Hello everyone! Here's a new chapter!
Many thanks for your support Mium, Porthos10, AlexZero12, paffnytij, Galan05, and Divine_Cheese! I hope I haven't forgotten anyone!
Enjoy!
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François stood in the middle of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's salon, drawn almost against his will into the wide circle that had formed there. Very surprised by the way these worldly gatherings worked, he listened and watched in silence.
As Martin had said, everything here revolved around conversation. Words flew without respite—quick, sharp, sometimes light, sometimes grave, but never broken.
These men and women, coming from different walks of life, always had a thought, a remark to share.
What struck him most was the freedom with which they tackled subjects he considered sensitive—society, religion, power.
Some guests ventured far, very far at times, yet always knew how to stop just before crossing an invisible boundary, a red line that only they seemed to see clearly.
Perhaps they had learned to perceive it by brushing against it, teasing it, night after night. To François, these people were like tightrope walkers, dancing on a rope stretched between two tall towers.
Little by little, his bewilderment turned into a dull unease.
Are they really allowed to speak like this? I mean… this isn't the twenty-first century. Don't they realize what they're saying? Should I intervene? They may cloak their criticisms behind smiles and a layer of irony, but still… Ah, I don't know.
François discreetly clenched his fists as he analyzed the scene, still trying to grasp the rules of the game.
No. I think… it's better to say nothing. At least not for now. I suppose I must keep watching.
His gaze slid toward Condorcet and Turgot, smiling, always ready with a reply. They too never seemed at a loss for words.
With a well-placed quip, sharp as a sword thrust, Turgot sent the assembly into laughter by taking aim at a former minister of Louis XV.
François blinked.
No one here seems shocked. Is this… normal?
Out of the corner of his eye, he studied Martin and noted that he did not appear offended.
And to think of all those hours I spent on my manuscripts, scratching out whole pages just to avoid offending a censor… Good God, what a farce! Is it simply because I am no one? Because I have no powerful friends? No patron?
His gaze drifted to the walls of the great room, flooded with light.
From his perspective, ideas here were tossed about like stones into water, with no fear of the ripples they might cause. He wondered if their apparent carelessness was tied to the setting.
Is it because we are in a private place that they allow themselves such words?
He was not certain they would dare to do so in public.
But he knew one thing: in a barracks, he would never have tolerated soldiers speaking this way about the established order.
But this was no longer New France. He was in Paris, in the home of a respected lady, surrounded by influential people he would do well not to offend.
If I speak out of turn—even if I am right—what would happen then? What if I make a fool of myself now?
His hands grew clammy. His legs began to tremble, thankfully almost imperceptibly.
Already he imagined the awkward silence, the heavy, accusing stares. He would certainly be seen as a dullard, a watchdog of the King, perhaps even a fool.
François then pictured Martin's livid face.
He asked me not to embarrass him. He might never forgive me.
"Are you all right?"
Martin had leaned toward him, worried.
"I—I'm not sure," François muttered.
He paused briefly to make sure no one was looking at him, then leaned in toward Martin.
"Do they often speak like this in Parisian circles?"
"Yes, my friend. That is how it goes. In some, they say, the words are even harsher. No one is spared."
N-no one? Surely not the King himself?
"And… it doesn't cause trouble?"
Martin shrugged with a strange smile tugging at his lips.
"They are only words. Writings are far more dangerous, for they leave a trace and spread more easily. Of course there are limits, but… so long as it is not printed and distributed, all is well."
"Y-you're sure?" François asked again.
Martin smiled broadly, a flash of mischief in his eyes.
"But of course. You worry too much. If they locked up everyone who criticized the government, the court, or our institutions… Versailles would be empty. Better yet: three quarters of the French nobility would already be rotting in the galleys."
Though Martin had spoken quietly, these words did not escape Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, who stood nearby.
She hid a charming smile behind her richly decorated fan—a gift from Monsieur d'Alembert, whose sentiments toward her were well known to everyone present.
"How generous you are, Monsieur de Lusernes. To denounce an imperfect system is such a delicious fruit; it would be a sin to abstain. Our nobility would fill the prisons… yet the bourgeoisie would keep them good company."
Martin chuckled softly.
"One must admit, the game is an easy one."
Their hostess then turned to François, lowering her fan from her radiant face. She favored him with a luminous smile.
"Monsieur de Montrouge, you seem quite lost in thought. Do not hesitate to speak. Within these walls, all are free to make their voices heard. Neither your rank nor your military profession should hold you back."
François felt his heart tighten.
He had commanded hundreds of men, killed at least as many foes in the last war—yet he did not feel prepared to face this circle of twenty guests. Among them stood figures far higher than he in the hierarchy of this world.
But more than their rank, it was their words he feared.
