open cut and the irritated skin around it chafed roughly against the blankets and edges of the pillows, and a deep-set burning erupted inside his cut. Like someone took a horse-hair brush and scraped it on the hypersensitive skin. Set a fire underneath his raw skin. Hot, fiery torture, even through his arms and into his fingertips. He let out a harsh, stifled yell before the searing was enough to stop in his throat, and derail the thoughts in his brain.
Tears sprang to his eyes, some even gently spilling down his face. He rolled back onto his stomach, shoving his finger into his mouth and clamping down so he didn't scream. Praying the open air would help him. He was in too much pain to tell. It was so hot, he couldn't even feel the cool touch. His whole body clenched against the pain, so hard he shook, and the tightening of the muscles set it throbbing once again in a vicious cycle.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds passed. Before finally, it started to subside. It left his shoulders first, and France gradually relaxed them against the bed. He waited until the dull throbbing was the only thing left before he gasped in a breath. He didn't breathe at all through it.
Ouch.
What a dumb first thought to have. But that was all he could muster.
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.
On repeat. In time with the beating of the throbs.
He lay there for he didn't know how long. Just lay there with his eyes closed. Until he felt ready to sit back up. He braced his hands to either side of him, and the folding of his skin pierced through his entire back. "Okay, okay. Fast. Like ripping the bandages off of it," he tried. He counted himself off, and in one fluid motion dragged himself back to a sitting position. He moaned in pain, but was glad he was finally back up.
Still, he hunched over on his bed to keep the skin taut. France looked over his shoulder, and sure enough a long red stain was smudged on his covers. There were other papers there, too. Wrinkled and ripped from where he landed on them. Right. The letters.
He gathered them all up. He couldn't even remember what he read and didn't read. Okay, Austria, Spain, America, all read - there was one still folded. France opened it up, saw the odd address to him at the top, with his full human name, and remembered.
Louis' letter. Louis' stupid summons to the Assembly of Notables.
'I pray your intense desire to aid the state compels you to make the right decision.' That jerk. Angry all over again, France crushed the letter in his fist. The idea of ripping it up flicked briefly across his mind and he even switched his hands to do so. But instead of tearing it like he wanted to, his nose started to bleed.
"Merde," he cursed, feeling the blood rush down. He snorted some of it back up, even feeling some of the coppery, metallic taste drip down his throat while he searched for his handkerchief. But his jacket was across the room. With no handkerchief in sight, France uncrinkled Louis' letter and used it to pinch his nose.
It was kind of symbolic, he thought, chuckling dryly. It about summed up everything France felt about the letter. His opinion of Louis.
Wow, and he was really bleeding. France couldn't pull the parchment away for more than a second before the blood was already dripping. And what he could see of the parchment when he tried to look was almost entirely a shocking crimson, right away. He tried tilting his head back as well, but all that did was send more of it down his throat.
He only had one more unopened letter to read, then he'd be done. He could do this.
"But first," he thought, looking around his room. The many vials of laudanum Buonnaroti gave him over the course of his visits. Seven or so. On a whim, he decided to drink some. Something small twinged in the back of his mind, the idea of weakness, but he cast it away. Just enough to dull the perpetual throbbing of the raw skin on his back, he told himself. Just enough to dull the pounding in his head. To calm the trembling of his hands and to strengthen his legs. The prospect of getting up and actually grabbing the stuff seemed momentous, though, so he took a few moments of physical preparation before he pulled himself out of bed. Stiffly stumbled over to the table.
How much, two vials' worth? Two wouldn't knock him out like when Louis drugged him. Two sounded fair. He held the vial with three fingers and pried the cork out with the other two, gently smelling the contents. The same bitter aroma he smelled in his wine glass reached him, and he almost decided against drinking it. He still felt severely betrayed. But, the prospect of a quieted throbbing and the opportunity to live pain-free was too much.
When France chugged the first vial, the bitterness he tasted from his drugged wine glass was far more intense than he remembered. The nasty taste assaulted his tongue, and he retched before he could help himself, spitting it back out all over the floor. It burned the back of his throat, and everywhere he pressed his tongue in his mouth he got another burst of the rotten flavor. He coughed, clearing his throat over and over to try and remove the gross sensation.
Whoops.
The second vial wasn't as bad. The disgusting taste from the first one still coated his tongue and dulled his tastebuds to it. He grabbed another one from his table and tipped it back as well to make up for the one he lost.
And just as he was starting to feel it, just when the throbbing was going away, pushed to the back of his mind by the bleary calmness that seemed to overtake him, he made sure he had a firm grip on the parchment around his nose and ripped the seal off the last letter with one hand.
'We touch the moment that must decide forever our freedom, or our servitude of our happiness or our misery.'
No, wait. This wasn't a letter. This was something else. A publication or something. France kept reading, more curious than interested.
'This alternative depends absolutely on the character and principles of the Representatives to whom we entrust the care of settling our destinies in the General Assembly of the Nation and the zeal which we shall show in order to recover the sacred and imprescriptible rights from which we have been deprived.
We have been warned hitherto to steal a few moments from our domestic affairs, from our amusements, from our indolence, to meditate on the important choices we ought to make: The nature of the vows and demands which we ought to bear in these solemn Committees, or France will regenerate or perish without return?
Hey! Why should I swing to read it? While the dangerous enemies which this province contains in its bosom watch to ensure the perpetuity of their empire, we still sleep under the weight of the chains given to us. It is time to warn the Artesian Nation of the fatal traps with which it is surrounded; It is time to invite him to reflect upon the objects most interesting to his happiness. We believe that it is none the more important for her to recall the particular States of this Province to the true principles of their constitution, and to adopt the wise measures to arrive at this salutary reform; And it seems to us that we shall fulfill our duty as a good citizen, by developing here all the reasons which demonstrate the necessity of pursuing it, with as much activity as perseverance.
C'est l'Adresse à la nation artésienne
Par
M. Maximilien Robespierre
1 Septembre, 1788'
Robespierre.
How long since France heard his name mentioned? Heard his name half-whispered in the streets, like he was some forbidden treasure? He'd only surfaced in France's attention occasionally, but every time he did France felt the awe the French people had for him. How much work had he done in the underground in the meantime? Clearly a lot, if the treatise was anything to go off of.
Robespierre was eloquent, he was passionate, he was confident and outspoken, and it was easy to see why he was considered something of a savior among the people. France already knew that.
But this. This treatise. Bold words from Robespierre. Bold words. Scary words, even. Fighting words.
Revolutionary words.
France loved all of them.
This was fantastic. France read and reread. He picked apart every line and found symbolism and found truth and found everything he ever wanted to say tucked into the words like pristinely wrapped gifts. Within the very first sentence, he summarized France's situation without any sort of exaggeration or dramatics. No downplaying, no inflating. Just a straight fact that France appreciated to no end. And in the very next sentence he posed the only possible solution of this particular idiom. Robespierre was appealing to the good character of the French people, and asking them to elect people of the same character. People like Robespierre, out for the greater good even at the detriment of themselves. Maybe it was a good thing Louis invited France to the Assembly of Notables, then. He could see Robespierre and hear his arguments for Third Estate representation.
Ah, if ever France had the chance to speak to Louis again about Third Estate representation, he would absolutely steal Robespierre's lines to argue his points. Louis could have nothing to say back, no argument.
France quickly checked the date on it, and saw that it went to press almost two weeks ago! Robespierre timed it perfectly - smart man! He had to have known the summons for representatives would go out soon. Smart, devious, and calculating too, if France had to take a guess. But those words sounded negative, and he didn't want to think of Robespierre like some conniving criminal. He was a great man. The public was going to read this! The public was going to read this and understand everything that was happening. And they'd help. And if the people started helping then the Estates General would help and it wouldn't turn into the joke France so desperately feared it would.
Robespierre's words in just the opening of his treatise had done something to France's heart. It stirred up some sort of hope and emotion that he hadn't felt in a very, very long time. The excitement that somebody else understood, understood so deeply, and was going to such great lengths to spread the word and make others understand energized his heart and ignited something in his spirit. Pride, perhaps?
Maybe France would talk to him. Wouldn't that be fantastic? What if France had a chance to collaborate with Robespierre? Together, they'd definitely be able to convince Louis. The two of them would be able to make him do anything they wanted him to do. Robespierre's and France's charisma and energy all packed together.
The next line - brilliant! "The zeal which we shall show in order to recover the sacred and imprescriptible rights from which we have been deprived". Not only does the happiness of Third Estate France depend on representation, but also the passion the people have in pursuing everything the nobility took from them - now those were definitely revolutionary words. The French people "sleep under the chains the nobility has handed to them". Quality analogy.
Robespierre's support meant even more to everyone because he wasn't poor. He didn't go hungry like some of the poorest in Paris. He definitely owned his own estate and was educated. And well-spoken. And likable! And yet he was willing to stand up for others.
Louis did not even compare to someone like Robespierre. Whether or not Louis was 'trying' now, as he put it, he'd never understand just how hard he'd have to work. Robespierre was already working.
Louis did not and would not ever possess the interpersonal talents Robespierre was naturally endowed with. He'd never speak as well as Robespierre, write as well as Robespierre. He'd never have the charisma. He'd never be able to reach so many different people at once, and keep them engaged for long enough to hear what he had to say. And he'd never have the passion to convince people of his opinions. Instead of someone like Robespierre at the helm France was stuck with an imbecile.
France's nose felt dry, and crusted with dried blood, so he finally felt safe enough to peel the parchment away from his face. It looked disgusting. Covered in streams of fresh blood and globs of congealed blood. Smudged all in the writing, saturating the parchment and making it dangerously thin and weak. Hmph. If Robespierre were King, or at least in charge of something, this wouldn't have happened to him. If Robespierre were King, he wouldn't have to drink himself to sleep every night, only to wake up screaming from the pain in his back.
Speaking of drinking himself to sleep, he actually forgot about the throbbing in his back. Still there, but soft. Able to be forgotten. The laudanum had done all it could for him. He thought of drinking another vial, but the glint of the other wine bottles he had sent to his room caught his eye. He decided to pop the cork off of one. He didn't bother pouring a glass. He just drank it straight from the bottle.
Just imagine what things could be like under Robespierre.
Drink.
The Third Estate would not nearly be suffering like it was. France's body wouldn't literally be tearing itself in half. He wouldn't be depressed.
Drink.
He wouldn't have this stupid cut on his back. He'd be able to sleep. And see people and see his friends. And go shopping and buy fancy clothes and keep his hair shiny and do things and eat bread and not feel sick and-
Drink.
What good Robespierre could do for Third Estate France. France wished Robespierre was King.
Somewhere between bottle one and two-and-a-half, and about ten more times through Robespierre's work, all that pride he had turned into something less . . . valiant. Something a little more rage-based. Jealousy. Contempt. "God, France, take some responsibility for ONCE, you pathetic excuse for a Nation!" Louis' voice echoed over and over and over again in his head. "Pathetic excuse for a Nation. Pathetic excuse for a Nation." Well who made him like that? "Take some responsibility for ONCE." For once. Really? Really?!
He replayed his and Louis' whole entire argument in his head. Thinking of all the things Louis said that were plain wrong, and misinformed, and all the accusations. Everything he could have said that would have really shut him down, dealt a killing emotional blow he wouldn't be able to recover from. His drinking turned angry. There was about a quarter of the bottle left, so he drank the whole thing in one go, ignoring the acidity and the burning in his throat and how the aroma filled his nose from the bottom of his sinuses up. He shook the last few drops into his mouth and threw the bottle as hard as he could against the wall.
The sound of the glass shattering made him feel a little better. The release. He grabbed up the other one and smashed it as well, aiming for the stains on the wall from the first one.
He drank three more bottles of wine. The laudanum already slowed him down a bit. Calmed him down, dulled his pain. Gave him a gentle floating feeling that he loved. Combatted oddly by the sad and angry feeling he had, supplemented by the wine. He couldn't quite feel his fingertips anymore, even when the warm, tingling feeling of the wine started up. He couldn't quite see completely clearly. The room looked like it had a white film over it. He kept drinking. Thinking.
If Robespierre were King. France could just end it now. A bit of deliberate regicide never hurt a Nation. Not for very long, even if it did. It worked for Britain - Charles I. It worked for Rome and his senators way back when - Caligula. Countless others in European history. And in almost every instance, the Nation was against the ruler. All it took was a little initiative, maybe a little arsenic. A cord, even, to wrap around his throat and snap his neck. God, humans were so fragile. They broke at the slightest touch and- Wait! What if France gave him enough laudanum to kill a horse? What if he killed Louis the way Louis killed him? And France could be free of Louis forever and just wait until either someone assumed power or the monarchy got their stuff together and rounded up the sickly Dauphin.
