Her accusation—"Is this your way of punishing me?"—was a knife in the gut, because for the first time, I realized that to these people, France's bankruptcy wasn't a national crisis. It was a personal insult.
My brain, the cold, logical machine that had gotten me through a dozen hostile IRS audits, kicked into overdrive. This wasn't a marital spat. This was a negotiation. A hostile one. And Marie Antoinette wasn't my wife right now; she was the opposition's star witness, and she was turning on me.
I couldn't admit the truth. Telling her that her dearest friends were parasites bleeding her kingdom dry would be like telling a child their beloved pet was secretly a rabid wolf. She wouldn't believe me. She would see it as a monstrous attack.
But I couldn't back down, either. Reversing the decree now would be a complete surrender. Polignac would own me.
So I needed a third option. Damage control.
I shoved down the hot spike of my own anger and took a half-step back, deliberately creating space. I softened my voice, stripping it of any defensiveness. I made it about her.
"This was never about punishing you," I said, my voice low and earnest. "It's about protecting you."
She actually scoffed, a short, bitter sound. "Protecting me? By attacking my friends?"
"Exactly." I met her furious gaze without flinching. "Don't you hear the whispers? In Paris? Even here, in the halls? They call you 'Madame Déficit.' They say you and your friends are bankrupting France for your own amusement."
I saw the flicker of pain in her eyes. I was using a brutal truth as a weapon, and it felt dirty, but necessary.
"If your friends are innocent," I continued, pressing the advantage, "then a full, public audit will be the best thing that could ever happen to them. It will prove their loyalty. It will silence every rumor." I spread my hands in a placating gesture, like I was calming a spooked horse. "This isn't an accusation against them. It's an opportunity for them to clear their names. To defend your honor."
PR 101. Reframe the narrative. Don't let them make you the villain. Make the argument about transparency and fairness. I wasn't attacking her friends; I was helping them prove their integrity.
It was complete bull, and we both knew it. But the logic was twisted in such a way that it was almost impossible to argue against.
She was left speechless. The fire in her eyes didn't go out, but it banked, cooling into a confused, simmering suspicion. She stared at me for a long, silent moment, the cogs turning behind her eyes. She knew it was a trap. She just couldn't see the teeth.
"You will find they have nothing to hide," she finally said, her voice stiff. It wasn't a retreat, but it wasn't an attack either.
She turned on her heel and swept from the room, leaving the scent of her perfume and a heavy, unresolved tension in her wake.
I hadn't won her over. Not even close. But I had disarmed her. For now.
The next morning, the hornets came buzzing.
A delegation of nobles requested an audience. Of course they did. It was led by the Duc de Polignac himself, his handsome face a perfect, polite mask of fury. He was flanked by a handful of other dukes and counts whose names I recognized from the most outrageous expense lines in the ledgers. They were here to demand I reverse my decree.
This was the showdown.
I had them shown not to the grand throne room, but to my smaller, more intimate study. My territory. I remained seated behind my massive oak desk as they filed in, a deliberate power play. It forced them to stand before me, like employees called into the boss's office.
Polignac began, his voice smooth as honeyed poison. "Sire, your most loyal servants are here to express their concern. This unprecedented freeze on household accounts... it is causing great distress."
"Distress," I repeated, my voice flat. I leaned back in my chair, steepling my fingers. "Tell me, Duke. If a man's loyalty is dependent on a constant flow of unvetted money, is it truly loyalty? Or is it a business transaction?"
A shocked silence filled the room. No one talked to a duke like that. Especially not the famously meek Louis XVI.
Polignac's smile tightened at the edges. "It is a matter of tradition, Sire. Of rewarding those who serve the Crown."
"And I intend to reward true service," I countered, my eyes locking on his. "But first, I intend to find out who is actually serving the Crown, and who is simply serving themselves." I leaned forward, my voice dropping. "So let me be clear. The audit will proceed. The freeze will remain in effect. And I suggest you all put your books in order."
The threat was unmistakable. The polite masks of the other nobles slipped, revealing flashes of shock and outrage. Polignac, however, remained unnervingly calm. His hand rested on the silver hilt of his ceremonial sword. He didn't draw it. He didn't even touch it. But his knuckles were white where he gripped it.
A message. Clear as a signed confession.
He bowed, a sharp, angry gesture. "As Your Majesty commands."
They filed out of the room, their fury a palpable force. The battle lines were drawn. They knew the weak, pliable king was gone. Now they would have to escalate. And I knew exactly where they would strike next: Marie.
I had to get to her first. Not with logic, but with emotion. I had to plant a seed of doubt.
