The Dauphin's private study was a sanctuary of order and controlled austerity. Despite his youth, the room bore little resemblance to the chamber of a child. The tall windows, draped in sober blue damask, let in just enough daylight to keep the carved oak desk gleaming. Bookshelves lined the walls—mathematics, engineering treatises, Latin histories—volumes worn at the edges by hands that knew how to read them, not just display them. On the desk, arranged with military precision, sat an inkwell, a sharpened quill, and a half-finished sketch of a cannon recoil system.
When the Comtesse de La Motte was announced, the Dauphin dismissed the closest maid who was passing him a snack with a glance. She entered cautiously, her skirts whispering against the polished floor. She was not a beauty, not in the way the salons of Paris would demand, but she had ambition written into every angle of her face. Her eyes darted quickly, measuring the room, the boy, the silence.
"Your Highness," she said with a curtsy, her voice smooth, rehearsed. "I am Jeanne de Saint-Rémy de Valois, Comtesse de La Motte."
The Dauphin studied her for a long moment before answering. His tone, deliberately light, carried both courtesy and dismissal.
"Take a seat, madame. Would you care for a sweet? Or perhaps a fruit?"
A servant stepped forward with the tray of sweets and fresh fruits. She accepted, trying to mask her surprise at being offered hospitality. The boy was younger than she expected, yet the gravity in his bearing unsettled her a little.
The Dauphin then raised his hand. "Leave us."
The servants,a little astounded,finally withdrew. The heavy door shut with a quiet finality. Jeanne felt a flicker of satisfaction—alone with the heir to France, the beginning of influence. But then something shifted.
The boy's posture changed. The playful courtesy evaporated. His eyes, pale and cutting, locked onto hers with an intensity that pinned her where she sat. The air thickened; she realized her hands trembled slightly as she set the half-eaten pear back on the plate.
"I know what you did," the Dauphin said softly. "The letters. The schemes. The lies.."
Her heart stuttered. She forced a laugh, feigning ignorance. "Your Highness, I—"
"Spare me," he interrupted, voice like a blade. "You can continue your little play, or you can begin something more useful: naming your accomplices. And then, if you have sense, you will start working for me."
The Comtesse froze. She had not expected this child—this boy—to speak with such lethal clarity. Her instinct was to deny, to stall. "I am only a loyal subject…" she murmured, eyes lowered.
The Dauphin watched her for a long moment, then exhaled, softening his expression. He even offered her a small smile, an apology in gesture if not in words. "Perhaps I was too harsh.I apologize.Then allow me to tell you a story instead."
She blinked, wary but curious. He leaned back, voice calm, deliberate, as though lecturing from a history book.
"Once, in the days of King Henri II, there lived a bastard son—Henri de Saint-Rémy. His blood was noble, yet tainted, too distant ever to touch the crown. Generations passed. That line wandered further into obscurity, but it never vanished.
"Much later, a man named Jacques, bearing that same name of Saint-Rémy, fathered three children with a woman who sold herself when she could find no other bread. One son entered the King's navy. Another took vows and became a canoness. But the third… the third was more interesting."
Jeanne felt her throat tighten. The boy's words mirrored her own family's history too closely for coincidence.
"The girl married a minor noble, a man of no fortune, no vision. She wanted more, always more. Through the patronage of Madame de Boulainvilliers, she found her way into Versailles. There, ambition turned to cunning. She devised a plot—to deceive the Cardinal de Rohan, to entrap the jeweler Boehmer, to stain the name of the queen herself."
The Dauphin's gaze hardened,but never left her face. "That is where an opportunity arises. Two futures stretch before her, as clear as paths in the forest. Shall I describe them?"
Jeanne nodded faintly, trapped in the strange spell of his narration.
"In the first," he said, lowering his voice, "she continues her scheme. For a time, it pays.Nobody intervened. Yet betrayal is inevitable—her husband lies with her protector, Madame de Boulainvilliers. The scheme unravels. She is captured, tortured. Her husband flees to London, lives in comfort, calling himself a prince.She languishes in poverty after her escape in 1789 never knowing that it wasn't an accident, thinking of herself as a fugitive, until at last, in 1791, her misery becomes dull entertainment to that same queen's son, and he has her killed. Every attack against my mother, you see, is answered. No insult left unpunished."
He paused, letting the weight of the image sink into her. Jeanne clenched her fists in her lap, her pulse hammering in her ears.
"In the second path," the Dauphin continued smoothly, "she takes the prince's hand. She betrays those he names. She serves not her own ambition but his. In exchange, she lives. More than that—she enjoys comfort, riches, a place of security within his shadow."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. "End of the story. The second seems brighter, does it not? And yet… the first feels more realistic to me."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jeanne opened her mouth to protest, to plead, but he raised a single finger. The gesture silenced her more effectively than a command.
"You may leave, madame," he said gently. "Consider my story as you will. Return tomorrow, if you desire another sweet… or another tale."
She turned her head slightly—enough to catch the faintest movement in the corner of the room. A man stood there, cloaked in shadow, his presence so absolute and quiet she wondered how long he had been watching. She had thought herself alone with the Dauphin; she realized now how wrong she had been.
"Escort the lady back," the boy ordered softly.
The shadowed guard stepped forward, bowing without a sound. Jeanne rose, curtsied, and let herself be guided to the door. Her mind whirled with fear, indignation, and a strange, reluctant admiration.
Behind her, the Dauphin returned to his desk, quill in hand, as though nothing at all had transpired.
Thus ended their first meeting