The Dauphin probably wouldn't- . . . His birthday was-and he was sick so probably not be King. France couldn't even think straight anymore.
Somewhere between bottle six and bottle eight, he decided to go looking for Louis.
Trying to stand up from his bed was a fun experience. He tried to slide himself off, nice and slowly. He planted his feet two or three times on the ground below him just to make sure his feet were on solid ground and that his legs were prepared to straighten up. They still felt clumsy and sluggish, and there was two whole seconds of obvious delay between when he told himself to move and when they actually did move. "Whatever it'll be fine we got this." France knew he was buzzed, but as soon as he tried to stand up and his brain hit an altitude higher than where it had been for the day, it sent his entire world spinning around him. He thought the ground was right there under his foot but then it moved and so he toppled backwards, landing straight on his back again.
"Ow," he muttered on impulse, but he didn't even feel it. Tricky ground.
He tried again and made sure to keep his weight forward the second time so he didn't fall back. And suddenly his face bounced off the wall.
"Oh, hello, when did you get there?" he asked it.
As soon as he got himself standing (leaning?) France began his promenade. His promenade to Louis.
He didn't know what he was going to do. He really didn't think it through or plan it out and any time he did try to think it through his drunk mind would wander and the literal buzzing of his brain and senses would grow just a little more intense. But he wanted to find Louis. He wanted to find him, he knew that! He knew he wanted to find Louis and maybe talk to him. To give him a piece of his mind. Finally, right? Finally give Louis a piece of his mind. Finally. His wound still oozed blood and seeped, and he could feel it running down his back and pool into his waistband while he staggered. But it didn't hurt anymore. How bad could it be? The halls of Versailles strobed in and out of focus all around him.
They all looked the same - all of them. And he didn't pay attention to where he was going when he left his room so he had no idea where he was or where he was even going anymore to find Louis. He also didn't realize he was shirtless until he needed the wall to help him along and it felt colder on his shoulder than before. He knew he was barefoot but the lack of a shirt kind of shocked him. Oh well. Too late to go back now. He didn't even brush his hair for this - he was on a MISSION.
He circled the Hall of Mirrors three or four times before he realized what he was doing. It was dead. Completely dead. No people, no candles burning, no nothing. He kept getting turned around by all the mirrors. He kept thinking they were open doorways and he kept bouncing off them. He kept thinking he was going one way but really he was going the other way and it didn't help that he couldn't walk in a straight line because he was so drunk. He managed to escape back to where he came from and peeked into Louis' bedchamber, right next door. "Mmm, not here," he thought to himself. But he wanted to make sure. He almost tottered a few steps in before the guards stationed at the door blocked him, crossing their weapons in front of him.
"You can't go in here," one of them said, shoving his halberd in France's face.
"Oooooh, put that away," France said. "You n' I both know 's only decorative."
The guard smelled the wine on France's breath and his nose crinkled. He glared down his nose at France. "Monsieur Bonnefoy, you're drunk."
"Hell yes, I am. But jus' because I'm drunk doesn't mean I can't find Louis." France tried to shove their lances aside and push his way through, but the guards held firm. He even braced his back against the door frame and pushed as hard as he could but they were too strong.
"Monsieur, get out of here!" he yelled. He turned his lance sideways and shoved France back, and suddenly France was back on the floor. Great. Now he'd have to get back up.
"Ooookay. Okay, you know what? I bet Louis' not even in there anyway. So thanks for nothing! You better hope Louis can vouch for you or else you'll be out of here by next week. Frickin' guards." Who did they think they were, guarding things?
France toodle-oo waved and backed away, instead opting to wander back through the Hall of Mirrors. He happened to catch his reflection in one of the mirrors and took a second to primp a bit, finger-coming out a knot that had tangled in his hair somewhere between his room and Louis'. He looked ragged.
Louis probably wouldn't be in Marie's apartments. France spun around to head the other way, down the hall of salons. He spun around way too fast, though, and tumbled over again onto the floor. He was getting mad. He had to freaking find Louis, now.
None of the chandeliers were lit in this part of the Palace, either. It was odd and quiet. He'd never seen the Palace this dead. There were always people out and about, servants, butlers, porters, guards, everyone. There was nobody here. The War Drawing Room looked especially dark from the deep grey marble on the walls, and a worming feeling in France's stomach made him feel like he shouldn't be there. Through the Apollo Drawing Room. The center chandelier was lit, meaning someone had probably been in here at some point. He was probably getting close. Through Mars, through Diana, through Venus, and finally through the Drawing Room of Plenty. The further and further he went, the more signs of life he saw, giving him a sense of relief. More lights, more sounds, more staff. He followed the bustle, and was pleased when he heard loud, boisterous laughter coming from a few rooms over. Oh, finally!
France almost staggered right up to the door, but a small voice in his head stopped him. "Wait, I look atrocious," he realized. "I can't talk to Louis looking like this." France straightened his waistband, fluffed his hair up, and for some reason decided that was enough. No shirt was okay, no shoes was probably an insult, but his hair - absolutely not. His hair had to be perfect. He wouldn't be caught dead. France got as close as he could to the light bleeding through the door frame, but he didn't want Louis to see him yet. People were talking and laughing and eating. Who else was there? From where he was, France could see Louis, Marie, and . . . Necker? Maybe that's who that was? France didn't know, it was somebody France didn't immediately recognize. Whatever. Everyone else was irrelevant. He found Louis at the center of everything, playing cards with a group of men while the others looked on and chatted.
Poor Louis was on his own. He cleared his throat, straightened his back (as much as he could without toppling over), and paraded right up to the door frame. The guards blocked him, as he expected this time, but when Louis looked up and saw France's face, his hardened. "Monsieur?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"
Since Louis addressed him, the guards shifted to the sides and let him into the room. He staggered straight up to Louis' table, even nudging chairs and people aside to have a clear view. "You sent me a letter today."
"I sent many letters to many people. Be more specific," Louis said, turning his attention back to the cards. Not even looking at France.
"Nnnnnooooo, no, no, no, no!" he slurred, unable to hide it. He had to think hard about the words before they came out, or he knew he'd mess them up. And he was not about to look dumb in front of Louis and all these people. "You're gonna look at me, and you n' I are gonna have a conversation!"
France looked all around for a seat, but there were no extra chairs available. Somebody had to move. He decided on the aristocrat to his right, slapping the playing cards out of his hand. He made a shooing motion with his hands. "Move."
The man looked at him in surprise and disgust.
"Move! Dégage!"
"I beg your pardon-" he began, but France cut him off.
"Shhhhhhh-sh-sh-" he said, waving his hand in the man's face. "Shush. Move." France didn't wait for him to decide if he was going to move or not. Instead, he shoved him as hard as he could from the seat. He crashed to the floor, and France positioned the chair until it was right in front of Louis. He flicked the tailcoats he forgot he didn't have out from under him before sitting.
"How dare you-"
"Oh, my God, get out of here already! What wazzat, Louis, sarcasm? Don't be smart with me! You know what letter!"
"Francis . . . " Louis muttered. His eyes flicked nervously to the other people in the room. " . . . You're drunk."
"I'm not drunk! How dare you I'm the soberest guy in the room. Okay, fine! Yes! Yes I am drunk! But is that crime? Did I commit a crime? No! No I didn't so y'know what?" He looked and saw all the other people in the room staring at him. "What?! Whaaaaat? Do you see something strange?"
France dug into the pockets of his trousers and showed Louis the letter. Still folded, still covered in black, crusty, dried blood and fresh scarlet blood. But the unmistakable Bourbon crest sealed in wax. He made sure to position it so it was facing Louis. there'd be no mistaking it for another letter.
France held it up. Stared Louis in the eye.
And ripped the letter down the middle. He slapped the halves on top of each other and tore them again. As soon as it was well-shredded, he rained the pieces down on the middle of the table.
"Here's what I think of your damn letter," he slurred. He pointed his finger in Louis' face across the table. "I told you to leave me out of this!"
"Go back to bed," Louis insisted, gently slapping France's hand away. "I am leaving you out of this. Clearly you didn't read all that you were supposed to on that paper. And now you never will. And I am glad for it, to be quite honest. If someone like you, who conducts themselves in this manner, was leading the Assembly of Notables, and, by extension, the Estates General, it would be chaos."
Who was this Louis? This Louis with so much to say, who sounded . . . calm and collected and succinct? And powerful and decisive?
"You know what? I'm quite glad this happened, Monsieur. I was struggling with letting you go, but I think this quells my indecision. And it alleviates my sadness for doing so."
"Wait, what?" He was following Louis' words, but not processing their meaning. France couldn't think of anything to say back. This wasn't how the argument went in his head. He was supposed to rip Louis a new one and parade out like a hero.
Instead, Louis lifted his hand and motioned to the guards at the door. "Escort him to his rooms. Off the Hall of Mirrors, in my apartments."
They wrapped firm hands around his arms and hauled him up from the chair. "Don't touch me!" he insisted, trying weakly to shake them off. Once again, the sudden change of altitude made him dizzy, and he staggered into one of them. They pushed him away but, luckily, held him upright so he didn't fall.
"Wow," Louis said, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
France would've sworn that was for show. A public display of the fact that he was cutting all ties with France and admitting his disgrace. No! France was going to leave on his terms, not Louis'-
The guards tugged his arm. "His Majesty has ordered your removal."
"HIS MAJESTY can kiss my-"
"Monsieur!" Louis yelled. "I will give you one last chance to either escort yourself out, or have the guards do it for you!"
Even inebriated, France could tell he was fighting a losing battle. It was time to hold up the white flag. He sighed, numbly frustrated that this ended in defeat. That what was potentially his last encounter with Louis was going to end poorly for him. As the guards spun him around, in a final show of proof, France let Louis see his cut. He made sure Louis saw the purple-yellow-green smear of a bruise around it, the dried and fresh blood pouring from it and crusted around it. The kind of yellow-ish white tint it took on and the seepage, and how angry and irritated it looked.
"I'm sorry this is happening to you."
"No you're not," France hissed over his shoulder. "I swear to you I'll be back-"
"Lock him in there if you have to!"
"This isn't over!" France tried, as they dragged him back out through the doorway.
"Find a way to get over it, because I assure you, Francis, it is. Gentlemen, ladies, I apologize. He has been bedridden with a fever for weeks now, and is not in his right mind-"
"Va te faire enculer-"
"Confiscate all of his alcohol!" Louis yelled. "Tell the staff Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy is not to be served any more wine at Versailles!"
France couldn't fight the guards. They were too strong. Otherwise, he would have murdered Louis.
December, 1788
Le Château de Versailles
France's Bedchamber
France couldn't feel his toes. He couldn't feel his feet. He couldn't feel his fingers or his hands. Couldn't stop shivering. Caught in limbo somewhere between a fever's aching sweat and the weather's stinging chill. Too cold to go without blankets, and too hot to spend more than a few minutes under them at a time. His heart was running wild in his chest. He couldn't breathe, feeling like it took all of his effort just to drag the frozen air into his lungs. So cold that it felt sharp, and cut through him with each breath. When he breathed out, it puffed in front of him like he was outside.
"C-close the windows, please," he asked the servant. The poor man someone (probably Louis) ordered to stay at his side. "Still cold." If France had to guess, Louis ordered him to watch France, but France wasn't even upset. He deserved a bit of what he got and plus, it wasn't like he was doing much of anything at this point.
"They are closed, Monsieur."
"Close them tighter," he grumbled quietly, thinking he said it only to himself. He turned away from them, weakly hoping it would do something.
" . . . I will . . . double check them, Monsieur." Oh. Wait. He heard. "And I'll get a fire going in your drawing room."
"Merci."
Day fifty-seven of this frost was not treating him kindly.
Day fifty-seven. Snow on his windows, dusting the gardens and the trees outside. It coated the cobblestone streets of the Versailles town and brushed the hills of the entire countryside. The fountains and ponds were frozen over the cobblestone streets of the Versailles town and on the hills of the entire countryside. Most definitely covering Paris, too. A biting, harsh wind that whipped the flurries around and cut through even the thickest clothes came with it. Cut through his blankets.
France was facing the coldest winter in his memory. In his recorded history. Killing off all the fruit trees and spoiling grain stores and crops. Barrels of wine and cider were turning to icy slush and the Seine froze hard, so all the mills and machinery were inoperable.
If ever God intervened to make a situation worse, this was it. God was not on France's side this time.