"Permit me, mademoiselle, to remain silent this time," he replied with a respectful bow. "I do not feel equal to these gentlemen. Especially to those two."
With a glance, he indicated Diderot and d'Alembert.
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's smile widened. She fluttered her long, dark lashes—a light yet devastating gesture that would have set many a man blushing.
"Of course, monsieur, no one here forces your hand."
She moved away, her steps resonating softly on the polished parquet, to whisper to other guests. Martin seized the moment to murmur in François's ear.
"You did well. Hm… I mean no insult, but believe me, those two would have torn you to pieces. If you are a musket, they are cannon. They speak with such ease one might think they had spent days preparing their lines."
He stroked his chin and tilted his head.
"I am sure they do. Two such monsters would never rely on improvisation alone."
François only smiled and turned back to the conversation, his mind a little more at ease.
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The minutes slipped by unnoticed. Far from bored, he found the exchanges fascinating. Yet he soon realized that this liberty of speech, so praised as the very soul of the salons, had its invisible boundaries.
The guests knew how far to push their audacity.
François found it deeply ironic: these people railed against censorship, yet censored themselves lest they provoke the government, wound sensibilities, or fall into ridicule.
Thus they traced for themselves a second red line, one that preceded the government's own. And Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, with gracious firmness, ensured that no one crossed either. Her reputation was at stake.
So, despite the topics raised and the divergence of opinion, the atmosphere remained pleasant, the exchanges lively, and the tone courteous.
François clutched his manuscripts to his chest. They felt heavier now than when he had arrived.
He had hoped to slip his work into the hands of a few brilliant minds—but he was disappointed.
Not once did the conversation approach his themes, and he dared not divert its course.
I shall show them to Martin later… perhaps even to his children. Their opinion will be precious.
When the circle broke into smaller groups, Martin led him to mingle with other guests. The experience proved less agreeable than he had expected.
Despite the lofty rhetoric of equality of minds, an implicit hierarchy governed the salon. In the face of this aristocracy, François felt as insignificant as a cockroach.
Madame Suard, with her characteristic delicacy, took the trouble to whisper a few explanations.
"You see, monsieur, circles reflect our society more than they reform it. One likes to believe that here all is mingled, but it is not so. The moment we assemble, a hierarchy asserts itself. It is natural. Each goes toward their own. Do you see? The philosophers gather and debate, the great aristocrats exchange pleasantries, the artists speak of their hardships and projects."
She offered him a gentle smile tinged with melancholy.
"At Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's, we are fortunate. The wall is thinner than elsewhere. We may converse more easily across ranks than in other circles. Yet the differences endure. Those who forget their station may pay a high price. Remember that, and you will move through this world without stumbling."
Her husband, just leaving Turgot's side, joined them.
"Understand well, monsieur, that you do not belong to the same world as these counts, marquises, and princes. It is no reproach—do not mistake me—but a fact. You may converse with them, amuse them, even surprise them on occasion… but you will never be their equal."
"Even among equals there is always a gap," added Amélie Suard. "Wealth, position, connections, seniority—all must be weighed. If I am not mistaken, you possess a title of nobility in your own right. That is remarkable. But you will likely never be seen as a true noble. So take care."
She spoke with sincere, almost maternal concern, which touched François more than he would have thought.
The Marquis de Condorcet and Baron Turgot de l'Aulne, younger brother of the Marquis de Sousmont, stood out as exceptions. Neither placed much importance on birth: for them, what mattered was intelligence and talent.
Condorcet observed the world with a rigor almost geometric in its precision—cold, detached, neutral. Perhaps that was why he opposed so firmly the discriminations endured by women. For him, sex mattered little: only the spark of the mind counted.
As for Turgot, he was more radical still. He stood for the abolition of privilege and desired equality for all, whatever their station. A dangerous opinion, one that had earned him a mountain of criticism, and which he voiced only with caution outside carefully chosen circles.
"You would do well to take these warnings seriously," he said suddenly, stepping closer. "What was that man's name again? Renier? Renard? No matter. He was beginning to make a name for himself as a poet. One evening he had the honor of being invited to Madame Necker's, whose circle is as renowned as this one. But scarcely had he arrived when he committed an unpardonable fault: he greeted the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, the Duke of Choiseul himself, with nothing more than a 'Good evening, monsieur.' Imagine it! A humble poet tossing a 'good evening, sir' at a minister? At a duke? The man who arranged both the Treaty of London and the marriage of the Duke of Burgundy?"
"Ah yes," Suard interjected. "I remember. The affair caused quite a stir early last year, if I am not mistaken."
"Indeed," Turgot confirmed. "Overcome with shame, the man left the gathering in haste, crimson with embarrassment. But the story did not end there."
