June 28th, 1775
Le Château de Versailles
King's Apartments
France turned America's letter over in his hand and read it again, for what was probably the hundredth time since he received it back in May:
April 22, 1775
Francey-Pants,
Hi, buddy! How are you? Hope you're well! You know I'm impatient so I'm gonna skip the small talk and get right into the good stuff. It's your regular 'I Hate Britain' update! Wait until you hear this nonsense. You'll feel scandalized for a good while, I promise.
In the first paragraph alone, America hit both of France's pain points: Britain and gossip. They had their desired effect on him, too. The first time France read the letter he couldn't stop a giddy, childish kind of excitement from surging in his heart. He had curled over the paper, eager to read the rest and soak up the dirty scandal.
Finally - finally ! Britain's in deep shit now. Not sure if any word will reach you yet by the time you read this, but his soldiers actually shot at me and my militia in Lexington two days ago. The massacre at Boston was already inexcusable, but now that even more violence has broken out, I finally have all that I need to organize against him with outward public support!
America's excitement practically bubbled out of the paper. The kid probably zoomed around his room while writing it. Ever since he was little, America was always passionate and excitable, noble and defiant against the good and the bad parts of British rule. France gleefully watched his relationship with Britain deteriorate over the years and years that America aged like it was a comedy, and with this last misstep on Britain's part all America had to do now was make a show of pointing the finger.
He's really pissing me off now. And you're the only one I can talk to about it, too! Nobody else hates him as publicly as you do. And, even if they do, they're too scared of him to say anything.
He's never even here half the time! He pretty much missed my entire life. You know, I've got a human friend with a gambling problem and it reminds me of that. Only coming around to beg for money or favors. So why does he get to decide what I do and how I do it? Why does his King get to tell my citizens what to do? I'm not a child anymore, and my people aren't animals to be herded around. We want to be free, and we should be.
Human souls aren't born as property for monarchs to own. They have value, each and every one. They deserve the right to live how they want and pursue what they want and be governed how they want, with fair representation. Free of Britain's tyranny. They deserve justice and equality. I'm done being scared of him. I'm done being trampled and used, and I'm done lining his pockets. I'm done being controlled.
I'm gonna kick his butt so hard he won't even remember landing on these shores. I'm gonna open up a jar of whoop-ass and me and my militia are gonna stomp him into the ground. Just wait until you see it. The 'greatest military on earth' is about to be beaten by their own untrained colonials.
France fell out of his chair the first time he read it. America was considering all-out war. War. With Britain. And he even seemed excited about it, missing the bigger picture in the way that children did. Of course America had a naïve, idealistic view of war that came with the inexperience of youth. He'd never fought before, and he probably pictured himself the hero, charging in to defend himself and his citizens from the Britain's 'tyranny', as he called it.
He probably wasn't conceptualizing the fact that people died in war, and died brutally. And he probably didn't yet understand how badly wars affected Nations and how badly wars physically hurt. And for that matter, he was probably strategically ignoring the fact that he'd be utterly demolished by Britain's sheer might and manpower.
France suspected that he was the first to know about America's planned response: all out warfare.
I've been doing some reading - Montesquieu, Rousseau, Voltaire, all those guys. All of them were French, right? They wrote their ideas while they were living under your absolute monarchy. So you must agree with them, right?
Absolutely not, France snorted. Those words were radical at best and downright treasonous at worst, and they had been censored when they were new. He could never support the overthrow of another monarch without incriminating himself against his own.
I was hoping you would agree with me. There's really no tactful way to say this, so I'll just say it. But i was hoping that maybe, just maybe, you could help a friend out?
Want the chance to really sock it to Britain? Want a piece of the action, and a chance to shut him up? Come on, France! I know how much you hate Britain! In exchange for a few fleets I've got a lot to offer! We could be new trade buddies and kick him out! I can stop paying his tariffs. I've got tobacco, cotton, lumber, whale oil, and lots of stuff.
Send some troops, too! Of course, we can handle it with our great commanders, but-
That was a lie. America was too proud to casually ask for help. He was scared.
-but some extra help couldn't hurt. I'm sending a diplomat named Silas Deane to ask your new King about it.
Oh! Congrats on the new King, by the way! I hope he does a lot of good for France!
If you can't help I completely understand. I'm sure I can do this on my own. But talk to your boss about it, ok?
Au Revoir (Did I spell that right?)