His bandages were cold, wet, and dirty. He couldn't stop shivering. His bones felt cold, his skin felt cold, his soaked bandages felt cold and dirty.
He couldn't. get. warm.
While the servant was in the other room, France heard the doors to his drawing room open from the hallways. The slow, deliberate footsteps that could only belong to a Versailles butler crossed the drawing room and stopped in the doorway of France's bedchamber.
"Monsieur Bonnefoy?" he asked. Luckily France was facing the door already.
"Oui," he muttered bitterly.
"Monsieur Cesare Buonnaroti sends his well wishes, and wishes to call upon you at your earliest convenience in order to treat your ailments."
"I accept his offer, and thank him p-pro-profusely," France stumbled. His face felt chilled and slow. "He may come at any time, during his earliest convenience."
"Very well, Monsieur."
The butler retreated from the room, and the servant waited until he left the drawing room as well before coming back in and sitting by France.
"That's good, that the doctor's on his way." France refused to comment. It wasn't like the doctor could make him feel any better. He could change his bandages, make small talk, and probably beg France to drink more laudanum to manage the pain. But France didn't want to drink any more. It dulled his pain but dulled his mind, too, not including how wine drunk he got on top of it last time. "I've started the fire," the servant said. "Shall I get you another blanket?"
"Oui, m-merci." He curled up tighter under the three he already had, dragging them further up under his chin. But it didn't make him comfortable. He groaned in frustration and tossed them off his shoulders for another few seconds before the aches made him shiver. The man left, and France was completely alone. He half closed his eyes, weariness washing over him, a distinctly vague feeling across his whole body.
He really felt awful. He didn't even realize how much he was trying to hide it until he was alone . . .
"France, wake up," someone said. Probably the servant, returned with his blankets. How long had he been asleep? It felt like seconds, like a blink, but when he opened his eyes a maidservant in a fancy dress was there with a pile of blankets in her arms-
Wait.
Fancy dress. France looked closer. Two layered skirt. The bottom layer was gold silk, shiny and pristine looking. The over skirt, pulled up in the front to expose the layer underneath, was embroidered with red, pink, and gold flowers, sectioned off three ways. One piece that lay flat in the middle, with the two other pieces arcing out from underneath to connect in the back. The corset laced up in the front with matching gold silk ribbons. The edges, around her bust and circling around her collar, were white lace. The same flowers were embroidered into the bodice, and her three-quarter length sleeves sported the gold silk fringes.
Way too expensive to be a servant's dress. Which meant . . .
France looked a little higher, right into the concerned face of Marie Antoinette. Her adorably thin lips, plumped up with red stain, and her bright blue eyes, shaded with pity and fear as she looked down at him.
"Marie-?" Oh, no. He wasn't in the slightest bit decent. "Merde," he spat on impulse, already trying to get into some sort of upright position so he could bow to her. France threw the covers off of himself and propped himself up on his elbows. He was about to sit himself up, but a dizzy spell crashed over him like a wave. Marie and his room blurred around him, and he had to flop back down on to the bed before he fell over.
"Please, lie down," she told him anyway, a fraction too late. She stood and quickly grabbed the covers, gently pulling them back over him. France snatched them up rather ungraciously, but he didn't even notice with how chilled he was. "You don't look well."
"But you, on the other hand," France said, transitioning smoothly into some propriety. "Ma reine, vous êtes la photo de la beauté. If I were in any health to show you the respect you deserve, I would."
"Thank you," she nodded. "I saw the staff carrying all these blankets. I heard you were sick, and I never see you anymore. So I thought I'd visit and talk."
"Marie, I appreciate the thought so much. You know I do. But I don't feel well at all," he answered honestly. "I think you should go-"
"Nonsense. Remember that conversation we had? About how I'm your monarch and you love me, and you're my Nation and I love you?"
"I remember, but it's not that. I want to be-"
"Alone? So did I. But you comforted me when I was upset and made me feel better, and so now I comfort you when you're ill." She lay a soft hand on the top of the blankets, smiling slightly at him. She must have felt him trembling underneath them - almost instantly her smile vanished and she stood, grabbing a blanket form the pile she brought. "You're shivering!" She unraveled the blanket and shook it flat, then draped it over the ever-growing pile.
"Merci," he mumbled.
Marie stood over him and combed a bit of his hair away from his face, then lay the back of her had across his forehead. "You're burning up, too. I was right to call upon the doctor."
"That was you?"
"It was."
"Merci."
"You don't have to thank me. I didn't know if . . . I remember, when Austria was sick, he would often tell my mother and I that human doctors couldn't help him. Is that one of these instances?"
" . . . I think so."
"Ah," she said awkwardly. "I'm sorry, but he'll be here soon. Maybe he could do something, to at least ease your pain?"
"P-perhaps," France said, knowing it wasn't true but not wanting to criticize her kindness. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I just want to talk, like I said. I never see you anymore," she said.
"I really appreciate it-" Wait. That was it? Just to see him? She had months of France all to herself, there if she wanted him, after he 'quit'. Why now, when he was feeling his worst. He doubted her, thinking for a moment she was lying to him. "Louis didn't send you, did he?"
"Hah!" she laughed. "If he would have, I'd have said no. His quarrels with you are his problems, and vice versa. Both of you are respectable men, capable of handling your own mess."
" . . . This is why I like you, Marie Antoinette. How different you were when I first met you. I got to watch you bloom from a closed bud into a beautiful, thorny rose. I often-" he began. But he realized after he began that it was probably inappropriate to say. She urged him to continue.
"What?" she prompted.
"Nothing. I shouldn't say it."
"Tell me," she said. Her bright eyes flared, and her slight smile made it seem like it was a juicy Court secret he was about to share. Even though it was about her.
"I was going to say that I often forget that you are semi-politically active yourself, and I forget that you could be a force all to yourself if you wanted to be. I tend to remove you from my anger at Louis and the Court." He knew that sounded bad, like he was calling her ineffective and unhelpful. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn't. France didn't know how heavy her hand was in Louis' action at this point. But either way he didn't want to assume one or the other right now, since she was being so kind to him. He quickly remedied, "You watch from the shadows, you say your piece, and then you retreat."
"Well, Louis doesn't listen very well to anyone, does he?"
"No, he doesn't."
She smiled stiffly. "We have a saying in German. 'Tomaten auf den Augen.' I think the French equivalent would be, 'faire la sourde oreille.' It means to turn a blind eye, and a deaf ear, or to be unaware of what's happening around you. It literally translates to, 'The tomatoes are over your eyes,'" she said, cupping circles around her couldn't help but chuckle, and when he did her smile grew. "There! I made you laugh! Speaking of German," she said, changing the subject. "Austria and I write to each other often, and he told me about the piano you commissioned for him. That was kind of you."
"I felt like I owed it to him after his visit. It was nice of him to go out of his way and come here."
"Well he wants me to tell you about how much he loves it! He constantly invites Herr Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to come play it, and his own teacher Herr Joseph Haydn from the Esterhàzy court in Hungary. The both of them love it as well, which says something, considering they're virtuosos."
"I'm glad they like it."
The conversation lulled, and France sat shivering for a moment before Marie sighed tiredly.
"I do want to talk about something specific," she said, staring into his eyes. "Did you happen to see Maximilien Robespierre's letter?"
The letter. The very mention of it rolled a ball in France's stomach, so thick the pain was instantaneous. He winced, curling up on himself under the covers. His breath hitched in his throat, and he started coughing. Each bit harder than the last, until he was sure it would end with a broken rib. With each clench of his stomach another stab of pain rocketed through him, bringing tears to his eyes.
A metallic, coppery taste burst in his mouth, and France covered his mouth with his hand. When he pulled away, he wasn't surprised to see blood spattered on his hand. his vision grew fuzzy, blacking out along the edges, and he knew what was coming.
France suddenly rolled to the other side of the bed and vomited into his chamber pot.
"Nrgh," he groaned, focusing on it. There was a bit of blood in it. Enough to give it a red twinge and that copper taste. "I'm sorry," he offered to Marie, like that would help. Or somehow make the situation less awkward. He peeked at her out of the corner of his eye, and saw her mildly disgusted face. Clearly she wasn't used to this sort of drudgery. A feeling of mortification spread into his heart, coloring his cheeks, and he quickly turned away from her completely so she couldn't see how embarrassed he was.
"Are you okay?"
"No." He paused to try and spit some of the taste out of his mouth. " . . . I'm okay. Marie, please go."
"I . . . I can't. I'm sorry, but I need to talk to you about this. I need to know what's happening to you."
"Why?" he asked, staring up at the ceiling. "Why right now? Can't this wait?"
"I've been an absentee queen for too long, don't you think? Louis' trying his hardest but even I can tell how precarious our position has become. We have to work together if we want this to work out-"
"Marie, please," he said, cutting her off. "It's hopeless. Look at me. I appreciate you doing this. More than I can say. I appreciate you trying to help, and I appreciate you trying to keep me involved. But . . . I left for a reason. I just can't do it anymore. You've seen what it does to me. It . . . it hurts too badly."
She smiled sympathetically. " . . . I know that. But I want to help. I owe it to you. It's a duty and an obligation that I should have been doing from the start." France tried to roll onto his back, and Marie stood and helped when she saw what he was doing. Though, France noticed, she only touched his blankets. She never actually touched him except to feel his fever. "I'm so sorry. I wish I wouldn't have been so . . . clueless for so long. I wish I wouldn't have been so careless, either. I hope you can forgive me for taking so long to jump onboard."
"Of course," France said, and he meant it. He never held Marie responsible for the legislative errors on the crown's part. The financial errors, perhaps. But the fact that she was making up for it in other conscious ways and acknowledging her mistakes meant so much more to France than she could ever know, and he could ever verbalize.
"Louis regrets arguing with you, as well."
France's bitterness spat the words from his mouth. "His regret isn't going to solve anything."
"I know that, too. Which is why I'm taking matters into my own hands, as much as possible. So, the letter. Did you read it?"
"I did," France nodded. "I did, and so did the entire north half of the country, I bet."
"Yes, he put it to print about a month ago, now. How it made its way through the censor is beyond me. What do you think of it?"
This was dangerous territory. France wasn't about to be charged with treason and sedition. He thought about his next words, but Marie saw the careful calculation in his eyes. She reached out to him.
"Look at me," she said. And his bright blue locked with her blue and neither looked away. "This conversation stays between us. I promise. I just want to know what you think. As a citizen, or even from your position as a Nation. Your opinion could decide our action."
"It was . . . effective. Powerful. Linguistically riveting and absolutely true. Kind of amazing," he admitted. "I loved every word of it. He kind of summarized everything that the Estates General could do for the Third Estate - given that it has appropriate representation. It made me want to be a part of the greater picture, something much greater than myself. It made me want to stand up for the future France that the Third Estate wants."
Marie nodded. "Effective indeed. I knew the Estates General was being proposed, but I didn't know what all it entailed. And I wanted to make sure it was the best decision for everybody - you included. So I did some research. Robespierre was calling for representation, right? At first I thought he simply meant the right representation, or, electing the right people to office. I found out he meant numerical representation as well. Each estate has an equal number of delegates, and the delegates all meet separately."
France nodded. "And you see the problem there."
"I do. Two chambers consist entirely of the Second and First Estates, so with two against one, it leaves the nation exactly where it had been, in the power of the privileged classes. They can veto anything that the third estate alone wants. They can impose anything they choose upon the Third Estate, by their two to one vote. It's the same principal for the Parliaments. They can prevent all reform that in any way affects themselves, even though it's absolutely necessary. Immediately following Robespierre's press release of his letter, Louis received almost fifteen that day about numerical representation of the Third Estate. More and more come flooding in each day from everybody - former deputies of the Assembly of Notables, common peasants, even noblemen and clergymen who want to see fair representation for all."
"Has Louis been responding to them?" No, wait! You're not interested, France!
"Not directly, no-"
"No, right, I meant legislatively."
"He's been discussing it with Monsieur Necker, but I'm not sure what his final decision will be. Louis wanted to leave it up to the Paris Parliaments - leave the idea of representation up to a vote. That way it's out of their hands, and Monsieur Necker agrees-"
"He's not serious!" France practically yelled.
"Monsieur Necker . . . I like him. I really do," Marie began. "But he's a bit flighty as well. He's so desperate to be loved by the people that I'm afraid he'll neglect Louis' needs of a firm hand."