Madame Suard took up the tale, an anecdote trivial on the surface, yet rich with instruction.
"The following day, the duke—perhaps at the urging of friends—called upon him, dressed as if for a duel. Naturally, the poor poet understood, and, they say, was so terrified he burst into tears. Of course it was but a jest, and Monsieur le duc de Choiseul asked him to compose a poem for his wife. The poet hastened to comply."
She smiled at the memory of how the tale had been told to her. All Paris had heard it, and laughed at the poor man's expense.
"He was invited again, but only to be mocked. At last he fled the capital to escape the ridicule."
Such was the fate of those who forgot their place.
Laughter rippled through the circle, but François felt a chill run down his spine.
Terrified by the story, he looked upon the salon and its guests with different eyes. Suddenly he grasped how pitiless this gilded world could be.
He also better understood why the Comtesse de Boufflers had exchanged scarcely five words with him before returning to her conversation with the Duke of Nivernais and the Prince de Ligne, visiting Paris with his wife, along with the Marquis de Castelfux.
François noticed only now how Mademoiselle de Lespinasse bestowed discreetly more attention upon them than upon her other guests. This remarkable woman moved adroitly among the groups, sharing a few words, a jest here and there, offering warm and cool drinks and little delicacies to savor.
François tightened his hold on his manuscripts—Sleeping Beauty and the sketch of his new project. In this setting, his writings, so precious to him, seemed suddenly fragile, vulnerable.
Thus he spent most of the evening conversing with his newfound acquaintances. The talk, growing more animated, soon circled back to the terrain of economics—and naturally, to the burning question of free trade.
Turgot was its ardent champion. He declared passionately that shortages and famines could be prevented, for they did not arise from any real lack of grain, but from the absurd barriers erected between provinces.
Each généralité, each intendance, imposed its dues, its taxes, its restrictions. Let the grain flow freely, he said, and famine would be forestalled.
This opinion, however, was far from unanimous.
To general surprise, François at once spoke in his favor.
"You are a thousand times right, monsieur. If I may—what is the prosperity of a nation worth if its people do not have enough to eat? Each famine is further proof that this system must be changed. Food must circulate freely, so that it will naturally go where there is need. We must have a single market, without tolls or internal customs. Prices must be set by supply and demand, not by a handful of men in Paris or Versailles!"
He was regarded with curiosity. Condorcet frowned faintly, d'Alembert inclined his head, Martin widened his eyes, but Turgot's smile beamed with delight.
Emboldened, François pressed on, thinking of the modern world he had left behind—imperfect, yes, but with qualities worth sharing.
"Imagine, gentlemen: no more state monopolies! No more closed guilds, clamping everything in an iron grip! Competition would spur innovation, drive prices down. Citizens—ah, I mean, His Majesty's subjects—would reap the benefit, and even the humblest peasant would have sufficient food at a fair price. To eat should not be the privilege of an elite!"
A faint murmur stirred the circle. These words, disarmingly simple, carried the weight of a provocation.
François seemed not to notice the wary glances and continued with heartfelt conviction:
"And taxes! Is it not unjust that some are exempt, while others are crushed under the burden? All should contribute, each according to his means. The wealthiest, with a proportionally greater share! A single tax, graduated in tiers!"
Silence fell. Eyes met, startled, sometimes disapproving. François, breath short and cheeks flushed, felt keenly that these people were not yet ready to accept such change—especially the nobles and the few clergy present.
Enlightened though they were, they clung fast to their privileges.
The officer on leave understood, from their reactions and especially from Martin's, that if his words carried beyond these walls, they would scandalize more than one duke or marquis.
But Turgot burst into delighted laughter, seized François's hand, and shook it warmly.
"Here is a man who understands! At last, someone who dares to think of fiscal justice unclouded by prejudice!"
The others, more cautious, exchanged polite smiles, as if to soften the boldness of François' words.
Madame Suard, hidden behind a cup of particularly fragrant tea, leaned toward Martin with a faintly amused smile on her lips:
"Your friend has most interesting ideas, Monsieur de Lusernes. Perhaps they still lack the polish that comes with experience. But I daresay in time, they will find their true brilliance."
Her husband was more guarded, especially after noticing the reaction of the other guests who had overheard François' daring words:
"These proposals may indeed seem appealing," he admitted, "but they demand a people far more docile than ours, and a power firmer than it has ever been. It is never easy to move what has stood in balance for so long."
The rigorous Condorcet saw just as clearly as Jean Baptiste Suard the limits of François' proposals.
Though intrigued, he believed this soldier did not yet realize the thickness of the wall he was attempting to tear down.