Alfred F. Jones
(Soon to Not Be) British America
France's immediate thought was to tell someone about the news. America was going to war. War against Britain. He wanted to spread it as the latest gossip, get the whole of Versailles whispering in a campaign that would secretly pray for Britain's humiliation. Anything that would weaken that bastard's hold on the rest of the world was to be celebrated. But the more he considered the odds, the less enthusiastic he became. America, a small collection of British colonies, was about to go to war against the largest and most well-trained fighting force in the world. It would not end well for poor America, and the thought of bright-eyed, awe-struck and idealistic America destroyed and disheartened and wounded in every way by the desolation of war only made France upset. He threw the letter aside with a sigh, resolving to be the first to tell Louis that someone from America was coming to discuss involvement in their revolt. He didn't want anyone else pressing their opinions on Louis in any way before France had the chance to encourage him to think on it for himself.
He picked up the next few papers and unfolded them. They were two different pamphlets from the civilian newspapers that he asked for, that reviewed Louis and Marie's coronation ceremony. The first was printed in the Versailles town.
"The entire affair, in my eyes," the author wrote, "reeked of vulgarity in the highest degree. Gone was the reverence to Notre-Dame de Reims; gone was the reverence to the sanctity of the Sacraments during Mass and the purity of the quiet and humble union between King and Country. The young monarchs clearly intended upon the ceremony being a spectacle, something to behold. It certainly was. Every turn in the church and every gold brocade in the corners drew the eye away from the attentions of the ceremony and toward the decorations, much in the way an opera does: color and opulence and costume swallowing any illusion of real life and asserting that it was only an exaggerated interpretation. The only consolation to me was the inclusion of the normal vows and insistences made by His and Her Majesties. The usual promises to uphold the country and its people were made, and were made in their usual ways."
The author was clearly a traditionalist, and had echoed all of the thoughts that France had the day of the coronation. Louis and Marie had turned his favorite ceremony into a farce, and apparently some agreed with him. The next opinion that he read came from an entirely different perspective. A paper from Paris.
"The progressiveness that we hoped would be the tone of King Louis XVI's reign was nonexistent during the entire ceremony. From the unnecessary frivolity of the royal litter to the diamonds encrusted in the royal couple's outfits to the outrageous decorations , Notre-Dame de Reims was swallowed by the pomp and tradition that plagued the court of Versailles for an entire century.
His Majesty also felt it prudent to continue the inclusion of the vowed line about the expunging of heretics - whatever happened to Louis XVI's message of inclusion and tolerance? He maintained that detail, but conveniently managed to leave out the line wherein he asks the people for their tacit permission to accept him as monarch. While we understand it is performative at best, it is nonetheless an inclusion of his subjects that went ignored. It does not endear him to his subjects, and does not bode well."
Oh well, France huffed. You truly couldn't please everyone. France knew that best of all being in the position he was in. Someone was always judging and someone else was always misjudging. What one liked, another did not. What one thought best, another thought worst. France simply did his best to work both sides of conflict and advise his kings only on what he thought best for his nation. He could only hope that the polarization of opinions wasn't too severe this early in Louis's reign, but upon consideration he didn't think that it was. Those kinds of things tore Nations apart from the inside out, and he wasn't feeling particularly torn.
France took his time folding up the two commentaries so they remained free of creases. He felt obliged to keep them, in the name of sentimentality. Two, maybe three hundred years from then when he was reminiscing, perhaps he'd ask himself, 'Wonder what all the people thought about Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette's coronation.' If he kept the papers, he'd always be able to look back on it and remember. Sometimes it was fun to check and see if his opinions changed with history, but most of the time they didn't. He knew what he liked and he knew what he valued, and that consistency served him well throughout his long life.
He stood from his perched position on the side of his bed. He lifted his arms over his head and arched his back, stretching as far as he could with a satisfied groan. An ungodly pop resonated from somewhere on his spine, and a mildly uncomfortable ache crept into his muscles. France winced and massaged his back below his vest.
"Uuuugh, don't ever get old, America," he muttered rhetorically, looking to the letter as though America would hear him. Old, he snorted. Old in comparison, of course. He wasn't old. China was old. Japan and Turkey were old. He wasn't old.
He thought about where to put the papers. The chest at the foot of his bed was always an option, but France preferred to keep only the most important things in there. These commentaries were hardly at the caliber of Jeanne d'Arc's journal, or historical peace treaties. France threw his pastel green coat with gold brocade over his green vest and instead took the letters into his drawing room.