That part of France and Louis' argument played in his head. "You're a poor judge of character and you let everyone you know influence you. I bet Necker lasts . . . mmm, six months. If that. Calonne liked the money and Brienne genuinely wanted to help, but Necker? Necker has better and closer ties to the people than he has to you. If that doesn't scare you, it should. Know why? Because he's not going to stick around like the other two. He's smart enough to know when this job isn't worth it anymore, and he's going to know when the people are the safer option. He'll betray you without a second thought. And when you're left all alone, facing down a mob of angry Frenchmen, you won't even have me to help you."
"You'll never believe what I told him," France mumbled.
Marie nodded. "Yes, when Louis offered to leave it up to the Parliaments, Monsieur Necker was in agreement. Personally, I think Louis should just decide in favor of fair representation himself, and here's why-"
"Because if the Parliament says no, it's destroyed their credibility as well," France realized before she said it.
"Exactly. The people have opposed nearly everything Louis has done, and so has the Parliaments, effectively putting them on the 'same side' up to this point. If the Parliaments say no, the last line of defense between the people and us is gone."
"Please tell me you've tried to warn him of this?" France asked.
"At the time, I didn't quite know how to phrase it. I knew I wanted to tell him to pass it himself, and I knew I wanted Parliamentary trust to be a piece of it, but the ideas weren't very developed at that point. I didn't know what to say."
"Say it to him, Marie, please! You have to! Please, please, you have to!" he begged her. He even stuck his arm outside the blankets to grab her hand with his clean one. "Please, Marie. You've been nearly silent up until this point. If even you must speak up against something he's doing, that has to speak volumes. Right?"
"I don't know. I will say something to him, though."
"You have to. Convince him to pass it himself. Don't even let him go through the Parliaments."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you."
"You don't have to keep thanking me," she said again, shaking her head. Her little blonde curls bounced lively behind her head with each shake, and France noticed for the first time that she didn't have any of her ridiculous headpieces on this time. Only a little gold tricorn hat to match her dress. Absolutely stunning. "This is what I should have been doing from the start." She looked so sincere, staring straight at him the whole time they talked. Nodding her conviction into her voice.
" . . . Where were you, for this whole reign?" France asked her. "If I had known just how inquisitive you are, how resourceful, and beautiful, and selfless you are, you and I would have had this discussion a long time ago.
"I don't know. Caught up in the grandeur, I think," she answered honestly. "I've always been fond of you, France. Maliciousness has never been my intent, if I've wronged you in any way."
France shook his head. "Please know, from you I never thought it was."
"But I'm here now. I do want to help. And I desperately want you involved. The two of us could be so much more influential together. Come to the Estates General."
"No," he immediately spat.
"I'll be there," she tried. "Unable to do anything but sit and listen to the opening remarks and the discussions. You could be there, in the thick of it! You could sit with the Third Estate, and you could stand and argue your points and say everything you feel! And with your charisma, and with the amount of power you have in just your gaze, let alone the way you carry yourself when you say something meaningful, I guarantee you'd have the entire floor on your side in less than a minute. Please, France, please consider going."
After this discussion with her, after sticking his toes in the water of the representation, after becoming mentally invested again, how could he refuse? How could he snub Marie like that? After she worked so hard for him, and stuck her neck out, how could he refuse her on the grounds of laziness? The thought of going right then exhausted him though, though, so completely that he sighed. "I don't know. I'm too sick right now. If I'm better by then, I'll think about it."
"How about this," she offered. "We wait to see what Louis does about representation. If he chooses to double it himself, you don't go. If the Parliaments decide to double it, you go, but be as silent as you want. If the Parliaments reject it completely, then you go as an activist, and representative of the Third Estate. Deal?"
"Leaving my fate in Louis' hands," he thought to himself. He detested the idea for a second, then decided it wasn't much different from his usual position. "Okay. Deal."
"Excellent. Thank you," she said. She reached out and gently stroked his (probably sweaty) hair.
A butler edged into the doorway and announced loudly, "Monsieur Cesare Buonnaroti."
He walked in and saw Marie, bowing low. "Ah! Ma donna," he said in Italian. She stood and gave a slight curtsey.
"I leave him in your capable hands. At least try to make him comfortable."
"You have my word."
"I will do my best to convince Louis. In the meantime, stay well. I will bring you updates as they come."
"Thank you, ma Reine. Vous belle, belle âme."
January 22, 1789
Le Château de Versailles
France's Bedchamber
"Monsieur Bonnefoy, someone from the kitchens sent up an onion soup - Nicolas Appert's recipe, from La Pomme d'Or kitchens in Châlons-en-Champagne. It's got meat stock and carmelized onions, with-"
"I know what it is. It was Louis XV's favorite. We used to eat it all the time when he - never mind. Do you know who sent it?"
"A woman named Gwen. She left this note." The servant walked it over to the bed and handed it to France.
'I heard you were sick. Eat up.
And if this doesn't make you feel better, you can always come back down to the kitchens and eat my-'
France barked out a laugh so ugly, he slapped his hand over his own mouth to stifle it. "You little devil," he said. He supposed that was also a 'no hard feelings' gesture. "That's great! Bring it over."
The servant set up a tray for France off the side of his bed, and even tried to help France sit up to eat it. But France quickly shook him off. "I'm not some infirm old man! I promise I'm fine. Anything else for me?"
"Yes. The papers from Paris, Monsieur, as you requested. The Queen sent it, and attached a letter." He pulled them out from their place under the plates and handed them over to France. He gasped, ripping them from his hands and opening it up, flipping violently to try and find what he was looking for.
"Did the Paris Parliament vote on representation?"
"I don't know. I can't read it."
He found what he was looking for a few stories in, right after, 'Commentary on the American War of Independence.' That actually sounded semi interesting and sparked France's interest, but he was on a mission. He could read it later.'The question of equal representation for the Third Estate' - there! 'The question of equal representation for the Third Estate in the upcoming-' Blah, blah, blah. France skimmed and skipped, looking for the ultimate decision that came out of it. 'The Parisian Parliaments have ultimately, in a near unanimous majority, pronounced in favor of the customary organization of the Estates General. There will be three chambers, all meeting with the same number of representation, unless otherwise instructed by Versailles.'
Oh.
Every hope France possibly had deflated inside of him. "No . . . " France wasn't ready for this. What would the people say? What would the people do? He wasn't ready, in any sense of the word. He realized that for the first time in his life, he was afraid of them. Afraid of what they could do to him.
France winced against a small twinge that show down his back, gently massaging the very top of his shoulder where he could stand it.
He wasn't ready for their fury.
What were they saying already? No doubt the talking would start soon - or was already starting. France continued to slowly skim the paper, looking for any sort of commentary or response that managed to make it to press.
"The Parliament itself is a privileged body. It stands for privilege. The outcome of this vote should be a symbol to all men of the Third Estate of the aristocracy's alliances. To continue to be fooled by this Wolf in Sheep's Clothing is to do a disservice to your country and to your fellow countrymen-" Published by, guess who, Maximilien Robespierre. The man was gaining a following. His words were ringing true time and time again, and they were gaining weight.
France didn't know what to say. How to react. His heart felt heavy in his chest, sinking lower and lower into the pit of his stomach. He crinkled up the paper and tossed it away. "Throw that in the fire out there."
"Oui, Monsieur." He picked it up, and France watched him tread towards the door before an odd feeling in his heart stopped him.
"Wait!" he called. "I . . . Actually, I want to keep that. Do you see the chest at the foot of my bed?"
"Oui, Monsieur."
"The key to the padlock is behind the painting, in the bottom right of the frame. Fold that up and put it in there." He didn't know why he wanted to keep it. Every time he thought about it it made his heart and his stomach sick. But for some reason, he didn't want to let it go. Maybe for posterity's sake, if he even lived to see the end of this?
While the servant occupied himself with the chest, France peeled open Marie's letter. It was short, no more than a paragraph.
'I'm sorry I could not do more, but now it is time to get to work. I am holding you fast to our deal, and you are to appear at the Estates General on May 5th. With a bit of finagling, I have secured you an honorary seat among the Third Estate, and an honorary position as a representative. The invitation, complete with your name on it, is enclosed - but just in case, there will be a place next to Louis and I if the mood strikes you, or you think it's best. Whatever you decide, make sure it is the best decision for you. You may ride with Louis and I to the venue, if you want, but after that we are not to be seen together.
Wear modest clothing. In the meantime, I will talk to Louis and Monsieur Necker about increased representation anyway.
Marie'
January 23, 1789
Le Château de Versailles
France's Bedchamber
France's eyes opened, and all he knew was that his back was on fire.
He arched against it, screaming as the heat scorched his open flesh. The smell of his own skin burning, like frying meat, wafted to his nose. It clung right to the inside of his cheekbones, and he gagged against it. He peered over his shoulder and a jolt of panic cut through him at the sight of yellow and orange flames.
Versailles was actually on fire. His room was on fire. His bed was on fire.
His back was on. fire.
Time - and pain - caught back up to him, and he rolled away from the flames to the other side of his bed. His charred flesh made contact with the blankets and the agony ripped another scream from his throat. Burning, burning, burning!
France reached his stomach on the other side of his bed, but as soon as he was still, the blankets cinched tighter and tighter around him. Pocketing and rolling around each of his limbs and holding him in place. He watched in horror as the flames caught the sheets and pillows, crawling closer and closer to him. The sweat started to roll off of him from everywhere, salting his wound even more.
The smell of his burning flesh turned into the smell of smoke. Filling his lungs, stuffing them with ash. He choked and coughed, feeling the heat grow and grow as the flames behind him inched closer and closer and closer. The only thing he could do was wail in fear. He had to watch the fire lick closer and closer, trying with all of him to lean as far away from it as he could. Until they finally touched his back again. Hot, hot, hot!
France felt his skin turn thick and gummy. He felt his skin melting off, the muscle burning away, his nerves alight from it. Scorching fingers squeezed themselves between the two flaps of skin. Grabbed the sides, and ripped them open. Tugged at the tops and bottoms until the cut grew, stretching even almost to the front of him, destroying everything until it exposed even his bone. His blood boiled.
He screamed. He screamed in a way he had never screamed before.
"Wake up! France, wake up!"
His eyes actually opened.
His back was still on fire, but as his eyes roved around his room, there was no more real fire. He was still on his stomach, lying on something uncomfortably wet. He tried to move, but it wasn't the blankets holding him down. It was people. He couldn't crane his neck around enough to see who, but they had hands on his shoulders and knees, pushing him hard into the bed.
Looters. Rioters. They'd reached Versailles. They were here to rob him and kill him. Shoot him in the back of the head and leave him for dead while they stole everything from the room.
He panicked. He struggled and kicked as hard as he could with how weak his back felt. The muscles twitched and trembled, he tried everything he could to flip over.
"Is he awake?" someone asked.
"Yes, but-"
"Monsieur Bonnefoy-"
"Stay away from me! Laissez-moi!"
Footsteps circled from the other side of the bed around to his side, where his face was looking. They knelt down next to him and cupped his face hard, squeezing his cheeks. "Monsieur Bonnefoy, look at me. France."
France? A wave of burning pain washed over him, forcing him to freeze where he was. Luckily, long enough to see who it was that was talking to him. Buonnaroti, despite the blurriness.
"What are you-"
"Listen to me. Your cut has deepened, and grown larger over night. You were screaming in your sleep! We're almost done cleaning it out, but we need you to stay calm."
"Cleaning . . . "
"Yes. With alcohol. Brandy."
As if to confirm, France heard liquid sloshing around in a bottle behind him. "Alcohol . . . " France desperately tried to piece the facts together. No flames. They were cleaning his wound, not burning it. It was just the alcohol they were pouring on him. The hands he felt in the dream was just his scratch opening by itself. Buonnaroti was here to help. He was thrashing, so people held him down. It was wet because he was bleeding, and they poured alcohol on him.
"We have one more bit of it to clean out. Okay?"
"N-no!" he tried to protest. "You're hurting me-"
Buonnaroti squeezed his cheeks harder, cutting off his protests. "We have to. Do me a favor, and brace yourself, okay?"
France shook his head. "Don't touch me-"
Buonnaroti nodded over his shoulder. The liquid sloshed, and his back was on fire again. He moaned in pain, and pressed his face into the pillow as if he could wish it all away if he didn't look at it.
"Good," he said. "Almost done." He grabbed a towel or something else wet and rubbed it all up and down his back. Took another dry one and wiped around it, on the bruise. "Now we're going to let that air for a while, and then bandage it up."
And France was just supposed to be okay with all this? After they attacked him in his sleep? " . . . Ffffffffuck you," he finally settled on. In the wake of how hot his back felt everything else just felt cold. As soon as he stopped trembling in pain he continued to shiver, but he knew he couldn't pull the blanket up over himself.
