With the problem of Napoleon temporarily caged in a gilded box of public adoration, Louis turned his attention to the second great issue facing his kingdom: the Austrian peace offer. The war in Italy might be paused while its commanding general was summoned to Paris for his Triumph, but the larger conflict with the Habsburg Empire remained. The secret envoy, the discreet Belgian banker de Proli, was waiting anxiously in a safe house managed by Talleyrand, awaiting the King's final answer.
Louis convened his secret council once more. The atmosphere in the study was different now. The immediate, existential threat of Napoleon's insubordination had been neutralized, replaced by a more complex, philosophical debate. The question was no longer how to survive, but what kind of nation France was to become. On the table lay the Austrian offer: peace, security, the nation's long-dreamed-of "natural frontier" on the Rhine, and a vast fortune in gold. The price was the complicity of France in the cynical destruction and partition of the neutral Republic of Venice.
Antoine Barnave, his face etched with the earnest sincerity that made him such a powerful orator, spoke first. He was the voice of the revolution's conscience, the guardian of its now-tarnished ideals.
"Your Majesty, we cannot do this," he said, his voice ringing with a conviction that was almost a plea. "To accept this deal would be to betray everything we have fought for. We began this revolution to bring the Rights of Man to France, and by extension, to the world. We declared ourselves a beacon of liberty for the oppressed peoples of Europe. How can we, in our very first peace, act as the jackals at the feast, helping an old tyrant devour a sister republic? It would be an act of monstrous hypocrisy."
He gestured passionately. "It would prove every accusation Robespierre ever made against us right. That we are not true revolutionaries, but merely a new gang of self-interested predators, no better than the kings we replaced. We cannot export liberty in one hand and sell a republic into slavery with the other! We must refuse. We must continue the war, a just war, until we can achieve a peace that is not stained with the blood of the innocent."
Louis listened, a part of him deeply moved by Barnave's idealism. It was the voice of the France he had once, in the heady days of the Tennis Court Oath, dreamed of building.
Then, Talleyrand spoke. His voice was a calm, rational, and utterly corrosive whisper, the perfect antidote to Barnave's passionate fire. "Monsieur Barnave's sermon is morally impeccable," he began, a faint, ironic smile on his lips. "And strategically suicidal."
He looked at Louis, his gaze that of a tutor instructing a promising but sentimental pupil. "Let us speak of reality, not of poetry. The Republic of Venice is not a noble bastion of liberty. It is a corrupt, decadent, and dying oligarchy, a historical fossil. Its people have no love for its masters. Its destruction is a geopolitical inevitability. The only question is who will profit from its demise. Why should it not be us?"
He leaned forward, his argument building with a cold, inescapable logic. "This treaty gives us everything we could ever hope to achieve on the battlefield, without the cost of another ten thousand French lives and another hundred million livres in debt. It gives us a secure border. It gives us lasting peace with our most powerful continental enemy. It makes France the undisputed master of Europe. To refuse such a gift on behalf of the doges of Venice would not be an act of principle, Your Majesty. It would be an act of criminal negligence. A king's first and only duty is to the security and prosperity of his own people, not to the sentimental idea of other people's liberty."
The two positions were absolute, irreconcilable. Louis was caught between the man he wanted to be and the ruler he knew he had to be. His 21st-century mind recognized the brutal truth in Talleyrand's Realpolitik. But the weight of the oaths he had sworn, the memory of the hopes of 1789, pulled him toward Barnave's position.
He stared at the map of Europe, at the delicate, centuries-old borders that were about to be torn apart. There had to be a third way. A way to achieve the strategic victory he needed without suffering a complete moral defeat.
And then, in a flash of cold, cynical inspiration, he saw it. A path through the moral maze, a solution of such breathtaking, Machiavellian duplicity that it shocked even Talleyrand.