His bedchamber and his drawing room were the only two rooms in Louis's apartments, and in the entirety of Versailles, that France claimed as his own. Both were lavishly furnished to his expensive and keen tastes. Under Louis XIV, France had several of the panels on the walls in his bedchamber replaced with mirrors simply because he loved looking at himself from every angle to make sure everything about his appearance was in tact. And then he had commissioned a massive fireplace against the left wall under Louis XV. He had white marble imported for the face of it, and the legs he requested a beige marble speckled in gold and brown. The legs were intricately carved with fleurs-de-lys, wreathes and flowers, and he had roses carved into the front edge of the mantle. A portrait that France commissioned in an elaborate gold frame hung above the mantle, and in it le Roi Soleil sat upon a throne in full regal dress, looking proudly to the distance with France standing behind him with one hand on his shoulder. He had no trouble asking Louis XIV to pose with him. As long as he was portrayed in a position of power, le Roi Soleil would have posed for anything. The other walls in his bedchamber held an eclectic mix of his favorite paintings (some of France himself), drawings, maps, busts, framed letters, ancient swords, and other memorabilia from his long life. The head of his four poster bed sat against the right hand wall, and a single massive gold rug with many colored flowers that France bought off of le Roi Soleil before he died covered most of the floor. A single flowered settee and armchair were positioned in front of the fireplace, and he had a mahogany armoire and wardrobe with gilded decorations on the legs, corners, and handles. His drawing room, one room over, was lined almost wall to wall with shelves, cabinets, and stands where he kept most of his books and small knick-knacks that he wanted to display. The only exception to the shelves was a wall of windows to let in the natural light. He had another sitting area on a rug in the center of the room, and a desk in the far corner where he did most of his work.
France traveled to one of the bookshelves and slipped the two commentaries between the spines of two nondescript books, with intention of forgetting they were there and rediscovering them later. Still on his desk where he left them were the papers and the half-full wine glass he abandoned the night before. He had a late night, only remembering that he was supposed to have them done after midnight. He stayed up for as long as he could drawing them up until he fell asleep at the desk and forced himself to go to bed. Now they taunted him, with their evil white complexions. The last one he had been working on remained unfinished, blatantly obvious when compared to the other pages full of France's meticulously perfect handwriting. He had half a mind to sit down and finish them, but checked the clock. He only had about twenty minutes before his meeting with Louis. Not enough time for the entire page to dry even if he tried to hurry through it. He left it as it was in its state of disarray, but gathered up all of the papers and jogged them against the table until they were in a nice, pristine stack.
He grabbed the wine glass off the desk and threw the rest of the drink back, grimacing against its old, stale, flat taste, and made for the door to Louis's apartments. He placed his hand on the door handle when it swung inwards, forcing him to jump back to avoid being struck. The footmen who opened the doors held them open for a messenger who calmly strolled through the threshold of France's drawing room. He cleared his throat loudly.
"Monsieur Bonnefoy, Monsieur le Comte de Mercy-Argentou requests an audience with you immediately."
"With me? Well, ah, now?" France stammered, still a bit shocked by the near-miss of the doors. "I offer my sincerest apologies, but I regret to inform Monsieur le Comte that I am currently unavailable." He couldn't fathom a reason why the Comte de Mercy-Argentou would want to talk to him. The only interactions France had with the man had been when he spoke to Marie-Antoinette and the Comte happened to be there in the room. Which, France recalled, he usually was. He barely left Marie's side and she seemed to take comfort in his presence for the most part.
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but Monsieur le Comte insists upon its urgency."
"Ah, well, my deepest regrets to Monsieur le Comte," France emphasized, leaning slightly forward to drive the point home. "I am on my way to a meeting with His Majesty. I must insist that it wait until after that meeting, when my schedule frees considerably."
"Monsieur le Comte wishes for me to tell you that this matter is one that he hopes you will take to His Majesty after you meet with him. He requests that you meet with him now. He stresses its importance."
Not wanting to agree, but unable to think of a polite enough reason to say no, France checked the clock on the shelves behind him and shook his head. "Fine. I will await Monsieur le Comte here, in my drawing room. Will you relay to him that if he makes me late for my meeting with Louis that I will be very displeased?"
"He is right outside the door, Monsieur. He is ready at this moment."
"Fiiiine," France sighed loudly, hoping Monsieur le Comte heard him through the open door. "Send him in, then, if you must."
Florimond Claude, the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, didn't wait for the messenger to fetch him. He wheeled around the corner and bowed to France, his face set in a stern frown. He always looked displeased, every time France saw him.
"Come in," France said, moving aside so the man could get past him. "I don't mean to be rude but please make it quick. I have fifteen minutes until I have to meet the King."
"It will be brief, I assure you," the Comte groused. He paraded past France and ignored the usual protocol and pleasantries, as Austrians tended to do. Austria himself was the same way. Business was business, no more and no less. France noticed that the Comte even seemed to mimic Austria's dainty yet harsh body language since they both had the same slight frame. He kept his sharp, clefted chin in the air, and his long, long nose helped him maintain a haughty appearance. His frown sank the corners of his mouth, but his rounded eyebrows, in contrast, made his eyes appear kind and unburdened. "You and I do not know each other well, so I apologize for my lack of formality. While I would love a proper introduction and to receive you under normal circumstances, these are by no means normal circumstances. I also apologize for the sensitivity of the matter I am about to address-"
"Brief," France reminded him, hoping the Comte would appreciate the frankness based on the content of his preamble. For good measure, France looked at the clock behind him (thirteen minutes left), and spun his finger in the air to signal his impatience.