"Watch your tone," came a voice from across the room. The person it belonged to stepped into France's field of vision, but kept his face purposefully turned away from him. He didn't need to see Louis' face. France knew it was him.
"Louis," he offered, as flatly as he felt.
"I know what caused this."
"Do you?" France asked through his teeth. "Of course you do! Always right there with a solution, aren't you?"
"There is a rift between the government and the people. And now, for the first time, there is a tangible rift among the government itself. Between the Parliaments and me. I thought they would rule in favor of representation, but I was wrong."
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" France snarled. Louis' face was still turned towards the wall. "Look at me!"
Louis refused. "I am going to enforce that Third Estate representation is doubled. Hopefully that makes you feel better." That was all Louis said. He walked out of the room, but France wasn't done.
"Get back here, Louis! You coward! Coward! You're going to lose this battle, you know that? You think you have all the power, but the people have more power than you ever will! I hope the Estates General crashes and burns! I hope the people finally stop swallowing the garbage you feed them! And then when they're standing over you, I hope you get a good, looooooong look at your countrymen, and I hope you at least have the goddamn COURAGE to look them in the eyes when they-"
"France, please. You'll only aggravate your back. He's gone."
Britain,
Thank you for your concern-
I appreciate your desire to he-
Thank you for your letter.-
Britain,
I appreciate your offer.
Thank you, but no.
I trust you understand how TERRIBLY TOKEN OF A RESPONSE THIS IS AND I'M ONLY SAYING IT FOR THE SAKE OF WHAT'S LEFT OF MY PRIDE AND DIGNITY AND I ACTUALLY WANT YOU TO COME OVER DESPERATELY PLEASE HELP ME
France crinkled the paper in his hands and threw it into the fireplace. He couldn't bring himself to lie anymore. But he couldn't bring himself to admit defeat quite yet either. It was strange how easy it was to say it in front of Louis or Brienne, or even Necker. But admitting he needed help to other Nations, he couldn't bring the humiliation on himself.
Was it even about humiliation? Or fear?
What would he do if Britain crossed the Channel, took one look around France and said, "I can't help you?" What if Britain found him to be unsalvageable?
And then what if word spread around Europe that France was going to disappear? Spain and Prussia would weep, and mourn him. Austria would be furious for not sending Marie away or informing him sooner. Who'd be the first to jump in there and try to conquer his available territories - probably Austria, Prussia, Spain, maybe even Russia. Maybe Britain, but from what it sounded like Britain would take a while to mobilize. And their army would be no match for Prussia.
May 5, 1789
Hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs du Roi
Versailles, France
France half-expected there to be trouble as he walked up to the foyer entrance. He half-expected the guards to stop him, ask him what he was doing there, ask him why he was so late. Instead, France simply held out his invitation as he walked past them, allowing them a quick glance then ducking between them through the doors.
"I'm an elected representative," he said on his way past.
"Honorary representative," he reminded himself. So what? So what if the people didn't elect him? So what if Francis Bonnefoy's name was still in relative obscurity outside of the Palace? "So he's taking handouts from the crown," France said to himself, and quickly dismissed it. Nobody had to know why he was there. Only that he was there as a member of the Third Estate, and he was there to listen. Or maybe even help, if it felt right.
France's stomach churned at the thought of standing up and saying something. Calling attention to himself. How many of them remembered him from his former Paris excursions? Or, by extension, the occasional Bread Riot he used to lead? If he said anything, and then was recognized as being affiliated with Versailles, he'd be ruined. He'd destroy any credibility he'd ever have among them. Then again, nagging at the back of his mind, France knew that if National impulse dictated he say something, he'd say it whether he wanted to or not. No matter what, it would be something everyone needed to hear - either from a nobleman or a commoner.
France passed through the small, red-carpeted foyer. He turned a quick left through a red-curtained archway, and walked through the first drawing room. God, this place looked eerily like Versailles. Only red. The walls were white, with white and gold paneling. The floors were a white marble, complete with black diamonds. Posh gold and white settees and arm chairs, golden statues, ancient paintings, busts, globes, maps, and other knick-knacks decorated the room, just like the Palace. The only things that were different were the red carpets on the floor in the center of the room, and the red drapes they hung over the walls and windows.
France confidently passed straight through the room, garnering small, inquisitive stairs of the other stragglers gathered there. Either they weren't qualified to get in and arrived with representative friends, or they were only interested in the aftermath of the events. France could even sense the bubbling excitement that emanated off of their little clusters as they whispered quickly to themselves. He himself was feeling nervous, and with each step his heart seemed to thud louder and louder in his chest.
What was he so afraid of? Hah! He tried to sound confident. He couldn't even fool himself. Through the second drawing room, where a large staircase to the upper floors stretched straight above the doorway he entered. He walked around, maneuvering between it and a red velvet billiards table, straight up to the antechamber doors.
The Salle des États. Where his future was literally being discussed right behind those doors. The entire Estates General met in here to discuss the subjects to be voted on, and once they were decided, if France remembered correctly, the Estates would meet here separately to vote as separate chambers. France took a deep breath. He smoothed his beige best and made sure the collar of his plain, brown jacket was flipped. He made sure his cravat knot was properly hidden, he dusted off his black and quickly twirled his ponytail around his finger, just to give it that extra curl.
He opened the door. And entered into another red and white and gold foyer. Perfectly adjacent to where Louis and Marie would be. He could faintly hear Louis' soft voice, but couldn't quite make out what he was saying. There were three sets of doors on his immediate left. He could slip through one of those and go directly to the Third Estate, but he knew that would make far too much noise and draw way too much attention to himself. Especially with Louis giving a speech. Oh, my God. He was a room away from the Estates General. The Estates General, which hadn't been convened since 1614 under Louis XIII. Almost 200 years. France's entire future lay in that other room, in the hands of everybody gathered there.
He couldn't do this. Could he do this?
"You can! Marie is expecting you," he told himself sternly. "You will not let her down. Not after what she did for you."
He latched on to that. Do it for Marie. Don't do it for yourself.
The stairs to the upper balcony loomed ahead of him. Curving up and to the left so he couldn't tell what awaited at their top. Like he was gazing into the depths of a maze, with the walls closing around him. Like if he took a single step in there he'd be lost forever-
"You're being overdramatic! Three, two, one, GO!" he counted himself down. Before even he could protest himself he forced his feet to move. he climbed the stairs, but each one seemed to get higher and higher. Harder and harder. He turned the corner, and the antechamber opened up below him. France saw the clergy, seated directly across from where he was standing. The Second Estate was seated directly underneath the balcony, facing the First Estate directly. The Third Estate sat in the middle, but behind the two sections, filling out the most space. Even some of the Third Estate spilled into the sides and up onto the balconies.
Louis' speech grew louder as France drew closer. As he walked across the balcony and looked for the stairs that would take him down to the ground floor and the Third Estate, he tuned into Louis' words.
" . . . have examined the budget, I am sure that you will propose effective plans to fix our budgetary problems. I am sure you we will work together to fix the problems permanently.
"I have long experience with the authority and power of being a just and good king. I know what it is like to be surrounded by faithful people who believe in the power of the monarchy. Yet, because I have the best interests of my people at heart, I believe that the three Estates assembled here will cooperate for the general good of the State. I declare myself the first friend of my people, and I welcome the representatives of the nation it is my glory to command by divine right."
France descended another set of curved steps at the end of the hallway, and reached the ground floor right as a mix of cheers rose up in Louis' wake. Delegates from the First and Second Estates called out, "Brava, Majesté!" and other cries of support while the Third Estate remained deathly silent and still. They glanced at each other, they chatted, they did anything but clap for Louis. France decided then would be the best time to push through the crowd and find his seat, and luckily Louis had turned around to sit down anyway. France found a seat a few rows from the back, on the very edge of the long bench they set up to seat the Third Estate.
As he watched Marie, her eyes constantly roved across the crowd, obviously looking for him. When she glanced over where he was sitting, he sat up just a little bit straighter and met eyes with her over the heads and wigs. She visibly relaxed in her chair, smiling sweetly at him, and he nodded back.
Jacques Necker, there at Louis' right hand side, stood from his stool next. France immediately noticed the other empty chair between Louis' and Necker's. That was the seat that would have been his.
"Messieurs, upon your election to this assembly, His Majesty asked you to draw up formal statements of your Estates' grievances, and the reforms you favored. As a result, His Majesty received some fifty to sixty thousand of these cahiers, which we compiled into a small and manageable list given their tendency of repetition. We wish to immediately begin addressing several of the grievances on which there was practical unanimity on the part of the First, Second, and Third Estates - the first of these being the regular and pre-determined meeting of this Estates General, and that this body should share lawmaking power and should vote the taxes. The second of these being that the taxes should be paid by all."
There was unanimity on that? How did that happen? How did the Second and First Estates go from scraping and clawing and stomping their feet about the taxes to suddenly tossing out their exemptions? France didn't understand.
"In addition to that, the Third Estate is willing to see the continuance of nobility with its rights and honors. However, they demand the suppression of feudal dues."
Ah, France supposed, it was probably a give-and-take. 'You let us keep our privilege, and we'll let you have your taxes.'
"The third is that due to the arbitrary, uncontrolled government now at the helm of France, there is a necessity of confining the government within just limits by establishing a constitution-"
People all around France applauded. They yelled out their joy and ascension, they clapped each other on the back as though they had already won. Several of the deputies tried to calm the crowd so Necker could continue, but it was several long, loud minutes before he was able to speak over everyone.
"This constitution, based on the Constitution of the newly formed United States of America, should define the rights of the King and of the people both, and it should henceforth be binding upon all. Such a constitution would guarantee, for example, individual liberty, the right to think and speak and right, no lettres de cachet to be issued by the Crown, and no censorship."
"Wow. The Estates are going out on a far, far limb!" But France loved it regardless. Those kinds of civil liberties were just what the people needed to feel a bit less cornered and threatened. People from every Estate must have loved it, too. The whole room arose in cheers and shouts and heavy applause. France himself started to applaud. This kind of attitude about improving the lives of the people made him sort of happy, and gave him a bit of hope that this assembly would be amiable and helpful.
Necker waited until it was quiet, even stopping the deputies from quieting the noise. Once he felt he could be heard, he called out, "Before we begin any discussions on the aforementioned topics, let us first decide a date and time for this assembly to reconvene. Today is the 5th of May, 1789. Representatives of each Estate have proposed a weekly meeting. Are there any in opposition to that proposal?"
France felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up, as though waiting for someone to have a problem with a weekly convocation. He looked around, praying with all of him that nobody found reason to complain. Necker waited for about ten seconds before nodding. "Very good. You are all aware of the meeting tomorrow, on the 6th of May. Let us convene the Third Estates General of 1789 exactly a week from then: 15:00 on the 13th of May, 1789." He looked to Louis, and the King nodded his ascent as well.
Louis even stood up, and said to everyone, "I am pleased that you all are as dedicated to helping this country as I am." He raised his hands and gently applauded, turning to each Estate in turn. The room rose up again in applause. France scrutinized Louis' face, looking for any sing of flightiness, or insincerity. Just how willing was he to do everything he said he was going to do? He proved time and time again that his chief characteristic was the feebleness of his will. So how pleased was he, really? He looked to be confident - his eyes were raised, and he was able to scan his eyes across the crowd and meet people's' gazes. But when he dropped his hands, they crossed in front of him, and France watched his fingers straighten out and fiddle idly with the lace from his sleeves. The nervous tic that he never seemed to get rid of. Something in France's heart told him Louis wasn't going to stick to the plan. A spine-tingling unsureness told France that Louis was only going through the motions.
He looked over to Marie, and they met eyes. France lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows in a question. "What do you think?"
Her lips pursed and she nodded quickly. She was sure of this.
"With that, gentlemen," Necker said, "we will close this assembly and reconvene tomorrow to begin discussions. Each Estate will meet with His Majesty separately, and vote on the-"
"We cannot begin the vote yet, Monsieur Necker, until we decide the nature of such a vote!" someone from the Third Estate yelled, shooting to his feet. They had kind of a whiny, tinny voice. Moderately unpleasant to France's ears, to the point where he found it annoying. The man it came from was small in build, short in comparison to the others around him, even standing. "We have asked His Majesty directly, and both the First and Second Estates, to consider that we vote by member, and not by Estate as a whole. And yet, an official decision on the voting has not been released."
Heads swiveled and stared at Louis in one, eerie motion. He visibly recoiled, sinking just a bit lower in his chair. Necker cleared his throat, quickly covering for him. "He has not yet made a decision."
