Versailles, November 1781
A few weeks after his second birth.
The body was small, clumsy, incapable of sitting up without assistance. But the mind was that of a 47-year-old adult, a former soldier, who studied at Sciences Po, engineer, and strategist. A man who had seen war, death, betrayal. And now, he wore silk diapers and a lace bonnet.
Henry Moreau—or rather, Louis-Joseph of France, Dauphin and heir to the crown—had abandoned any attempt to understand how he had arrived here. He would no longer try to make sense of the mystery. He had accepted a simple, cold fact: he was not dead, and History had just handed him a command post far more dangerous than any theater of operations in the 21st century.
He could not speak. He could not write. He could not even feed himself without help.
But he listened. He watched. And he memorized.
Over the weeks, the language clarified. The strange sounds formed coherent grammar. 18th-century French was no longer so different from the French he knew: a sing-song accent, ornate turns of phrase, and a flood of polite formulas that would give any modern diplomat a headache.
To him, it was just another code to decode.
"'Does Your Majesty wish us to summon Monsieur the First Physician?' Translation: 'Do we call the doctor?' Noted."
The first time he saw Marie-Antoinette, he almost laughed.
Not out of mockery. Out of tragic irony.
"She was supposed to be a caricature of History. Here, she just smells of lavender and fatigue."
She was beautiful, yes, but the pale makeup could not hide the exhaustion in her eyes. She was younger than he had imagined, softer too. She often held him, spoke gently in German when she thought they were alone. She hummed Viennese lullabies. He wondered if she was happy—and already, he knew she was not.
Louis XVI, on the other hand, looked at him with simple, naive pride, almost childlike. The King was massive, clumsy in gesture, yet sincere. He came every morning, lightly touching him with a finger, smiling like a defenseless father.
And then there was Marie-Thérèse Charlotte, his elder sister.
Three years old. Alive, playful, curious. She often sat beside the cradle, telling him stories that mixed farm animals and angels from the heavens.
"Am I supposed to protect her? Or rally her? Mmh… we'll see later."
Louis-Joseph forced himself to remember names and voices. He linked them to faces, patterns of clothing, gestures.
Mme de Polignac, his sister's governess, a clever intriguer, always balancing between flattery and subtle manipulation.
The Duke of Coigny, haughty, curt, the type who regards children as fragile porcelain vases.
The Latin tutor, an elderly cultured noble, who came each week to "make the Dauphin speak from his silence."
Louis-Joseph committed all of this to memory.
He was afraid. Not of death. But of losing his memories, of seeing his knowledge fade as his brain adapted to this new body. He had already forgotten some technical details, procedures, formulas.
So he created a system.
Each day, in his cradle, he silently recited precise sequences in his head:
Lists of military tactical principles: "Fire, movement, communication, logistics…"
Names of key Revolutionary figures: "Robespierre, Danton, Marat, Camille Desmoulins…"
Key dates in French and European history.
Basic chemistry formulas, such as explosive mixtures or distillation processes.
Medical knowledge, first aid procedures, antiseptic treatments.
He linked them to sensations, smells, faces. He recited like a monk repeating a mantra, every day.
For now, he was just a baby. But he knew what was coming.
The Revolution. The fall of the monarchy. The Terror. The Empire.
He did not know how much time he would have, nor whether the historically documented lung disease would return to haunt him.
But as long as he breathed, he prepared.
One evening, resting in Marie-Antoinette's arms, he heard a harpsichord melody in the distance. A tune that felt almost familiar, almost modern.
He smiled. A real infant smile. But inside, it carried the full weight of two lives.
The Queen looked at him, surprised.
"Mon ange smiles… are you dreaming, Louis-Joseph?"
He did not answer.