He turned to the Austrian envoy, who had been brought back into the room. "France," Louis announced, his voice ringing with a newfound, theatrical sincerity, "cannot and will not be a party to the unprovoked dismemberment of a neutral state. My government is founded on the principle of the sovereignty of nations. We formally reject the clause regarding the partition of Venice."
Barnave felt a great surge of relief and pride. The King had chosen the path of honor.
Louis held up a hand. "However," he continued, his eyes glinting with a light that Barnave did not understand, but that Talleyrand was beginning to, with dawning professional admiration. "France is also a nation that respects the sacred principle of self-determination. We believe that every people has the right to choose its own form of government."
He then laid out his audacious, treacherous counter-proposal. He knew, from Talleyrand's extensive network of spies, that within the city of Venice itself, there was a small but active pro-French, "Jacobin" faction. They were a collection of minor nobles, university intellectuals, and merchants who dreamed of overthrowing the ancient, corrupt oligarchy of the Council of Ten and establishing a modern, French-style republic.
He looked the Austrian envoy straight in the eye. "My price for peace is this," he said. "Austria will agree to all the original terms: the cession of Belgium, the recognition of our government, the payment of the indemnity. In return, France will do… nothing. We will sign no secret clauses. We will make no agreements regarding Venice. We will simply withdraw our diplomatic protection and allow events to take their natural course."
He let the implication hang in the air. "I have it on good authority that there is a strong and growing movement for democratic reform within Venice. It is highly likely that, in the coming months, the people of Venice may choose to rise up and overthrow their ancient government. Such an internal revolution would, of course, create a period of unfortunate but necessary chaos."
He looked at the Austrian. "Should such a tragic breakdown of order occur, Austria, as the responsible neighboring power, would naturally have a duty to intervene to 'restore stability' and protect its own interests. What happens after that… is, of course, an internal matter for the Austrians and the Venetians to resolve."
It was a masterpiece of perfect, absolute deniability. France's hands would be spotlessly clean. They had not attacked Venice. They had not signed a treaty partitioning it. They had, in fact, publicly championed its sovereignty. They had simply, through their agents, secretly encouraged a local democratic revolution, knowing full well that it would create a power vacuum that their supposed enemy, Austria, would then be "forced" to fill.
It was a morally bankrupt, but politically perfect, solution. It achieved every single one of Louis's strategic goals while preserving a thin, almost transparent, but technically unbreachable veneer of ideological purity.
The Austrian envoy, de Proli, stared at the King, his mind reeling at the sheer, cold-blooded genius of the plan. It gave his government in Vienna everything they wanted, while providing them with the perfect pretext. He did not need to consult his masters. He gave a deep, respectful bow. "His Majesty's profound respect for the principle of self-determination is… admirable. I believe such terms would be acceptable."
The preliminary peace treaty with Austria, with the Venice clause formally struck out, was secretly signed that night. Louis had achieved peace with his greatest enemy on his own terms. Barnave was deeply, profoundly troubled by the moral gymnastics, seeing the deep hypocrisy at the heart of the deal. Talleyrand, on the other hand, was deeply, professionally impressed. He looked at the King with a new and profound level of respect, mixed with a healthy dose of fear.
"Your Majesty," he said later that night, after the envoy had departed. "You have learned the great secret of diplomacy. It is not about telling the truth or telling a lie. It is about creating a truth that is more convenient for everyone involved."
Louis felt no triumph, only the cold, metallic taste of a necessary compromise. But as he looked at the signed treaty, his HUD, which had been tracking the geopolitical outcomes, flashed with a new and unexpected warning, a reminder that every action has unforeseen consequences.
HISTORICAL TRAJECTORY ALERT: Premature collapse of the Republic of Venice will create an immediate naval power vacuum in the Adriatic Sea. Russian and Ottoman Empire strategic interests are now directly impacted. Geopolitical consequences in the Eastern Mediterranean are now HIGHLY UNPREDICTABLE.
He had solved one great problem with a move of cynical genius. But his solution, he now realized, had just dropped a new, unknown, and potentially dangerous variable into the complex equation of European power.