"This assembly has always voted by Estate!" a clergyman said.
The man was right there with a retort. "To vote by Estate would ONCE AGAIN outnumber the Third Estate, two to one. His Majesty was gracious enough to double our representation, but it means nothing if our Estate still only receives one vote."
"To vote by majority, we would need to verify the credentials of each member. Most of you are not statesmen, Monsieur-"
"Pardon me, but if being a statesman is the prerequisite, most men of the cloth would not be here." Ouch. That was a crushing blow to a lot of them. They shared disgruntled glances and sneers of contempt among them, while members of the Third Estate mumbled their cheers and ascents around France. "Everyone who has a seat here was elected here, by trusted men and women of France who want to see changes. Messieurs, this is a matter of life or death for Third Estate France, and a matter of power or impotence of this assembly. Until organized, this Estates General can do no business. And no organization can be effected until this crucial question is settled. By extension, I would like to pose the question to this assembly that we meet and vote as a unified and indivisible order, rather than each Estate meeting individually with His Majesty come voting time."
"You presume too much! The Second Estate WILL vote as a separate chamber-"
"And in doing so, you prove my point!"
Who was this man? He had a sort of power to his nasal voice and in the way he stood that France was drawn to. Unfortunately he was so far towards the front and France was so far towards the back he had no chance of seeing the man's face. But he had a powdered wig on, which probably meant he was a member of the upper middle class. One of the wealthier people of the Third Estate.
He continued, "We need to consider the abandonment of the class system, and the consequent numbers of the Third Estate. We have a right to larger numbers because we represent over nine-tenths of the population!"
Whoever that man was, they broke the floor. People of every Estate all around the room began shouting, pointing, voicing their opinions. France decided then was his chance, and he turned to the man next to him.
"Who is he?"
"The man who spoke?"
France nodded.
"Where've you been, under a rock? That's Maximilien Robespierre."
Robespierre. The legend. The hero of the Third Estate. France, momentarily star-struck, couldn't think of an appropriate response except to stare, open-mouthed at the person who told him. "That's Robespierre?"
"That's him."
"Oh." That was Robespierre. He was shorter than France thought he'd be. And his voice was kind of whiny and tinny sounding. Not deep and booming like France had imagined.
Finally, Necker was able to call the assembly back to order. One by one people sat down, their voices quieted, and their whispers ceased. "I want to thank you for bringing this subject to the attention of His Majesty. He will consider both sides of the argument. This Estates General is now closed."
Louis stood up so fast, France was amazed the chair didn't tip over behind him. He turned and strutted from the room as the Estates and watchers stood and began making their way from of the room. France briefly met eyes with Marie, but diverted his gaze in case she wanted to talk. He couldn't talk to her right now. He wanted to meet to Robespierre - no, needed to meet Robespierre. Needed to talk to Robespierre.
It sparked in his heart like a lantern flickering to life, and everything about it just made sense to him. Like it felt right in his mind and in his heart and it even seemed to put an energized tingle into his legs and fingertips. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was pushing and shoving his way through the crowd of the Third Estate, searching for that man like a shark in the water. Like an animal hunting its prey. France drew closer and closer to that wig, still unable to see his full face.
He lost sight of Robespierre as he made it through a doorway and turned the corner, and a brief panic made France pick up his pace. He crossed the threshold and found himself back in the foyer he entered through, with Robespierre off to the side engaged in conversation with a small group of people. France wanted to keep off to the side, but so close to Robespierre, combined with the compelling urge to just talk to him, France abandoned propriety and decency and interrupted their conversation to push his way to the center. Straight up to Robespierre.
Face to face with him.
France towered over him, as he thought. He had a mousy, pinched face that seemed to verify the sound of his voice. And a kind of square-shaped head that seemed to squeeze his features even further in. Large forehead, eyes spread wide and a comically large nose and small mouth. He looked nothing, absolutely nothing like France thought he would look. In his head he pictured a towering figure, a hero in every physical sense of the word. Robespierre looked so . . . normal, France didn't quite know what to do with himself. He'd only think of a good word for it much later, when he wasn't dumbfounded: underwhelming.
France stared and stared, to the point of impropriety. Making a fool of himself and he knew it. But he couldn't believe it. Hearing all that he heard, feeling all that he felt, and this man was supposed to . . . help. Relate to the people for their own sake and for the sake of the Crown and for France's sake. He finally decided that he should move, and do something, and so he bowed slightly.
"Monsieur Robespierre," he said. "Fffff . . . " he began. Almost hesitating to use his real name. No, he decided. He had to. Robespierre had to know who he was. The people probably wouldn't recognize him by now. "François Bonnefoy. Representative of the Third Estate. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
Robespierre returned the bow, and when he straightened up, France could see him scrutinizing just as intensely as he had a moment ago. One eyebrow up, eyes traveling up and down France's modest outfit, his blonde hair. His sharp, naturally beautiful and capturing features. As Robespierre's eyes settled in France's, his stern gaze softened. His eyes clouded over, looking thoroughly confused, and awed, and shocked all at the same time. Lost in the depth of years and years of history and knowledge and . . . France.
"It's nice to meet you, Monsieur Bonnefoy. Where . . . ah-" he began. He almost stuttered. Almost. But then he caught himself, and seemed to blink himself back to reality. Back to the present. "Where were you elected from?"
"Marseilles," France lied. He quickly dropped the stiff, thick, well-rounded and proper accent of Versailles and Ils-de-France that was his norm and automatically adopted the flatter, brighter tones of Occital and Provençal French. He talked a few clicks faster than he was used to as well. He didn't have to try hard. He was so nervous the words poured from his mouth anyway. "I really enjoyed your speech. I want to thank you for standing up for Third Estate France. It is especially necessary now."
Robespierre nodded. "Thank you, Monsieur, thank you. This may be our only chance in a long while to make our voices known." He still sounded distant, and a bit hesitant. Staring at France with a mixture of intrigue and confusion. "What did you think of the proceedings?"
Oh, geez. Robespierre was asking for France's opinion. In front of all these people.
He didn't even have to think about what he had to say. It was like the words were being pulled from his tongue. "It's a simple fact! The clergy plus the nobility make it two to one! That's how it's always been, and it is a system designed against the common man! At that rate, we have always lost and always will lose. But if we vote as individuals, now the Third Estate has the majority." He paused, and the men around him nodded. "Ah, but Necker isn't stupid. The only reason he's so popular is because he's taken the line publicly in his writings that the government's duty is to make sure there is enough for everybody."
"And you think he'll retract his statements?"
If France had to guess, yes. But he kept it vague while still voicing his opinion. "He knows what he wants, and so does His Majesty. Necker means well, but he is a banker, not a statesman. And he is Swiss. The problem is that they don't live in the same world that we do."
How he thought to include words like "we" and "they" in the midst of his moment, he didn't know. National intuition, probably, saving him. Regardless, Robespierre's small smile grew, and he looked France up and down one last time. But in approval, not in scrutiny. "Are you a fan of Rousseau, Monsieur?" he asked.
Yes. No? Depending on who he was around, he supposed. "Yes," he ended up saying. He knew, he just knew he had to befriend Robespierre.
"As am I. Where are you staying, Monsieur Bonnefoy?"
"Here, at the Menus-Plaisirs."
"Come to my room later, in the second floor apartments tonight. I'd be interested in hearing more of your thoughts on the affairs of the Third Estate."
" . . . I'd be delighted, Monsieur Robespierre."
May 6, 1789
Le Hôtel del Menus-Plaisirs
Versailles, France
As France approached the door, with his heightened senses he could hear the chatter from the hallway. There were a few people in there, and they were arguing. Either that, or they were just passionate about something. France stopped where he was. Robespierre didn't tell him there'd be other people there. Maybe France got the time wrong. He quickly racked his brain for what time Robespierre told him to be there today. They stayed up so late talking and France was a little tired, but he swore Robespierre said to meet exactly two hours before the Estates-General met again.
France walked up to the door and pressed his ear against it, just to make sure he wasn't intruding on anything.
"The First and Second Estates will never allow us the vote, now. Well done, Robespierre. You've called for the majority but now we cannot use it!" Whoever said it had a deep, rumbly voice.
"A minor setback!" Robespierre's whiney voice replied. "I was operating under the assumption that the Parliament and the Crown would consider them one and the same when they voted."
"That's your problem. You assume. Your mind moves a hundred miles an hour, and you assume others are on the same page as you, but really we're several pages behind you."
"Mirabeau, please. I am working on convincing the other two Estates to see the rationale behind the direct vote."
"If you need someone to vouch, I will," someone different answered. They had a lighter, smooth and soothing kind of voice that France found pleasing to listen to. "The American people struggled and died to implement the direct vote. And look how successful it is. The colonies are prospering! George Washington is a great man, holding true to the principles of the Enlightenment and the rights of men. When the power is with the people, and they use the principles of men and not of Kings, they will do great things."
"Monsieur Lafayette, the American colonies-"
Lafayette? The Marquis de Lafayette? Oh, crap. When he spent those few years in the colonies helping America, Lafayette came up with the plan to cut Britain's final retreat off at Yorktown. He was shot two or three times in several of America's greatest battles but continued to fight. France had never met a more passionate patriot for an ideology, being fought in a country that wasn't even his. Paris threw him a parade upon his return, Louis and Marie hosted a ball in honor of him. He helped negotiate the peace treaty between America and Britain and was at the negotiating table.
He could potentially recognize France from Versailles. France had met him once on the fly, and they hadn't talked. They just kissed cheeks and France left. Maybe he'd be safe. France very nearly turned back for the second time, but then he realized this was a risk he had to take. He had to talk to Robespierre before the Estates General. And plus, these people were probably all extremely popular among the Third Estate. France wanted as many connections as he could get.
Lafayette was such a powerful ally to have. The French people revered him. If he punched a clergyman in the face they would probably say, "Thank you." He was commanding, he was a do-or-die kind of man and with someone like that to argue for something in addition to having fought for, it was difficult for anybody to stand against him on principle alone, never mind in agreement.
France was knocking on Robespierre's door before he even knew what he was doing. As soon as his knuckls hit, the chatter inside died down immediately, slightly frightening him.
"Expecting someone, Robespierre?" the rumbly voice asked.
"I am. A Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy, elected from Marseilles."
"Marseilles? Then that's who they got to replace me? But what about-"
"Quiet, gentlemen! Come in!"
France opened the door, and felt the harsh stares of everyone swivel over to him at once. France could feel his face and ears growing hot in embarrassment. He resisted the urge to crumple in on himself against the ferocity, opting to stare at the pleasantly-smiling Robespierre instead. "Monsieur-" he tried to say, but it came out in a whisper. He cursed his tongue, clearing his throat to try again. "Monsieur Robespierre."
"Monsieur Bonnefoy, I'd like to introduce you to some friends of mine." He gestured grandly into the room, and France saw three people, not the two others he originally thought. Robespierre's hand rested first on a man dressed in the French ceremonial military uniform. Black jacket, with off-white lapels scarlet red collar. Silver buttons trailing all down the front, with shiny gold epaulettes on his shoulders. He had so many medals and displays of rank it was dizzying to look at the front of his jacket. Underneath, his white vest was edged with stitched gold, and his white pants were so crips and clean, he looked too smooth and pristine to be real. His black and gold tricorn hat sat beside the settee where he sat.
"The Monsieur Marquis de Lafayette."
When he stood up, he was so tall France had to incline his head back to see his face. His left hand rested on the hit of the sword attached at his hip while his right hand extended out towards France.
How American of him.
France took his hand and Lafayette crushed it in his. "Monsieur," he said.
He had a round, full face and high, pronounced cheek bones. With thin delicate looking lips and a sharp, button nose. His close-set eyes were bright with youthful vitality. He was handsome. Extremely, extremely handsome. Powdered wig with cute curls all around. France smiled despite himself, leaning in instead to kiss both his cheeks. When France looked at him, his heart swelled with a sense of pride at his citizen. The Marquis had achieved such great things in his lifetime and he was a Frenchman who would be remembered for centuries.
"Monsieur le Marquis," France said, fighting back the tears of pain that almost sprang to his eyes from his crushing grip. "I fought under your command in America. I was in Yorktown."
"You fought in America? My apologies, I regret not meeting you sooner."
"It's okay. Truly an honor. You are a hero to the American Nation and to the Kingdom of France."
"Thank you." He smiled. Good. He didn't seem to remember France.
"This is the Comte de Mirabeau, Honoré Gabriel Riqueti."