"Of course," the Comte nodded. "Consider this State business. I act as a proxy for all Austrian parties involved in this matter: Empress Maria Theresa and the Austrian court, for Austria himself, and for Marie-Antoinette. All have expressed their concerns over Louis's lack of ability to consummate his marriage."
"Ah," France grumbled, recalling Austria's letter. "This again."
The Comte tilted his head and his eyes narrowed, assuming France was trivializing the issue. "Yes. We mean no disrespect toward His Majesty, but it is to our mutual benefit that this situation be rectified as soon as possible."
"I completely agree," France replied. "The alliance I forged with Austria depends upon an heir to cement it." He wanted to avoid a lecture from Austria himself via his letter, and then from Austria's mouthpiece in Versailles, so he hoped to beat the Comte to it. "That's not to mention that the marriage can be annuled without it, and that's not to mention the projection of strength that an heir displays. The royal couple need to appear strong together to make France look strong." He purposefully lumped Louis and Marie together as 'the royal couple' to avoid accepting full responsibility on Louis's behalf, even though he had no idea what the issue was in Louis and Marie's marriage bed or whose fault it was. But apparently it was bad enough to warrant complaints.
Something small in the back of his mind warned him that he should be terrified of the problem. A picture entered France's mind of Louis dying childless, and Marie unable to run the country herself due to his patriarchal laws. Who would be next, then? The Comte de Provence, and d'Artois after him. And then Duc d'Orléans, as the premier Prince of the Blood. France felt all the color drain from his face at the thought of the Duc. There were two people before him, sure, but that very situation happened to Louis XVI's father and his older brother, so it wasn't out of the question. A deep-rooted, self-preserving kind of National fear squeezed around his heart, already sure that the Duc would be disastrous. That would be the worst case scenario for France. The Duc already hated him and wouldn't hesitate to kick him out of the High Court and exclude him from any and all administrative efforts.
"Yes," the Comte agreed, and France quickly made sure to clear his face of any fear or concern. "And, admittedly, that is not all. It is beginning to affect her reputation." France successfully slipped the comment about the royal couple past the Comte. "The libelles and pamphlets slander her constantly - and His Majesty, too."
France already knew that. The pamphlets had been slandering Louis ever since his marriage to an Austrian was secured. "Lucky for you, Austria already made his fears known very well. I have already added this . . . issue to my itinerary for Louis." France adjusted the papers tucked under his arm, hopefully hiding the incomplete one with his elbow.
"Excellent," the Comte sighed. "Thank you." His shoulders slumped, visibly relieved, and France wondered just how much heat Austria threw down on the Comte, and how much heat Maria Theresa herself threw down on him too. No doubt Marie-Antoinette complained too. If Austria was as smitten by her as France suspected during the coronation after party, then Austria would catch a shooting star for her if she asked.
"I also apologize if this puts you in an uncomfortable position," the Comte soothed. "This discussion may not be easy for you to have with His Majesty-"
France barked out a laugh. "Oh, my dear Comte," he hummed, tilting his head and staring into the Comte's eyes. He let a coy smile cross his cheeks and winked. "You really don't know me very well." The Comte didn't know how often France indulged himself in the art of seduction, and he also didn't know how often France brought it up in any given day, either to boast about his conquests or to embarrass others who didn't like to talk about it. It was one of his favorite ways to mess with Britain. He could talk to Louis about it, without question. "I assure you that you've placed this matter in the most capable hands in Versailles!"
His display of confidence worked. The Comte smiled, nodding his surety, and France carefully tucked away his fear. The Comte didn't need to know how alarmed he was. Was Louis too short-sighted, or too ill-advised to understand what an heir meant to the stability of the monarchy? Or worse, was Louis impotent?
He had to know as soon as possible so he could work on fixing it.
"I will talk to His Majesty today, Monsieur," France assured him with a small bow to signal the end of the discussion.
"Thank you," he said again. "And in the name of fairness, I will also talk to Antonia." France blinked in surprise and smiled, not expecting the concession. He took the whole meeting as an acknowledgment that Louis was in trouble, but from that comment alone the Comte seemed to genuinely care about engaging and solving the problem rather than blaming Louis and dumping it on France's plate only to check back in later. "I care about her and I care about the stability of France and our alliance." His eyes brightened with sincerity, and France could tell he was telling the truth.
