The following afternoon, the Dauphin awaited her in his study as though nothing of consequence had passed the day before. He sat at his desk, quill moving briskly across parchment, pausing only to sand the ink. When she was shown in, he looked up with the faintest trace of amusement.
"Ah, madame. I had half expected you to run. But here you are."
She sank into a curtsy, voice subdued. "Your Highness… I have considered your story. I wish to take the second path."
The boy nodded, as though this were inevitable. "Very wise." He gestured to the chair. "Sit."
When she obeyed, he leaned forward, his face losing all semblance of childish softness. "Then,you will …..
Days later
The corridors of Versailles were never truly silent, yet that night they felt muffled, as though the palace itself had drawn breath and held it. Jeanne de La Motte moved quickly, her slippers whispering over the marble, her hands hidden beneath the folds of her cloak. She had requested the audience in haste, and Baron de Breteuil had granted it—proof enough that fortune still had not abandoned her entirely. But fortune alone would not protect her; only performance could. She rehearsed the lines in her mind, twisting fear into devotion, betrayal into loyalty.
The chamber she was shown into bore the austere elegance of a minister's office: heavy oak desk, shelves lined with ledgers and reports, maps pinned to the walls, candles guttering against the faint draft. Breteuil awaited her, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes, sharp and watchful, betrayed none of the warmth with which courtiers masked their ambitions. Jeanne felt those eyes cut into her even before she opened her mouth.
She sank into a low curtsy, lower than dignity demanded, and remained bent until his nod released her. When she rose, her cheeks were pale, her breath deliberately unsteady. She let the silence linger just long enough before speaking, her voice trembling as though she had forced it from a throat strangled by fear.
"Monsieur le Baron," she began, "I come to reveal to you a dreadful conspiracy—one aimed at sullying the Queen's honor and ruining a Prince of the Church."
Breteuil's brow arched, but he did not interrupt. He gestured toward a chair. Jeanne hesitated, then accepted, sinking into it like a woman overcome by her own courage.
"Go on, Madame," he said. His tone was measured, cautious, yet beneath it Jeanne sensed anticipation. He had his enemies, and the Cardinal de Rohan chief among them.
Jeanne pressed her hands together tightly, as though wringing the confession from her own flesh. "I have discovered that my own husband, the vile Comte de La Motte, together with his patroness, Madame de Boulainvilliers, have devised a diabolical plot. They sought to use me—me, their helpless pawn!—to weave their treachery."
Breteuil leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving her face. Jeanne lowered her gaze, allowing her voice to break.
"They exploited my friendship with His Eminence the Cardinal. They convinced him that Her Majesty secretly wished to purchase the necklace. They forged letters, Baron—letters bearing the Queen's hand! They even employed a woman to impersonate Her Majesty herself. And when I hesitated, when I questioned, they threatened my life. They swore to kill me if I revealed a word."
She pressed a hand to her breast, the gesture theatrical yet perfectly measured. Her pulse quickened with the thrill of the lie, but her tears—those she summoned easily, for she had practiced them since childhood.
"But my love for the Queen is stronger than fear. I could not remain silent. I could not allow such infamy to stand. Know this, Monsieur le Baron: the Cardinal is innocent in his intentions! He is their dupe, their victim!"
The words hung in the air, thick as incense. Jeanne allowed her breath to falter, then looked up with wide, pleading eyes.
Breteuil was silent for a moment, weighing her. He walked slowly to the desk, his hand brushing over a stack of papers as though considering the weight of truth against lies. At last he spoke.
"You say the Cardinal is innocent?" His tone was clipped. "You expect me to believe that a prince of the Church, with all his learning, could be so easily deceived?"
Jeanne leaned forward, desperation in her eyes. "Monsieur, you must! I swear it upon my soul. The Cardinal longed for the Queen's forgiveness, for her esteem. They preyed upon that weakness, feeding him false hope. He was blinded by desire to serve her, and in his blindness, he was led into their snare."
Breteuil studied her a long while. His lips pressed into a thin line, but Jeanne thought she saw the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. He despised Rohan. To believe the Cardinal a fool suited him well.
"And you, Madame," he said at last, "why speak now? Why not sooner? If your fear was so great, what compels you tonight?"
Jeanne let out a sob, covering her face with her hands before dropping them dramatically to her lap. "Because I could not bear it any longer! Each day I lived with their threats, I felt the weight of treason pressing upon me. But when I thought of the Queen—so pure, so undeserving of this calumny—my heart broke. I told myself: better I die than her honor be soiled. And so here I am, Monsieur, at your mercy."
Breteuil paced the chamber slowly, his steps echoing against the stone. He spoke without looking at her. "You understand, Madame, that what you allege is grave. To forge the Queen's hand, to conspire with a prince of the Church, to sully the dignity of the crown—these are crimes that will shake France."
"I understand," Jeanne whispered. "And I will bear the consequences. But the Queen must be protected. The Cardinal must not be thought guilty of malice, only of folly."
At that, Breteuil turned, fixing her with a piercing gaze. Jeanne felt her heart jolt, yet she did not look away.
"Very well," he said at last. "You have done wisely to come to me. I shall investigate what you have told me. But mark this, Madame: if I find falsehood in your words, you will answer for it."
Jeanne bowed her head, letting tears slip down her cheeks. "I ask for nothing, Monsieur le Baron. Only to serve the Queen, whose kindness is my only light."
He nodded curtly, then signaled to a servant waiting beyond the door. Jeanne understood the audience was over. She rose, curtsied again, and withdrew, her steps steady despite the storm raging within her.
As she left the chamber, the chill of the corridor wrapped around her once more. Yet beneath the chill there was heat—a dangerous thrill. She had played her part, woven her web. Whether Breteuil believed her fully or not, she had given him a weapon, and weapons in Versailles never lay idle for long.
Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles as she drew her cloak tighter. For now, survival was secured. She had done as the Dauphin said.