"Delighted," he muttered from his seat, not bothering to stand. Or even turn to look at France. He owned the deep voice France heard earlier, and France decided to take a few more steps into the room to get a good look at him.
His face was covered with pockmarks and his right eye drooped just a little lower on his face from it. He could only breath through his mouth in large puffs between sentences. He had a long, flat nose and a thin line that was his continuously pursed lips. Mirabeau's green jacket looked like it wouldn't button over his tummy even if he tried, and his vest was clearly suffering. France nodded towards him, but he did not return the favor. He probably thought France couldn't be trusted, but either way . . .
"Oh God, he hates me," France decided, trying not to display the hurt on his face.
"The quiet one in the back is Emannuel Joseph Sieyès," Robespierre said, pointing to another man who had been silent earlier. He wore the all-black clothing of the clergy, with the black and white cravat to complete it. He didn't stand either, but nodded his hello. "He is the author of 'What is-'"
"'-the Third Estate,'" France finished for him. France had never read the work. He didn't even know how he knew that. Those kinds of writings stayed away from the gates of Versailles. It was probably a miracle that Marie managed to procure a paper from Paris in the first place to inform him about representation. "It's a pleasure."
"Likewise."
Mirabeau puffed in a breath. "So, you're from Marseilles?" he asked, staring hard at France.
"Oui."
"What happened to Monsieur Jourdin?"
France didn't have a clue who he was talking about. "Pardon?"
"I don't remember your name among the elected officials. I was fortunate enough to have been elected to Aix and Marseilles, and I chose to represent Aix. They had a Monsieur Louis-Joseph Jourdin replace me. And yet here you are." He gestured to France, and his squinty, off-set eyes heavily scrutinized France's face.
"Je . . . je ne sais pas . . . " God, he sounded so weak. His Marseilles cover would be blown and he'd be made a liar to the men who were probably some of the most influential people in France. And then he'd have to make up another lie and try to convince them that one was real.
"Are you really from Marseilles?" Puff. "Can we trust him, Robespierre?" Puff.
Normally, France would have fired back, on the offensive. No, I'm only part of the Third Estate who befriended your front man, Maximilien Robespierre. I couldn't possibly be on your side. But he was too scared to move, too scared to speak. He didn't want to ruin any chance he had of befriending Robespierre.
Robespierre was important, France knew that. He knew that even when he was still at Versailles. But after meeting him, and talking to him, and knowing him for one day and hearing just a fraction of his ideas, France could feel it in his heart. Something National that he couldn't put a name to drew hm to Robespierre. France wanted to be close to him all the time. He wanted to hear Robespierre speak no matter what he was saying and he could practically feel his very soul clinging to his words.
He couldn't ruin that. He could not ruin that.
"Leave him alone, Mirabeau. I trust him."
"You met him yesterday."
Robespierre paused, glancing at France. France stared back, trying to plead with his eyes that Robespierre cover for him. Praying that a man who barely knew him was going to cover for him against a man who barely knew him while in a room full of people who barely knew him. This was bad. " . . . I know. But look at him." He stared into France's eyes. "He was elected to the Estates General. Many people must know him and trust him to make their voices heard. I now know he was a soldier who fought in America, so he fought for the very concepts and ideas we now discuss here. He's quite young, so he's probably grown up around the Enlightenment ideas. Look into his eyes, Mirabeau. He's a Frenchman, if ever I've seen one."
"Quite a handsome Frenchman, too," Lafayette offered.
France winked at him and nodded his thanks.
Robespierre gestured wildly to Lafayette. "You see? Monsieur le Marquis, would you trust him?"
France slid his eyes to Lafayette next, and it was Lafayette's turn to be lost in the depth of France's old eyes, the way Robespierre was only a day before. Lafayette's eyes seemed to glaze over, a small grin split his cute face, and his one eyebrow lifted. "I would."
"Fine," Mirabeau relented. "But this talk doesn't leave this room, do you understand? This is treason level stuff. Treason and sedition!"
"I understand," France said. "I am here to discuss your ideas for defending and supporting the Third Estate. That is all. I want to help as much as I can." From what he heard, these men were more focused on the social aspect of France than they were on the political aspect of France. But that was alright. France could work with them. He could work with them and work the political fixes into their discussions however he could. And maybe even contribute to the social end of things if he could. Though, he admit, all this time he kept the ideas and feelings of the Enlightenment carefully tucked away so as to not alarm anyone at Versailles. Talk of the people in general, let alone talk of the civil liberties they wanted, did not belong in the hallowed halls. In the glittering and perfect scene that was Versailles.
"Mirabeau," Robespierre started. "If we disallow him his involvement and we silence his opinions, we negate everything we're fighting for."
"He's allowed to have an opinion! And so are we! But we don't know who he knows, and if his mouth flaps to the wrong people, we'll be jailed. Jailed, Robespierre!"
"And you'll escape again, like you did the other times," Lafayette said.
"Of course, just tell him all of our secrets!"
Robespierre sighed. "You're impossible. Monsieur Bonnefoy, what is important to you? What are the things you want to see this Estates General accomplish?"
"How much time do you have?" he asked. The men chuckled, but France was only half joking. If Robespierre wanted to know, France would tell him. If Robespierre wanted it in Shakespearean English and hand-written on pink, rose-smelling parchment, France would do it. He would tell Robespierre anything he wanted to know, just for him to know.
His very presence exuded the power of action, and France could say he respected it completely.
"Ummm . . . " France began. "I want . . . relief for the Third Estate. I want the taxes to be shared by all - if not completely, at least to some degree. I want the Crown to stop spending so frivolously and I want them to start paying off this stupid debt we accumulated from aiding America-"
"Did you support the decision to aid America?" Lafayette asked quickly.
"I . . . Yes, I do now. Not at first, I didn't," he admitted. "I was well-read in Rousseau and Montesquieu and Hobbes and I would have considered myself an Enlightened thinker then, but it took me years to realize the war wasn't just an unnecessary expense, and it wasn't just an extraneous way to one-up Great Britain. When I went overseas to America, and I saw the Enlightenment in action, and I saw the passion of the American people and the hope they felt and the freedom they wanted, I quickly changed my mind." He was so jealous of America for a bit, but when he got back, Versailles immediately deadened a lot of the emotions he felt. He couldn't think about the Enlightenment, he had to think about the burgeoning political crisis. And even when he did think about it, it wasn't exactly the Enlightenment for people's sake. It was Enlightenment for Louis' sake and came out of his mouth like Louis had to solve the problems or else France would die. And the end of that sentence could be splintered into so many pieces France never explored any of them with any real depth. All he told Louis was that he was in pain and he had to solve it, and solve it quickly; and France told him how but he didn't do it and here they were.
For the first time, France felt mentally threatened by the sentence, "I could have done better." He perpetually attacked Louis and told him that he could have done better, and he always excluded himself. "God, France, take some responsibility FOR ONCE!" France quickly shook his head of it, not even realizing that he was shaking his head for Robespierre, Lafayette, Mirabeau, and Sieyès to see.
"It took me years to realize the implications. Years to understand that the American Revolution was unlike any war in the in the history of man. It was a war of ideals, between long-standing tradition and the outlandish notion of humanity - of the freedom and liberation of mankind. The idea that the station in life a man may be born into, whether he is black or white, Catholic or Protestant, rich or poor, slave or free, does not make a difference. Instead it is the way that he carries himself, and by the way in which that man will prove himself in this world that determines how far he can go." He thought of how kind and generous and open-minded and accepting America was after that. The brotherhood between citizens and the idea that all men were equal, and how beautiful that was. They sparkled in America's eyes like stars and France could only wish jealously that Louis would see it some day.
He raised his eyes and saw Robespierre and Lafayette smiling slightly. Robespierre's eyes were wide , and his mouth was slightly open in awe. "That was extremely well-said, Monsieur. I loved the way you phrased it."
"It's the truth. I want . . . let's see, the taxes, the debt . . . I want a stronger King on the throne, who won't be swayed by the last person he talks to. The monarchy is the weakest its been since Louis XIII - nearly two hundred years ago. The last time the Estates General was called was in 1614. I want empathy for the Third Estate who is suffering under the chains of a feudalist system that is antiquated and outdated. I want better legislation to help them secure the basic necessities of life when things like poor harvests happen. I want fixed prices of bread and I want . . . "
"You support the monarchy, Monsieur Bonnefoy," Mirabeau growled, his distaste for France evident in his glare. It wasn't a question. It was a clear accusation. Instantly threatened, France's eyes hardened despite the friendliness he wanted to display. He glared back at Mirabeau, irritated by his constant suspicion. Mirabeau was able to hold on for about three more seconds before he bristled uncomfortably and looked away.
Lafayette chuckled awkwardly. "Well," he said. "That's a clear 'no.'" He mistook France's icy stare as an insult of the assumption rather than an offense to his loyalty.
"I support anything that will help France at this point. don't care if it's a freer type of monarchy. I don't care if it's anarchy. If it will ease this Nation's suffering, I will do it. I will participate with my full being."
"That, to me, says you are unfaithful to all! Even to the ideals you so passionately claimed," Mirabeau argued back. "What if feudalism would help this country? You would renounce the ideas of the Enlightenment in favor of unsound politics?"
France shouldn't have said that. He backed himself in a dangerous verbal corner. Desperate to dig himself out, he carefully selected his next words, hoping they couldn't see the calculation on his face, even when his eyes betrayed him and flicked anxiously. A small ache started in his back, at the very center of his wound, carefully bandaged under his jacket. A gentle throbbing. Like it sensed his immediate peril. "No. I didn't mean it exactly literally. All I was saying was that I'm desperate to see this country improve. I'm desperate to see France's wounds heal."
"Mirabeau, I know you doubt him, but Monsieur Bonnefoy is a true politician," Sieyès said. The first thing he said since France started their discussion. "He places his hope in legislation first. He still holds Enlightened thoughts and ideals, so do not fault him for it."
Robespierre nodded. "Indeed, because if we combine his political ideas with our social ideas, we can build the perfect society of free men, protected by that legislation. What are some legislative ideas you have?"
"I want exemptions removed from the First and Second Estates. I want suspensions on loan payments outlawed until the Crown chips away at this debt. I want protections for land farmers and for laborers and tradesmen, like I mentioned. I want civil liberties for the people - when the constitution was mentioned, I really, really liked that idea. I think we should take it and run with it." Listen to yourself, France, he thought, so wrapped up in your brand new, egalitarian ideas.
Of course it was the people he was around. But these were the people he needed to be around and whether he knew it or not these were the people who were probably going to drive France in the direction he needed to go in. And it wasn't like he was lying. With each word he said, and each word Robespierre said, France could feel the genuine interest building in his heart and in his mind. He could feel the truth that had been so suppressed by Versailles overtaking his mind and consuming him.
He rather enjoyed it, he thought, smiling sightly to himself.
Robespierre crossed his arms. "There are still several things I want the Third Estate to push on the top two Estates as well, but until we correct the unfair voting, we won't be able to get a thing done. Rousseau argues for seven great pillars of Enlightenment. Human autonomy," he said, holding a finger up. "People absolutely should and must have control over ourselves. What we explore, what we reason through, and what we desire for ourselves, no matter our origins. Next, the Enlightenment champions reason over all. True freedom means being able to think for yourself. Knowledge can be both mapped out by men, be accessed by men, and be rationalized by men." With each emphasized word, Robespierre nodded his head and made strong eye contact with everyone in the room, including France. "Gone are the days when we blindly believe what the Church tells us and what the State forces us to believe. Instead we must build the State to have a limited control over our lives, perhaps even none at all."
The wording was so eloquent and perfect. Like they were meant to tumble from Robespierre's mouth in just that exact order. And there was never another way to say them and there never would be another way to say them that sounded so natural and so perfect. And they resonated deep inside of him, amplified by Robespierre's passion and unwieldy genuineness. France knew he was in the presence of someone brilliant. One of only a handful of humans who were so ahead of their time and, no pun intended, revolutionary. People like Jeanne, and Philip IV.
It was no wonder France was drawn to him. He would do great things. His single utterance could cloak the country in hope or in fear.
"And the Enlightenment is universal! It does not stop at the borders of France, or at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. All human beings possess the ability to be enlightened, and humans are equal by nature. We are all part of a "universal community" who share a single universal human nature. Differences among people are less important than their fundamental sameness.
"The Enlightenment is progress. Humanity will progress from immaturity, superstition, and slavery to maturity, reason, and freedom. It extends into secularism. Religion and politics should be separated. One's method of worship should be private, and should not be infringed upon.