"Thank you!" France said. "I really appreciate your passion and concern." He checked the clock again. Five minutes to go. "I'm free most afternoons for a few hours. Let's get together for coffee or something one day. I'd love to become more acquainted." The Comte seemed genuinely kind, and the human part of France that craved relationships was excited by the prospect of a passionate friend and ally. The diplomat and the Nation in France was comforted by keeping a tattletale close to monitor and control the things he was able to tattle to Austria.
"Likewise," the Comte smiled, delighted by the flattery. "I'll call on you." He turned and left with a bow and without another word, and France waited until he was safely away to leave for Louis's conference room.
He was expected, so the footmen waved him in without stopping him at the door, but Louis wasn't in the room yet. France waited patiently for as long as he thought reasonable, checking the clock every ten minutes or so until forty-five minutes passed.
At first he made a conscious effort to keep his anger in check. Louis XV was chronically late, and it took a period of adjustment for France after Louis XIV's maddening punctuality. But after a while each tick of the clock grated against his nerves, igniting his rage in increments, and after a pathetically shirt amount of time he was pacing and stamping his foot.
This was the second time Louis XVI kept him waiting on official business. If that was the kind of reputation Louis wanted to maintain then it was entire his prerogative, but some notice - any notice - would have sufficed.
Louis's next scheduled meeting arrived, clamoring into the council chamber, and they were clearly confused to see France alone. He greeted them with a nod.
"Late?" one of them asked, and France nodded with a roll of his eyes.
"I'll find him," he said. "He's probably somewhere in these apartments."
He didn't have to look far. He found Louis a few rooms over in his study, bent over his desk and fiddling with something in his hands.
"Your Majesty?" France asked softly, and Louis looked up with a jolt.
"Oh! France?" He asked, squinting up at him. Realization dawned on him and his eyes widened. He whirled around to inspect the many watches he had installed in a display case behind him. "Is it really 12:00?" he asked, shoulders slumping. "Our meeting. I got so caught up in this little project that I lost track of time. Come look," Louis said, standing from his desk and gesturing to it.
He didn't say sorry, France noted as he crossed the floor. He peered down at a huge padlock, entirely disassembled on Louis's desk. Even the locking mechanism and all the pins were apart, in very neat piles on the wood, and the locking bar that held the arms of the lock was laid bare. The casing had been broken open.
"I was working on putting this back together after I modified the pins to make it harder to open. You see, you'll have to push down at the same time you twist the key in order for it to catch the pins since I shaved one of them down - you see? But I can't quite get it back together. It's puzzling me. Just a simple lock, and I've done hundreds of deconstructions, and yet this one just won't work. I think I may have broken the casing if I'm honest, but . . ."
Any other day, France would have loved to know all about what Louis was doing. But now he was severely behind schedule.
"That's unfortunate," France said, unsure of what else to say. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. In the meantime, we're really, really behind schedule and I've got some things for you to sign, and some things to discuss."
Louis's face fell, but it could've been at the prospect of work and not at France's disinterest in his passions. France held out the stack of papers and placed them on the edge of the desk. He held them there, expecting Louis to move the bits of the lock away so he could put them in front of him. He didn't. He simply sat back down and held his hand out for France to hand him the first one.
"Oh. Um, so this first one is for-"
Louis took the pen from its ink well, dipped it, and leaned far over the lock to sign it on the bare strip of desk above it.
"Don't you want to look it over? See what it is?"
Louis was already picking up the pieces of the lock and his tools, back at putting the lock together.
"Okay. This one," he said, not handing it over until he explained it, "is from Messieurs Vergennes and Maurepas, and it regards an official tariff on specific British imports. It also extends the usual embargoes and sanctions."
He hoped Louis would ask which imports. In particular, he hoped Louis would ask about tariffs on imported grain since they were in such short supply in France. It would've told France that Louis paid attention during the last update and was thinking critically about some of the issues France was bringing to his attention.
Louis instead accepted the document wordlessly and signed it. Picked up the lock pieces.
"This one is for . . . " France began, pulling the next from the stack. He hesitated. It was the half-done one, with the bottom half of the page glaring threateningly at him.
Louis glanced up, waiting for France to finish. So he was listening, at least, but his hands never stopped.
"It's . . . " Maybe he wouldn't notice. " . . . Another request from Messieurs Vergennes and Maurepas to send more ships to the West Indies so that we can continue seizing British ships and setting up distant blockades to intercept all British ships going in and out."
France placed it in Louis's outstretched hand. He took up his pen and touched it to the bottom of the paper, in the middle of the emptiness. Paused.
"This is unfinished."
Merde. "Yes, it is. Apologies, Majesty. I drew up the first document from Vergennes and Maurepas and thought I was done. I forgot about it until last night, and I began it last night but got stuck trying to remember the official number of ships Vergennes told me he was requesting. And by then I was halfway through wine glass number two, and trying to do anything after that is hit or miss - know what I mean?"
