The dawn had barely broken when Baron de Breteuil's carriage rattled toward Versailles. The mist still clung to the meadows, but he paid it no mind. He sat bolt upright, gloved hands resting on his cane, his thoughts racing faster than the horses. Jeanne de La Motte's confession of the night before had been a gift. A venomous, dangerous gift perhaps, but one he could wield like a dagger.
For years, the Cardinal de Rohan had been his adversary—a man of great birth but little judgment, arrogant, frivolous, and ever a thorn in the side of both Breteuil and the Queen. The King despised Rohan as much as Breteuil did, though for different reasons. Louis XVI considered the Cardinal a buffoon, a spendthrift cleric whose presence sullied both the Church and the nobility. To bring him down, even in the guise of a victim, would be sweet indeed.
The Baron rehearsed his lines as the palace gates loomed closer. He would not present Rohan as guilty; no, that would cloud the Queen's reputation, suggest she had ever been near such intrigues. Instead, Rohan must appear the dupe—credulous, vain, ridiculous. The real culprits, he would insist, were Jeanne's husband and that poisonous Madame de Boulainvilliers. As for Jeanne herself, she would be painted as a heroine, a woman who risked her life for the Queen's honor. Yes, that was the story the King would believe. It spared Marie Antoinette from shame, humiliated Rohan, and placed Breteuil himself at the center of a noble rescue.
He entered Versailles with brisk authority, his cane striking the marble floor in steady rhythm. Courtiers bowed as he passed, whispering at the unusual haste in his step. Within minutes he was announced into the King's private cabinet.
Louis XVI stood at the window, peering out at the gardens. His hair was slightly disordered, his morning coat plain, but the heaviness of his frame and the furrow in his brow carried the full weight of monarchy. When Breteuil entered, he turned slowly, his expression guarded.
"Well, Baron," the King said, "you insist upon an urgent matter. Speak, then."
Breteuil bowed deeply. "Sire, it concerns Your Majesty's household—and more gravely still, the honor of Her Majesty the Queen."
Louis's eyes sharpened. "Go on."
Breteuil straightened, his voice measured but firm. "Last night, I received intelligence of a plot most foul, devised by none other than the Comte de La Motte and Madame de Boulainvilliers. These miscreants forged letters in the Queen's name and employed a woman to impersonate Her Majesty herself, all in order to persuade His Eminence the Cardinal de Rohan that the Queen wished to purchase the diamond necklace."
The King's nostrils flared. He had never trusted intrigues surrounding jewels and courtiers.
Breteuil continued swiftly, choosing each word with care. "Sire, let me assure Your Majesty: the Queen is blameless. Her name remains unsullied, as pure as snow upon the Alps. She knew nothing of this plot. The conspirators sought only to enrich themselves at the expense of both the Cardinal and Her Majesty's dignity."
Louis's shoulders eased fractionally. His distrust of gossip about Marie Antoinette was well known; he loathed scandal as much as he loathed incompetence.
"And Rohan?" the King asked, his tone sharp. "What role does he play in this disgrace?"
Breteuil allowed himself the smallest smile. "Sire, His Eminence is innocent of malice. But he is culpably naïve. He was deceived—easily, I must say—by those who preyed upon his vanity and his desperate desire to please the Queen. In his folly, he believed forged letters, believed even a woman costumed as Her Majesty. It is pitiable, Sire, though perhaps not surprising."
A low chuckle escaped the King before he could stop it. He shook his head in disdain. "Fool. I have always said he has more ambition than sense. To think a prince of the Church could be led about like a child!" His lip curled. "He deserves humiliation, if nothing else."
Breteuil inclined his head, hiding his satisfaction. "Your Majesty speaks truly. And yet, amidst this infamy, there is one who has shown loyalty beyond measure."
Louis raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Jeanne de La Motte, Sire. She came to me at risk of her own life. Threatened by her husband, cowed by Madame de Boulainvilliers, she nonetheless confessed all in order to protect Her Majesty's honor. Her courage is remarkable. She might have remained silent, yet she chose loyalty."
The King frowned, pacing slowly across the chamber. He was not easily moved by pleas of feminine devotion, yet the prospect of a subject risking life for the Queen stirred a rare spark of approval. "And you believe her?" he asked.
Breteuil's voice dropped into gravity. "I do, Sire. Her account was clear, her fear palpable. I have no doubt she speaks the truth. And if we act swiftly, we may unmask the forgers before their poison spreads."
For a long moment the King was silent. He tapped his fingers against the arm of a chair, his heavy features pensive. Then he sighed, as though relieved of a great burden.
"So. The Queen is innocent. The Cardinal is a fool. The true criminals are La Motte and Boulainvilliers." He looked directly at Breteuil. "Is that what you bring me, Baron?"
Breteuil bowed. "Yes, Sire. And with Your Majesty's permission, I shall move at once to secure them, ensuring this matter is resolved quietly and with honor preserved."
Louis nodded slowly, then more firmly. "Do so. Let it be swift. I will not have the Queen's name dragged through the gutters of Paris. Nor will I endure Rohan parading his credulity before the world. End this matter, Breteuil, and you will have served both King and Queen."
A flush of triumph rose in Breteuil's chest, though his face betrayed only solemn loyalty. He bowed deeply once more. "It shall be done, Sire."
When he withdrew, his step was lighter than when he had entered. The corridors of Versailles buzzed with the waking day, but Breteuil moved like a man who already knew the ending of the play. He had turned Jeanne's desperate fable into a royal command. The Queen's name was cleansed, Rohan was mocked, and Breteuil himself stood at the center of the stage.
As he descended the staircase, he thought of Jeanne's tears, of Rohan's vanity, of Louis's sigh of relief. All were pieces to be moved on the board, pawns and fools alike. Versailles thrived on scandal, but this scandal would end not in shame for the Queen but in the triumph of her allies—and the ruin of her enemies.
For the Baron de Breteuil, it was a masterstroke.
In the Dauphin's room
"It went as expected your highness"
"What about the Secret Du Roi?"
"As you've said , there is not even a trace of its former glory"
"My father overlooked one of his greatest weapons. I won't do the same… Continue the surveillance "