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Chapter 6 - The Queen's Allowance

Having pulled off a successful coup with Necker, Art gained a spurt of momentum, something with which he was well accustomed during hostile takeover negotiations in his former life. He had gained a beachhead. Time to follow up the attack. While Necker began his stealthy investigation of the pension hemorrhage—it would be a gradual, tentative process—Art knew that he had to confront the most visible, politically sensitive financial hemorrhage: the royal household budget. And at the heart of that budget, bleeding funds like a severed artery, was the Queen's allowance.

He came out of the warm, ink-sodden confusion of his study, the attendants scurrying to keep up with his abrupt, determined strides. To pass through the long, gilt corridors to the private apartments of Marie Antoinette was to pass from one national frontier into a foreign, perhaps hostile country. The atmosphere even shifted. The musty scent of old paper and sealing wax was replaced by the faint, sensual perfume of fresh flowers and valuable cosmetics. His cold, silent purpose was substituted by the chiming of happy laughter and the gentle playing of a spinet.

Her doors were wide open. The air inside was one of naturally luminous luxury. It was sunny, roomy, filled with the bright rays of the afternoon that twinkled in the facets of a gargantuan chandelier made of crystal teardrops. Scores of ladies-in-waiting, in splashes of pastel-colored silk, chattered and laughed like a flock of colored birds. A ruffled-looking designer was unpacking a roll of gorgeous Lyonnaise silk, its flower design sparkling in the sunlight, for their notice.

Center of all, the sun to the smaller planets, was Marie Antoinette. Art had only seen her in strict, formal occasions or in brief, awkward interviews since his arrival. Here, in her private home, she was luminous. Dressed in a white diaphanous gown, powdered hair well-combed, she had a vitality and radiance about her that was almost suffocating. And she saw him standing in the doorway of the room, his face red in the candlelight, and her face beamed in a glorious, true smile.

"Louis! You have excavated your dusty books to come in!" she stated, in a sunny, singing tone. "Come, you must give your opinion. Monsieur Léon maintains that the silk is the height of fashion, yet I find it dull. Do you not find that dull?"

The ladies-in-waiting giggled and curtsied. They had expected a social call, a brief, pleasant interruption. Art, however, was still in auditor mode. He was grasping a rolled sheet of parchment—his hasty analysis of how she spent the money. The grim reality of the figures detonated explosively by the romantic beauty of the moment in front of him.

He stepped into the center of the room, the laughter and discussion dying away as the courtly women sensed the shift in mood. His face was serious, his posture rigid. He did not smile back.

"We need to talk about your budget," he stated in an even tone. He had eliminated the friendly greetings, a social faux pas of massive proportions.

Marie Antoinette's smile faltered, confusion blunting the radiance of her face. The room silence became oppressive, anticipatory. "My. budget?" she repeated, the word unfamiliar on her tongue, as if he had merely asked that they discuss crop rotation.

"Your allowance," said Art, his patience worn thin even sooner. He had stared into the abyss of national bankruptcy for a full night; he would not tolerate this charade. "Your allowance. Your purchases of clothing, jewelry, private theatricals, redecoration... are unsustainable." He spread the paper with a sharp crack, waving it around his person as if he placed thecus in the dock. "Purchases last month, in your accounts, would have sufficed to commission and equip a brand new naval frigate."

He had estimated the figure would amaze her, would make her understand the scale of the problem. He had completely misread his audience.

A rosy flush spread up Marie Antoinette's neck. "A frigate?" she asked, the music out of her voice, the tone instead bitter and crisp. The women in waiting flashed concerned glances at each other. "I am no shipwright, your majesty. I am the Queen of France."

She got up, her natural graciousness transforming to an air of stony, indignant dignity. "I must maintain my station. The prestige of the entire kingdom, the dignity of the House of Bourbon, concentrates in my person, in this court. It is my responsibility to emanate that dignity. Do you want the Spanish ambassador to see me in dresses that I wore last year? To have them answer Vienna, my mother, that the King of France is so penniless that he can't keep his wife decently?"

Art underwent an episode of intense frustration. They communicated different languages. He spoke of budgetary responsibility, of the hard reality of an empty till. She spoke of something that couldn't be quantified: prestige, honor, the psychological authority of appearances. To him, expenses constituted a perilous liability. To her, an essential of the job description.

"This has nothing to do with honor, it has to do with mathematics!" he snapped, his voice rising. "The state has no money! We are taking loans just to pay the interest on what we owe. Your. your 'prestige' is being funded from loans that are strangling this country!" He tried the explaination of the national debt, of popular discontent, of optics. The terms of the debate meant nothing to her, terms of an abstraction from a different planet she had never had to struggle with. He spoke in terms of livres, of deficits; she spoke in terms of duty, of dignity.

"They love the Queen of France," she said, head up. "They want the Queen to be a Queen. It makes them feel proud."

"The French are starving!" Art retorted, the words spilling out of him before he even realized what was happening. "They can't even eat your dresses!"

A gasp ran through the room. It was a cold, unforgivable thing to say. He had crossed a line, from a discussion of money to a vile, vulgar slur.

The face of Marie Antoinette, red with fury, now stripped of all color, all that was left a white, expressionless mask. The stung hurt in the eyes turned to stone, to something hard and immutable.

Having in his fight to be comprehended by her failed, Art made his last, fatal mistake. He no longer persuaded but appealed to cold, naked authority. He was the King.

"This isn't a negotiation," he said in a deep, cold monotone that was more terrifying even than his rages. "It's a royal decree. Effective today, your personal allowance will be reduced by thirty percent. All redecoration funds for the whole household, for your private estate at the Petit Trianon and elsewhere, are frozen without restriction, at least until we can reassess the whole budget." He rolled up the parchment. "That is my final word on the subject."

It was such a cold room that the air appeared to want to crack. The ladies-in-waiting looked aghast, as if they had just witnessed murder. Marie Antoinette sat frozen, ramrod straight. The red fury was gone, yet now she flashed a cold, chilling anger that emanated from her in tangible waves.

She never screamed. She never cried. When she said anything, the tone of what she said was a cold, silent whisper that cut through the silence like a piece of ice.

"You are the King of France, sire," she added, looking him straight in the eyes, their face devoid of even a flicker of warmth or affection. "But, you will find that I am no one of your pen-pushers to be rebuffed and bossed about."

She gazed at him for a long, terrible moment, then said, "We will see what my mother, the Empress of Austria, will say about treating her daughter like a scullery maid."

Without another comment, she turned her back to him—the last, public expression of loathing in the royal court. Exposing her rigid back to her husband and king, Art's HUD, that had sat in silence in the midst of the catastrophic discussion, flashed with a litany of new, unnerving notifications.

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Marie Antoinette -20% (STATUS: HOSTILE)

FACTION ALLIANCE LOST: The Queen's Circle.

NEW THREAT DETECTED: Diplomatic Incident - Austria. Risk Level: LOW... but RISING.

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