"Sometimes I feel that way," Louis said. "Sometimes I feel that I'm done for the night and can't bring myself to complete anything else. Other times I won't even make it to bed because I'm so invested in something I can't stop. Like this lock. I probably won't rest until I figure it out."
No sleeping with Marie-Antoinette, then.
"Not me," France said, putting a subtle point into his words. "I know when it's time for work and when it's time for 'play'," he emphasized. He sent Louis a smirk, and Louis chuckled. "I'll finish it later, if you want to sign it. If not, I'll send the draft to Vergennes and Maurepas with a rejection."
Louis took up the pen and signed it without a word of consideration.
"Just a minute, Your Majesty, we're not finished yet." France slipped another few papers in front of him, between Louis's face and the lock pieces in his hands. "I need you to sign this, too." France saw the beginnings of annoyance flick across Louis's face and body language. The sharper stroke on the flourish that dug into the paper, the clenching of his left hand around the tools. The distant look that said he was miles away in a different world, mapping out the lock in his head.
Louis audibly sighed and dropped the lock. "How many more?" he whined.
"I know this is tedious," France prompted softly, declining to answer the question directly, "but once all of these are settled, you'll be free to do what you want." Gentle coercing usually worked for Louis.
"What's the next one, then?"
"It's an order for the next round of conscriptions of the Third Estate into the corvée, to help maintain the streets of our cities."
Louis's face curled up in disgust at the horrible, world-ending thought of signing something else, but he did as he was told. He went for the lock again.
"Now - hold on! Don't drop that pen!"
"France, please! I desperately want to figure out this lock. Can we please do this later?"
Louis could do whatever he wanted, but he always seemed to forget that all it would take was a single word, and France would be forced to leave him. France wasn't about to remind him of his power.
"We're almost done! Come on, it's the last one! Work with me here! This one is-"
Louis snatched the paper away from him, crumpling it all up, and didn't even look at it. He scrawled a hasty 'Louis' at the bottom, as quickly and as messily as possible, and handed it back, glaring his irritation at France's feet. Not angry, but annoyed. Like a child told he could only go play if he finished his chores. France returned the glare to Louis' face and tried to convey 'For a 20 year old you're being a brat,' and 'I'm getting sick of dealing with you,' simultaneously. Louis, of course, missed it since he wouldn't raise his eyes above France's knees. In a bout of super-human control, France dropped the face and maintained his composure, smoothing the paper, and his last nerve, into a less frayed state.
"Is that all?" Louis asked.
"Actually, there's one more thing - but all you have to do is listen!" France added quickly to placate the curl of Louis's lip that he cast to the lock in his hands. "The Comte de Mercy-Argentou-"
"Who?"
"The Viennese ambassador to Versailles. Marie-Antoinette's advisor? Been here since 1766?"
Louis shrugged. France sighed, but continued to his point. "Well, anyway, I talked to him today. He told me that Maria Theresa and Austria and . . . " He almost added Marie-Antoinette into the list, but he didn't want to implicate Marie by implying that she was talking about him behind his back. " . . . and the Austrian court are concerned about a certain issue that falls to your responsibility. Now, I know things are still confusing and you're still adjusting and what not. But you and Marie have been married for four years now. So don't you think it's time for you to start thinking about putting the sword in the sheath, if you get my meaning?"
Louis paused in his lock-building long enough to shoot France a completely confused look. "What?"
"You know," France tried again, "Threading the needle? If you know what I mean?"
"No, I don't think I do," Louis said hesitantly.
"Putting the baguette in the oven?"
" . . . "
"You know, fitting the key in the lock?" He tried an analogy Louis might understand. He was grasping at straws, and Louis obviously didn't understand. "Oh, Mon Dieu!" France finally gave up. "Have you had sex with your wife yet?" he blurted out.
Louis fumbled heavily with the lock and paled so quickly France thought Louis would be sick.
"Votre Majesté?" he asked nervously, worried his King was having a heart attack right in front of him. "Are you okay?" Louis nodded slowly. "What's wrong?"
Louis's face abruptly went from white to red. His eyebrows furrowed and he leaned further over the lock, working with a furious new vigor in an attempt to look distracted. It was the same kind of color Louis's face took on when he placed the ring around Marie's finger at their wedding ceremony. And it was the same kind of red-faced mortification that he displayed the night of their wedding, when they were revealed together in the marriage bed. He wouldn't look anybody in the eye. Not the Archbishop of Reims, who blessed the bed, not France himself, not his new wife, and not even Louis XV, his beloved grandfather. France knew what was wrong. Louis was shy about love.
Love, which was France's element!
