People clamour and jostle in the queue, bumping shoulders with England as he and Canada wait to be admitted. They slowly make their way to the front of the line, and upon reaching the entrance, a skinny gentleman with an exceptional moustache stamps their tickets.
"Bienvenue Monsieur," he says as he formally waves them inside.
Stepping forward quickly, England slips free from the crowd and enters through the main doorway. He wipes his shoes on the entry carpet and grumbles at the new scuff marks on his left toe. Dignitaries and businessmen are not inclined to have much patience, it would seem.
"This is amazing!" Canada exclaims.
Lifting his eyes, England is greeted by an enormous bronze statue of a woman. The titan stands proudly with a great, billowing dress and points her arm up towards the hall's lofty ceiling. Glistening overhead windows allow natural light to bathe the vast expanse of exhibits and adornments. Clusters of various gadgets scatter the gallery floor, from hulking engines to miniature precision instruments. Larger industrial machines the size of cottages lurk in the distance alongside decorative palms and more statues. On the walls hang swords and colourful tapestries; the products of blacksmiths and fabric spinners advertising their craftsmanship.
Echoing down the long passageway are the footsteps of attendants who scurry about their booths adjusting labels and signage while the first guests trickle in.
For it all, England can only marvel in astonishment.
Merely decades ago, France was in a disastrous state - pale and bruised from the Revolutions and Napoleon's wars. At every turn, he was bleeding funds and falling into debt just to keep his starving citizens from dying. His cities were haunted by barricades and burned buildings; Paris itself felt weary in its dilapidated form.
Looking at the brilliance and grandeur of the hall, England can find no trace of those wretched trials. Set before him is the work of not years, but centuries. Such is the power of industry.
"He's come quite a long way," England murmurs. His gaze drifts to the prominent tricolore flags hanging on cantilever poles. Their vivid blue, white, and red hues glow with strength.
"Did you say something?" Canada asks.
England blinks and then shakes his head. "No, it's nothing." Blast it. That makes the second time today he has been caught off-guard on French soil. He pats Canada on the shoulder. "Which exhibit would you like to see first? You can lead the way."
"Oh! I'm not sure - there are so many choices!" Canada glances around the immediate area before shrugging. "How about we start walking and see where we end up?"
"Excellent call," England says. He gestures to the exhibits and they head forward, past the bronze woman and down the great hallway.
Wool spinners, paper makers, and timepieces eventually give way to glassware, porcelain, and crystal displays - and then again to billiard tables and musical instruments. Canada leads their tour, points enthusiastically at whatever catches his eye, and asks endless questions.
"What's an arithmometer? Where did they get all this crystal? Are swords still used today? That machine over there, how does it work?"
With England's personal knowledge, he can answer about half of the questions. For the rest, he can only smile and shake his head. At one moment, Canada apologizes and wonders aloud if he is being overly zealous, which England vehemently denies. It is a rare gift to witness his ward gushing. England soaks in Canada's infectious energy and allows himself to be guided along.
They come to a stop when the young colony drifts to a particular display.
"These paintings are so tiny," he remarks. "I wonder how they were made?"
The wooden wall before them is covered in miniature picture frames, each one no bigger than a tea kettle. Peculiarly, the paintings within them are dull greyscale and not the vibrant coloured pieces one would expect at an exposition. A camera obscura sits among the works of art; humble and inconspicuous on its pedestal.
Getting closer, England squints at one of the pictures: a portrait of a curly-haired businessman. His wrinkles and fabric are exquisitely real. The stranger's appearance is so life-like, he could be mistaken for actually being a very small grey man trapped within the picture box.
"I don't think these are paintings," England mutters.
"What do you mean?" Canada asks, following his gaze.
"Here, look." England points at the tiny gentleman, but is careful not to touch the image. "With paintings so small, it would be easy to see dollops of paint or brushstrokes, but these images are completely smooth. Charcoal is unsuited to this level of detail, and pens do not allow for this sort of gradual shading." He steps back from the picture and turns to his ward. "I think these are Daguerreotypes."
Canada's face screws up in confusion. "Daguer-Daguerreotypes?"
"Yes, I've read about them. They're quite rare." England taps his thumb to his chin. If the pictures are Daguerreotypes, that would certainly explain the camera obscura on display. "From what I understand, the image is fixed permanently onto a plate by the agency of light alone. No ink or paint is required at all."
"But how?"
"Ah... unfortunately, I'm not too familiar with the process," England admits. What a pity. He probably should know, since this new technology is often discussed in London.
"Excuse me," says a young voice behind them. "If you would like, I can explain it to you."
England and Canada both turn to see a bright-eyed little boy standing near them. He appears to be about nine years old and looks well put-together. His pale hair, lighter than even Canada's, is trimmed short, as though he received a haircut just for this exposition. His fancy brown suit is clean and unmarked with the dirt or grass stains common with children, regardless of their class.
England addresses the youngster first. "Goodness," he says, "can you really describe how these pictures are made?"
Unshy, the boy nods. "Yes, sir."
England smiles. "In that case, we'd be delighted. Go right ahead."
The child clears his throat. "The most important component," he states, "is the plate that the image will be developed on. First, the silver side of the plate has to be polished to a nearly perfect mirror-finish. Then in darkness, the surface is exposed to iodine fumes by using iodine crystals at room temperature. This produces a coating of silver iodide that will..."
On and on he goes, confidently speaking while traces of a German accent slip into his speech here and there. England's eyes widen with each new scientific term added to the lecture. It's evident that the lad's vocabulary is far beyond his age, which is already impressive in and of itself, but doubly so if English is his second language. Perhaps he will grow up to become one of history's great minds, like Louis Daguerre himself.
"...That is how Daguerreotypes are made," the boy finishes.
Immediately, Canada applauds him. "Wow! That was amazing! How do you know so much? Did your mother and father set up this exhibit?"
The little prodigy shakes his head. "No, I just like new technologies. They are interesting to me."
"You're a very knowledgeable young man," England praises.
"Danke schön," their lecturer murmurs. "I mean, thank you very much." He fidgets with his fingers and stares at the floor; the first sign of shyness he has shown them.
Canada leans down and offers a hand. "My name is Matthew. What's yours?"
After slight hesitation, the boy reaches out and they shake. "My name is Ludwig," he says. "It is nice to meet you."