Unnamed location near Cergy: L'Unité 141
The dim light of the training hall slanted through the narrow windows, cutting across dust motes that hung like suspended stars. Inside, the air smelled of leather, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of weapons freshly polished. Here, the future of a secret army was being forged.
Jean, head of the Dauphin's personal guard, stood at the center of the room, straight-backed, black coat crisply pressed, boots glinting. A faint trace of an English accent lingered in his words, an affectation left over from service abroad and long nights spent whispering across maps in distant campaigns.
"Right," he said, voice calm but firm, "we have a duty. And our duty is simple: every movement, every action, every breath must serve preparation." His gaze swept over the children, boys and girls alike, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement.
L'Unité 141 was unlike any other school in Europe. Its pupils were not sons and daughters of nobility, but orphans plucked from the streets, the alleyways, the forgotten corners of Paris, Versailles, and even the provinces. Eighty percent were boys, aged fourteen, lean, tough, alert. Twenty percent were girls, sixteen years old, cunning and observant. All were rigorously tested for aptitude: agility, intelligence, endurance, loyalty. Those who failed were quietly reassigned, often to the city, where they would be watched and recalled if needed.
"Form ranks," Jean barked, walking among the children. His boots clattered against the wooden floor. "We start at dawn, we end at dusk. You will learn obedience, yes. But also initiative. Observation. The art of moving unseen, the science of listening without being heard."
The boys adjusted their postures. The girls, slightly taller, narrowed their eyes and waited. Every word was memorized. Every gesture noted. Jean knew the mind of an adolescent: impressionable, quick to anger, prone to rebellion. Yet, under his guidance, these children would become shadows. Soldiers and spies who could walk into a room unnoticed, extract information, and vanish before anyone knew they had been there.
"Lesson one: perception," he continued. He held a small bronze bell in one hand and a feather in the other. "This is not a toy. This is your life. If you fail to notice the subtle, the faintest tremor, the quietest sound… you die in war."
He moved through a set of exercises, each designed to sharpen the senses. Children crawled under tables, balanced on beams, whispered messages from one end of the hall to the other. Jean watched with a hawk's eyes, correcting posture, whispering instructions: "Not like that. Eyes up. Ears open. Mind sharp. Always, always ready."
Among the exercises, he introduced lessons in ciphering and decoding. The children learned to exchange messages with invisible ink, to read patterns in handwriting, to memorize layouts of rooms and corridors. "Memory is a weapon," he told them. "You will forget nothing. And if you forget, you are nothing."
By midday, they practiced mock infiltration. Boys and girls paired up: one would act as the observer, the other as the infiltrator. The goal: enter the small building at the far end of the courtyard, retrieve a small token, and return undetected. Fail, and the pair was made to repeat the exercise until flawless.
"Your lives," Jean reminded them, voice low, "are already dedicated to the crown. You exist for one purpose: to serve. And if you ever forget, remember this: the world will not forgive weakness. The crown will not forgive it. I will not forgive it."
He paused, watching a girl maneuver around the corner, her small frame practically merging with the shadow. A boy froze, hesitation flashing across his face. Jean didn't intervene immediately. He let the pause teach its lesson. In this room, every hesitation, every second of doubt, was a lesson in mortality.
By evening, the children were exhausted but alert. Jean concluded the session, standing in the center once more. "Rest. Tomorrow we continue. Remember, l'unité 141 is your sanctuary, your forge, your crucible. You are no longer children of the streets. You are the sword of the future. And the future waits for no one."
He dismissed them, the sound of their footsteps retreating like echoes through a darkened hall. Alone, he pulled out a small notebook, English-scripted, meticulous. Names, dates, progress, weaknesses, strengths. Every detail noted, cross-referenced, stored. For in this secret unit, the smallest detail could mean the difference between triumph and disaster.
The early April sun glinted off the rooftops of Paris and Versailles alike, softening the chill in the air as Jeanne de La Motte adjusted her skirts and stepped briskly through the streets. The comtesse moved with the confidence of one accustomed to attention, yet she walked carefully, aware of every passerby. Her life had taught her that even the smallest misstep could unravel a carefully laid plan.
Born Jeanne de Saint-Rémy in 1756, she had married Nicolas de La Motte, a minor nobleman with more ambition than fortune. From that union, she had inherited a keen understanding of court intrigue, as well as the necessity of crafting her own influence. Ambitious, clever, and audacious, Jeanne had navigated the corridors of aristocracy with a combination of charm and calculation. She possessed a sharp mind, a memory for faces, and a talent for reading the intentions of those around her — skills that would soon bring her into proximity with the young Dauphin.
Her life had been a series of precarious ventures. From the salons of Paris to the palaces of Versailles, she had cultivated both allies and enemies, and had learned that survival often depended on discretion, timing, and the careful manipulation of appearances. She was notorious for her flair, yet she could fade into the background with equal ease when the situation demanded. A smile could mask ambition; a bow could conceal calculation.
As she traversed the streets, Jeanne's mind was already working, rehearsing her approach, anticipating the courtiers she might encounter, the servants whose curiosity she must divert, the obstacles she might meet along the way. Despite her elegance, she was a woman shaped by necessity: surviving scandals, exploiting opportunities, and advancing her position in a world dominated by men and by the rigid expectations of rank and decorum.
She paused briefly at a fountain, her reflection in the water catching the careful arrangement of her hair, the subtle sparkle of her jewels. Jeanne was aware that her appearance mattered; it was part of her armor. A well-chosen gown, an elegantly folded fan, a glance that implied deference without weakness — these were tools as vital as any letter or secret whispered in a salon.
Yet beneath the polish and poise, Jeanne de La Motte carried ambition that was daring, almost reckless. She was a master of opportunity, unafraid to bend rules and exploit weaknesses. Her intelligence, her audacity, and her skill at navigating treacherous social terrain had already earned her both admiration and suspicion in equal measure. Her name would come to be associated with both fascination and controversy, and she moved now toward Versailles with the awareness that every step was another stroke in the portrait of her destiny.
The streets narrowed, and she adjusted her pace, her eyes sweeping for signs of recognition or curiosity. The world she inhabited was one of mirrors and shadows: every gesture, every whispered word, could carry weight far beyond its immediate context. Her ambition was tempered by caution; her curiosity by calculation.
Even now, as she approached the palace gates, Jeanne de La Motte carried with her the sum of her experiences: a childhood of necessity, a marriage of convenience, and a life honed to the delicate art of influence. She understood power, she understood risk, and she understood the importance of timing. Every step she took brought her closer to the Dauphin, and with it, the possibility of shaping events in ways that others could neither foresee nor control.
By the time she reached the outer walls of Versailles, the afternoon sun bathed the palace in a warm glow. Jeanne de La Motte straightened her posture, adjusted her gloves, and allowed a practiced smile to touch her lips. She was ready — poised between visibility and discretion, experience and ambition — as she continued toward her meeting, her movements a quiet testament to a life lived on the edge of propriety and daring.