"Oh! Are you two having a bit of trouble lighting each other's fireworks, hm? Well, you've come to the right man!" he said excitedly, forgetting he brought it up to Louis in the first place. He ran across the room, grabbed the back of a chair and dragged it over next to Louis. He flipped it around with one hand and straddled it, leaning his elbows on the backrest. "So, Louis - I can call you Louis, right?" Louis squeaked out an inarticulate affirmation, and France ran with it. "Great! Where's the hold-up for you? Is it the foreplay? Is she doing something you're not into? What does she do?"
"W-well, she . . . we . . . nothing."
"Nothing?" France shrieked. "What do you mean 'nothing'?"
"I don't know! We just . . . do what we're supposed to do!" he finished vaguely.
"Well that's why there's no magic!" France said, assuming there just wasn't any passion involved. "You two've gotta do something before you get down and dirty! How else do you two get in the mood? You can't just go in there all cold and emotionless and . . . dry. The friction alone would be - ugh!"
"I don't . . . know-"
"You should ask her to try things out next time! Do you like a stronger presence from her? Put her in control. Let her give you the orders instead of the other way around. I tell you what, I once met a woman in a brothel who liked tying my arms to the bedposts and climbing on top. Mm! It was fantastic!"
"France, please. I-I don't know what-"
"Okay, okay, that was a little extreme. I can tell just from interacting with you that you're more of a calm, practical presence in the bedroom," France purred, smirking wildly at Louis. "Being able to read people so well, and being able to figure out what they like, is something I've learned over years and years of practice. Whatever turns you on, just ask her to partake, too! I bet you like," he trailed off to think. "Hmm . . . "
"Don't guess," Louis huffed. "It's none of your business. Besides, I'm not sure that we . . . know each other well enough for that-"
"No problem, no problem!" France insisted. "You should both just get drunk together, then, if you're too shy to ask! Man or woman, royal or peasant, beautiful or plain, it doesn't matter. No one is immune to the sweet liberation that too much alcohol provides. It really loosens all the knots."
"I don't think-"
"You don't have to think! Once you're both drunk all it takes is one really nice compliment! Charm her! You know what she likes, so use what she likes to get her to like you! Be the ideal lover. Make her feel lofty and and great, lauded above all others! Make her feel like she's special! Do you love her? When you really love someone, it isn't hard," France babbled with a small smile. "The words will tumble from your heart straight out through your mouth. You won't even have to think about what to say. L'amour will take care of it for you!" He clasped his hands under his chin and sighed, resting his cheek against the back of the chair. "If the moment is right, it's like . . . like poetry," he said, softening up his voice. "You'll say things you didn't even know you felt. And they'll be true, and they'll be raw, and all of a sudden, the room fades out. Picture it: there's one light around you, and it's focused on her." France closed his eyes, as he hoped Louis was. "The light illuminates her face, her eyes, beautiful and blue, her golden hair, her body. You love her. She loves you." France opened his eyes and was surprised to see he had Louis's attention. For a moment. "That will lead to the kissing."
Louis rolled his eyes like a defiant teen and turned his attention to the lock. France didn't care. He was on a beautiful, passion-fueled tangent, and he wasn't about to get off of it.
"Your lips will press together," he whispered. "Softly, hesitantly, but filled with passion. She is yours, and yours alone. As you both get comfortable, passion will turn to desire. She will be all you know. All you see. All you want. Everything you could ever want will be fulfilled by holding her in your arms and never letting her go. It's a fire! It'll burn through your whole body! But especially the 'bayonet'!" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Louis missed that too, focusing way too intently on the lock in his hands. "What does that even-"
"By then the mood has been set! One thing will lead to another! Pretty soon you'll be clawing at each other's clothes, and she'll be all over you and-"
"Got it!" Louis cried triumphantly, snapping the arm of the lock closed. He held it out triumphantly, showing the completed lock to France.
"I'm trying to give you advice, here! Having an heir is a really important part of regency. It would secure our alliance with Austria and secure Marie's position here, and seal any power vacuums later. And it would also project the strength of your monarchy and your country! Which is me. And you're talking to a love expert right now! I taught your grandfather everything he knew, and Louis XV was practically known as a Casanova. So you should be taking notes or something, especially if this is a problem-"
"I didn't even understand half of those euphemisms! And you didn't even describe anything! Look," he said again, shaking the lock in front of France's face. "I finally got it!"
"I know! I can see that! Alright, alright." He pushed the lock back towards Louis. "Can you at least promise me that you're trying to conceive a child with Marie-Antoinette? Are you healthy? Everything work?" France roved his eyes down Louis's body and inclined his head to stare between his legs, then looked back up into his face.
"I would much rather have that discussion with my doctor than with you, but yes. I'm fine. And I am laying with my wife."