"It dictates a necessity to know economics and politics, which I'm sure is where your expertise lies, Monsieur Bonnefoy."
"A society's well-being depends on how its economy is structured. It's part of why France is failing," he replied
"Yes, exactly!" he said, nodding so quickly France thought his neck would break. "And last, but certainly not least, the Enlightenment means popular government! People are capable of ruling themselves. The aristocracy is not the only class that deserved to rule. The middle class, or bourgeoisie, should also play a part in politics. '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-'"
When France first saw the American Declaration of Independence, he read and reread that section over and over and over again. He memorized it, he practically bowed down to it. He could have quoted it in his sleep, and when Robespierre began quoting it, he said it right along with him in his head. The last section was the coup de grâce in France's current idiom. And when Robespierre reached it, he couldn't help himself. It wasn't enough to just think it. He had to say it. He picked it up where Robespierre left off and finished for him. "'-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.'''
"You're brilliant. Isn't he brilliant?" he asked everybody in the room. At their nods and sounds of ascension, he continued. "I liked you as soon as I looked at you, Monsieur."
"Merci," France said softly. Before he could help himself his eyes shot to Mirabeau, panting on the couch. See? he said to himself. Told you. "And that was without a single drop of wine!"
Everyone, even Mirabeau, got a laugh out of that, and France beamed back. A genuine smile - the first one he made since entering the room. If there were any other reservations about him, his joke broke through the mood and lightened it infinitely. He felt like he could insert some of his fun, joking, charismatic personality and not worry about his impression anymore. Not yet, though. This was a serious subject.
"Now is the perfect time to insert these theories into the minds of the nobility, since the Crown is weak, like I said. Much of the nobility has already been discussing them, but half-heartedly, like it's a new trend. We have to show them we're serious. We have to show them that in addition to the legislative failures of the Crown we're not going to negate the social failures of the Crown. I'm so sick of Louis and everybody thinking they can walk all over-" His fists clenched at his sides, and he knew he had to calm down. The four of them were looking at him with a mixture of absolute awe and a kind of tense fear.
"Any law which violates the inalienable rights of man is essentially unjust and tyrannical. It is not a law at all," Robespierre said. "Well said, Monsieur Bonnefoy."
"Call me François."
"François. Well articulated. I can say that I am extremely glad to have met you."
"As am I. All of you gentlemen, thank you."
For the first time, Sieyès spoke up from his hiding spot towards the back of the room. "We have the ideals, Messieurs, but before we can argue any of our ideals, we must force the upper Estates to realize the legitimacy of the Third Estate. The Third Estate is a complete nation in and of itself. We have the land workers who provide food and water. We have tradesmen and human industry to make goods and services. We have the merchants and dealers to sell the goods and services, and we have everybody else who takes up all other jobs and positions and services necessary. Without the upper two Estates, the Third Estate could be self-sustaining."
France didn't know where he was going wit that, but a lightbulb went off in Robespierre's mind. His eyes lit up and he stood up a little straighter with a small gasp. "We need to convince the upper Estates that we do not need them! Think about it this way: the first two Estates are carriages, and we are the horses. How long has the Third Estate dragged the weight of the other two behind us? That is the nature of feudalism, gentlemen! So, if we want to throw off feudalism, we need to show them that we could do so much more without their burden! We could continue running on and prospering if we dumped their weight, where as in reverse, they could not even move without us." By then he was speaking a mile a minute, and France was having a hard time keeping up. "I need to write that down!" He scrambled over to the only desk in the room and started digging down the front of his vest. He dipped his hand down past the halfway point of his forearm and emerged with a square of parchment, which he slapped on the desk. He grabbed the pen from the inkwell and started scribbling furiously.
He continued to talk, jotting down specific words as he said them and whole sentences.
" . . . and then the Third Estate, right, right . . . vote my member and not by chamber . . . can act as its own nation- wait!" he gasped. "Wait, wait, wait!" He paused, freezing so completely France would have sworn his mind left for a moment. "Messieurs. I just had an epiphany. The Third Estate can act as its own nation. Why don't we make it one?" He looked to each man in the room, but France was certain they all were just as confused as he was. He quickly checked to see what Lafayette's face looked like, and he felt a little better when he saw Lafayette's eyebrows furrowed and a confused sneer on his face. Robespierre continued, "Why do we need the Estates General if we could, in theory, do what we want anyway? What if we form our own body, where the Third Estate can vote by member on Third Estate happenings? We can leave the other two Estates alone, if we'd like, or they can join us, even! It doesn't have to be exclusive! But my point is to make a body or an assembly that represents the nation in a way that the Estates General cannot during this stalemate."
"Yes," Mirabeau said, inching to the edge of his seat, despite the fact that it probably took most of his effort. "A National Assembly."
"A National Assembly! Excellent, Mirabeau! Excellent!"
France watched the cogs in Robespierre's mind turn as he negotiated his way around the stalemate. There was someone extremely smart, extremely logical and methodical, but applied to concepts completely obscure and abstract. France understood in that instant why he was so drawn to Robespierre and why the people were so drawn to Robespierre. He could talk, he could write, and he had the ideology and the passion to back himself up. He was such a joy to watch and listen to. He was full of energy and charisma, and yet he spoke the same way he would talk to anybody. His very utterance held a certain power over hearts and minds that France loved.
"We'll talk more about this within the next few days. But until then, let us head over to the Salle des États. Something like a National Assembly would not be taken to kindly in the slightest. Let's see if this will sort itself out without drastic intervention."
The whole time, Robespierre's eyes looked glassy an a bit distant. He was thinking about that National Assembly the whole time, developing it in his head.
Somehow, France felt Robespierre would try and do it no matter what. The idea tantalized Robespierre. Now he was bound to go after it.
June 11th, 1789
Le Hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs
Versailles, France
France followed Robespierre up to his rooms, and as soon as the door shut behind them, he flopped down on one of the couches. "I hope you have a plan for introducing the National Assembly today, because this is getting us nowhere," France said.
"And we do!" Robespierre insisted, but that was all he said. France looked over at him. His eyes had that distant look to them again. He was thinking, and thinking hard. Planning.
"What are you thinking?" France asked him.
"I'm thinking that we stop trying to coddle and swindle the Estates to our side. No, what we need," Robespierre said, shaking his finger in the air as though to hammer the point home, "is to simply do. The people will be more moved by action than they will be by words, François. I guarantee, if we simply announce that we will meet in separate chambers but vote by member and not by Estate, those of the First and Second Estates sympathetic to our cause will join us. The parish priests and commoners who worked for their station."
"I think you're overestimating the strength of their sympathies. It'll never outweigh the power of their privilege. Who in their right mind would speak out against it and threaten losing it?"
"You say you're from Marseilles, François? Then you've been too far removed from the talk of Paris. Those who sympathize with us will join us. And once they do, we will have full power to separate ourselves from the Estates General. We can become our own entity, and we can do what this Estates General cannot. Which is organize. Organize the people, organize our actions, and then act."
"Act on what? I've been thinking about this 'National Assembly', and I don't know about it. I don't think it's going to be so helpful, only because nobody will take it seriously. What makes you think the King will stand for this? Or acknowledge anything we do? Anything we try to pass will be deemed irrelevant and illegal."
"How better to get the King to acknowledge our actions than by peacefully defying him? As both a revolutionary act, and an assertion that all political authority lies with us? Listen to me," he said, leaning forward. There was that signature Robespierre charm. His eyes were alight again, and despite his nerves, France felt himself drawn in, eager to hear what Robespierre was about to say. "If we prove to the nobility that not only can we derive our own power, but we will, they will have no choice but to acknowledge us. We only have a few more meetings before the individualized Estates meetings. We must announce our plans before then, to give those who wish to meet with us time to consider. I had Mirabeau draft a speech just for this purpose. You will hear it today. It's quite brilliant," he said, smiling absently at France. "He refers to us as the National Assembly. Once he uses it today, it will surely be our new name."
A nagging feeling in France's stomach made him uneasy. He sighed. "I just . . . I don't know. I get a bad feeling about this." Something was definitely wrong, but France knew he wouldn't be able to voice his National warnings without it seeming like regular superstition, or paranoia. Instead, Robespierre offered reassurance, said it would be fine, then led France down to the Estates General.
France's legs felt like lead. A muscle in his back kept twitching and bulging against his will, aggravating the whole thing. He didn't want to go to the Estates General and hear Mirabeau's speech. Something didn't feel right about it. And yet, when France entered the room, he felt fine. His back stopped twitching.
How bad could it be?
As soon as the Third Estate had the floor, Robespierre's friend Mirabeau stood and delivered a his speech directly to the upper two Estates.
While he spoke, France felt a nervous sweat start under his coat and vest. The beads pooled together and dripped into his cut, forcing him to tense at random moments and bite back him pain. With each word Mirabeau spoke, France's breathing seemed to become shallower and shallower, faster and faster. He couldn't take a deep enough breath to calm himself down. The only thought in his mind kept repeating, over and over. "Something's happening. Something's happening. Something's happening." That muscle started twitching again. He couldn't help himself. His toes curled up inside his shoe, and his leg rolled onto the ball foot to bounce nervously. "Something's happening-"
Mirabeau spun dramatically to address everyone in the room while he was talking. "For myself, girt with my conscience and armed with my principles, I would brave the universe-" Pause for a puff. "-whether it shall be my fortune to serve you with my voice and my exertions in a National Assembly, or whether I shall be enabled to aid you there with my prayers only. I have been, I am, I shall be, even to the tomb, the man of the public liberty, the man of the people rather than of the nobles." Puff. "Then woe to the privileged orders. For privileges shall have an end, but the people are eternal! Our new National Assembly is eternal!"
In one fluid motion, everyone from the Third Estate rose and began filing out of the room. France realized that Robespierre had already planned it, and spoke to the other representatives ahead of time. France stood up with them. Froze in his place. Took a step. Froze. His legs were shaking. His knees were trembling.
Looked around. Met eyes with Marie.
If he left with them now, he abandoned Louis and Marie. If he left, he made his decision, choosing the people over them. And if he didn't leave with them, he proved himself the ultimate hypocrite, forever a slave to the will of the Crown over him. The Crown that had weakened, suppressed, and injured him time and time again, and in full knowledge of what they were doing.
It should have been an easy decision. He shouldn't have even hesitated. But staring there, into Marie's eyes, he could see the fear. He could see the abandonment. He could see hopelessness. France looked at Louis, saw the disinterest there in his eyes. He saw the disconnect, the apathy that had been his constant companion. Until, like on a rope, Louis' eyes slid over to France's. They widened in surprise, he sat up perfectly straight and stared wide-eyed at France over the crowd. "What are you doing?" he mouthed to him.
And France made his decision.
Not Louis. Never Louis, when he could help it.
"I'm sorry Marie," he said with his eyes, hoping she heard it.
France waded through the crowd until he found Robespierre and Mirabeau and Lafayette. Looking everywhere but at Louis and Marie. And he walked out of the Estates General with the Third Estate. The new National Assembly. Robespierre was already chatting excitedly about where and when they were going to meet. What they were going to do. And in an instant his nerves were gone, replaced with an energizing determination
He made the right choice.
'My dearest Marie Antoinette,
There are no words to describe my gratitude for all you have done for me. But I realize now that my place is here, among the Third Estate. I do not do this with any intention of slighting you; rather, I do it out of concern for my well-being. I feel safest with it placed in the hands of people who can and will act quickly.
I do not yet know what this future with them holds for me. But should this mess sort itself out, and I find myself in a well-enough position, Nationally and personally, to return to Versailles, to you and Louis, I will do so with the utmost of joy in my heart. Until then, pray for the successes of the people, and pray for the prosperity of your country.
Send my regards to Austria.
Le Royaume de France'
'Louis,
I wish you could have seen the damage you were doing to me while I was at Versailles. But you refused, and so now I do what I have to do. I am officially removed from your personal services, and the services of the Crown.
Good bye, Louis.
Bonne chance.
Le Royaume de France'
A/N: As of this chapter, Horrible Bosses: Louis XVI of France is over 200,000 words! (Almost. lol. I can math.) This chapter specifically is 27,600 words EXACTLY!
I can't thank you guys enough for following and favoriting. And for sticking with this fic despite my huge gaps in updates. Please leave a comment if you have the time, because they give me life! I love writing this fic regardless, but hearing from you guys with your praises, your critiques, your head canons, and everything in between makes me so happy!
Thank you, thank you, thank you, and I love you!
~Keyblader
***********3/17/17 - Updated to include France's introduction with other Revolutionaries, and a changed last section!***********