"There will surely be resistance from every side. Reforms of this kind take time. Is that not the lesson of La Fontaine's famous fable, The Tortoise and the Hare? What you suggest is undoubtedly just, perhaps even necessary. But it is not a battle won in a single assault. It is a long march, where each step must be fought for against inertia and fear."
These words carried all the more weight as Condorcet, despite his youth, was already respected for the precision of his judgment.
Turgot himself knew that such a reform would not pass easily. To think it could be decreed in a single edict would be naïve. Yet, step by step, he was convinced that change—beneficial to the kingdom and its people—could indeed be achieved.
He smiled, a spark in his eyes.
"All this will fit perfectly into my work," he declared with joyful conviction, already turning over in his mind phrases as sharp as blades.
The debate had begun, and it grew passionate.
At once, François was struck by the sheer number of obstacles.
How to establish fair brackets? How to control each person's income? How to punish fraud? How to convince the people that these reforms were in their interest, and not simply meant to burden them further?
It was endless.
For a fleeting instant, François felt as though he had returned to the twenty-first century—the time when he had simply been Adam.
Though his identity had since become far more complex, he had kept a few modern convictions. He tried to defend them despite his gaps in knowledge, repeating in rough strokes what he had once heard on television and the Internet.
But these were his true beliefs.
Even though he had become a noble, he would gladly renounce his privileges if it meant helping the people to live better lives.
In time, the tone eased, as often happens after too serious a discussion. Voices had risen, yet never had the guests failed to treat their opponents with respect.
Among civilized company, good manners prevailed.
Smiles returned, like sunshine after a rain shower. Jests were exchanged, and the talk drifted toward lighter subjects.
The theater, inexhaustible as ever, became the focus: an actor praised for his daring, a new tragedy already showing flaws, a rising name. Then came the subject of music.
"Ah, I almost forgot," Martin suddenly said to François. "I neglected to tell you—I found the name of that young prodigy I mentioned during your last stay in Paris. That Austrian boy."
François, surprised, raised an eyebrow. He vaguely remembered his friend mentioning a very promising little boy who had come through Paris with his father. That had been in 1766, just a few months before François' first journey to France.
"A young prodigy?"
"Why yes! Don't you recall? I had forgotten his name and promised to look it up for you. In the end, I forgot to mention it again in my letters."
François now remembered that indeed, there had been something like that.
"His name is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."
Mozart! He had met Mozart!
Even though in his former life he had never been a great lover of classical music, that name was too important to ignore. His legacy, his works, had spanned the centuries.
"Ah yes, the young Mozart," said Madame de Montigny beside him, lightly waving a fan painted mostly in green and white. "I remember him well. So young, and already so talented. I had the pleasure of hearing him play. Truly, he is very promising. How old was he then?"
"He must have been ten, I think, madame," Martin answered, recalling the tiny figure perched on a red-and-gold stool. "His feet didn't even touch the floor."
"And his hands were so small," added Montigny. "But he was only six or seven when he first came to Versailles. That was in 1763, a year after the war."
"That's true," Condorcet suddenly recalled, though he had not had the honor of attending the performances. "He was traveling with his father on a grand tour of Europe. Dear Voltaire was much disappointed to have missed him during his passage through Geneva."
"Let us hope," concluded Madame de Montigny, "that we will have another chance to hear him. Perhaps his talent will have grown even greater by then."
Unbelievable. Mozart alive—and still a child?! Could I actually meet him one day? If I could hear him play… Ahahaha, that would be insane! Maybe I could even get an autograph! Do people even do that here?
François' cheeks flushed red with excitement at the thought, a notion that had never before crossed his mind.
Yes, if I have the chance, I absolutely want to meet him—or at least hear him play. I suppose I have time. If he's still just a boy, then surely I'll have more than one opportunity to cross paths with him. I simply need to make sure my next leave coincides with his next stay in the capital.
Suddenly, outside, the rain grew heavier. Quiet at the start of the evening, it had now turned into a downpour.
It drummed against the square panes of the large room, drawing a moving curtain over the windows.
"What a torrent! I think I shall wait a bit before leaving," declared Turgot.
François and others nodded in agreement.
At Madame de Lespinasse's, one could leave whenever one wished, but that evening several guests—including d'Alembert—delayed their departure at the sight of the weather. The streets of Paris, lacking any proper drainage, had turned into streams, giving the capital a faint air of Venice.
The conversation resumed, calmer now, in a more intimate atmosphere.
François lifted to his lips a beautiful cup of steaming tea and let out a deep sigh.
He listened distractedly to the rain beating against the windows and tried, now and then, to insert a word into the ongoing exchanges. But the voices rose around him, always more abstract: truth, happiness, virtue, beauty, liberty.
Words strung together like riddles.
The whole thing made his head spin, giving him the strange feeling of being back in a classroom, forced to attend a lecture from which he would retain very little.