"Okay. I'm gonna stop bothering you about it today, but just know that this issue won't be over until you two . . . fix this, I guess." He winced at his own verbiage, but shook his head. "There's just one more thing I need to tell you about, before we call this little meeting. I received a letter from America today. America the Nation. I think - and don't quote me on this - but I think he's planning to go to war against Britain."
Louis's head snapped to the side to stare at France, open-mouthed. "Really? America? Those thirteen tiny colonies are going to go to war? Against Britain?"
France nodded hard. "That's exactly the reaction I had!"
"What kind of forces are they even going to mount? Farmers with pitchforks?" he snorted.
"I know, right? But apparently America thinks they can win. He's sending a man by the name of Silas Deane over our way to meet with Messieurs Vergennes and Maurepas, and probably the Comte de Ségur since he's your minister of war to discuss potential French aid."
"Aid in what form?" Louis asked.
"I don't know yet. America vaguely mentioned a fleet or two, and maybe some troops, but I'm not sure exactly. Silas Deane probably has more information, so I'm going to talk to Vergennes and find out when they're going to meet. I'd like to sit in on the meeting. I wanted to be the first one to tell you so that you could know ahead of time, and maybe start to make an opinion. Knee-jerk reaction?" France asked, and to his surprise, Louis answered quickly.
"Absolutely not. There's not a chance in the world that America will win against Britain. They'll be crushed, and I'm not about to agree to send aid to a losing cause. And besides, how would that look if I upheld the right of another country to overthrow their monarch? But what do you think?" Louis asked, in case that wasn't the right thing to say. "As a Nation, what do you think?"
Everything within France Nationally was telling him no, and it manifested as a momentary but intense ache in his muscles, and a fatigue that he associated with not having the funds on-hand to be able to manage it. The feelings went away quickly, but he knew them for what they were: predictions that things would not go well for him if they took action this time. It would only get worse from there, and eventually it would turn into a full-on cold that wouldn't go away until he was back on more stable financial footing. It was easy to see the positives of the situation, but he gave Louis his opinions. "We can't manage it right now, both monetarily and morally. We just don't have the money to spare, and I agree with you about the overthrow of a monarch. That's a dangerous slope for other countries around the world. What if our colonies in the Indies try it on us next? I do think there are many advantages for us should America actually win, the most important part for me being that I'd be able to hold it over Britain's head for the rest of forever that he got his ass handed to him by little America! But - and this hurts me to say - is that worth betting on America, who doesn't have the first chance in hell of winning? No. Not at all. So that's what I think. I'll let you think on it some more. I'm hoping that by the time Vergennes reaches you with Deane's request, you'll have a quick and decisive answer for him."
"I think I can manage that," Louis said with finality, nodding his surety. "I doubt there is much that's going to change my mind. Although, I would like to hear Monsieur Vergennes's opinions. If only to see if he has anything else to add about foreign policy."
France nodded, but not before Louis caught his frown of disappointment. In return his eyebrows furrowed and he looked down, turning the finished lock in his hands.
"I don't have to talk to Vergennes, if you don't want me to-" Louis mumbled.
"No, no, I didn't mean that! I think it's always good to get others opinions!" France smoothed. "However, in your case, I also think that you shouldn't change your opinion just because one person strongly disagrees with you. That's why I'm telling you now. So you can be ready to form your own decision. If you think you're in the right, then you stick to it. If you think you're wrong, then take more expert opinions and do what you need to do. I just need you to form your own opinion and stay strong on it. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes. Yes, I can."
France hoped he could, but based on the coronation flip-flop he wasn't entirely convinced. Still, he hoped Louis would make a change for this instance.
All he could do was wait for this Silas Deane to make his appearance.
A/N:
Some History Notes:
Louis was incredibly smart! And he was passionate about specific things! He just . . . wasn't terribly passionate about running a country. Accounts of meetings report a notable number of instances where Louis seemed visibly bored and disinterested with the proceedings, and there were even a few reports of him falling asleep during meetings! He would have rather partook in his many hobbies and his real passions.
Louis and Marie's marriage remaining unconsummated is a HUGE PROBLEM for the country and will stay a huge problem for the country for seven years after their marriage! Maria Theresa threw TONS of heat down on Marie-Antoinette and the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, to the point where her letters to Marie-Antoinette are scathing and downright nasty. Marie's reputation seriously begins to suffer as a result.
America is going to start seeking French support for the Revolution soon, but France isn't entirely eager to lend support to him. They won't garner official support until 1777, after a decisive American victory over British regulars at Saratoga!
This chapter includes pieces of the old chapter 2! I modified America's letter, beefed up the part where France asks Louis about his marriage consummation, and I also added a brand new discussion with the Comte de Mercy-Argentou! Let me know how I did.
Please leave a comment if you have the time! I love really long, drawn out ones, but then, I also love a 'good chapter'! Thanks so much for reading!
~Keyblader