Later that day, I found my opening. I arranged for a "chance" encounter in the palace library, a vast, dusty room that few courtiers ever entered. My target was the Princesse de Lamballe. She was Marie's other closest friend, but where the Polignacs were grasping and political, Lamballe was known for her gentle nature and genuine, fierce loyalty to the Queen. She was also famously wary of the Polignacs' influence. She was my perfect pawn.
I found her reading near a tall window, the afternoon light illuminating the dust motes dancing around her. I approached, feigning a casual search for a book on architecture.
"Princess," I said, offering a small smile. "A quiet refuge from the noise of the court."
She started, then curtseyed deeply. "Your Majesty."
"It is a heavy burden, Princess," I said, my voice full of a carefully crafted sadness. I sighed, running a hand over my face. "To see the numbers in those ledgers... to know the true state of our kingdom. And to know that the hard decisions one must make will cause pain to those one cares for."
Her expression softened with sympathy. "The Queen is very distressed, Your Majesty."
Hook, line, and sinker.
"I know," I said, and I let the pain sound real in my voice. Because it was. "And it tears me apart. I only wish to protect her. Some people… they take advantage of her good heart. Her generosity." I looked out the window, as if speaking to the gardens. "And when the people of Paris finally grow hungry enough to look for someone to blame, it is her name they will cry in the streets, not theirs."
I saw it. A flicker in her eyes. Understanding. And fear. The Princess was a true friend to Marie. A warning like that, coming from the King himself, was a poison she wouldn't be able to stop herself from sharing.
The seed was planted. Now I just had to water it.
The court was painting me as a cruel, out-of-touch miser. Fine. I'd show them out of touch. I would pull the most radical PR stunt this century had ever seen.
The next day, I rode for Paris. Not in a grand procession. In a single, unmarked carriage with only two guards. We bypassed the fashionable districts and headed straight for the guts of the city, Les Halles, the sprawling, stinking, chaotic central market.
The historical Louis was famously reclusive, a creature of Versailles. For the King to appear here, unannounced, was like a god descending from Olympus.
Terror and exhilaration warred in my chest. These were the people. My people. The ones who, according to the history books, were going to storm my palace and chop off my head. I had to win them over, one person at a time.
The carriage stopped. Before my guards could object, I opened the door and stepped out.
The market noise faltered, then died. A wave of silence spread outwards from my carriage as hundreds of shoppers and vendors froze, their eyes wide with disbelief. A baker, his hands covered in flour. A fishwife, a dripping cod still in her grasp. A child, his face smudged with dirt. All staring.
My guards formed a nervous circle around me, their hands on their swords.
I ignored them. I walked straight to the nearest stall, a small, hot bakery overflowing with the incredible smell of fresh bread. The baker, a stout man with a sweaty face, looked like he was about to faint. He dropped into a clumsy bow.
"Your Majesty," he croaked.
"Good man," I said, my voice loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Your bread smells like the best in all of Paris." I pointed to a simple, dark loaf of peasant bread. "How much for that one?"
"F-four sous, Sire," he stammered.
I nodded gravely. "And the price of flour? Is it stable?"
"It has risen again, Sire," he said, his voice gaining a bit of confidence. "It is hard for the families."
"I know," I said, and I looked past him, my gaze sweeping over the silent, watching crowd. "It is a hardship I intend to fix."
I reached into the pouch at my belt and pulled out a coin. Not a few copper sous. A gold louis d'or.
I pressed the coin into the baker's flour-dusted, trembling hand. The crowd gasped. A single gold coin was more than this man made in a month.
"For the loaf," I said simply. "And the rest is for you and your family."
Before he could protest, I took the loaf of bread, turned to the stunned crowd, and held it up for all to see. Then I took a bite.
The story would be all over Paris by nightfall. The King, who eats the bread of the people. The King, who cares about the price of flour. The King, who tips in gold.
It cost me one coin to buy a thousand times its worth in goodwill.
I returned to Versailles that evening, riding a high I hadn't felt since closing my first multi-million-dollar acquisition. I had bypassed the court. I had bypassed the nobles. I had appealed directly to the people.
I was winning.
As I walked towards my private wing, a royal guard came running down the corridor, his face pale and ashen. He skidded to a halt in front of me, panting.
"Your Majesty... the workshop," the guard gasped. "There's been... an incident."
My blood ran cold.
I broke into a run, shoving past shocked courtiers, my heart hammering against my ribs. I threw open the door to my one safe space, the locksmith's workshop, and froze.
The room was destroyed. Tools were scattered everywhere. My carefully organized projects were smashed to pieces on the floor.
And scratched into the surface of my beautiful wooden workbench, carved deep with the tip of a knife, was a crude message.
KINGS SHOULD STICK TO CROWNS, NOT KEYS.
They knew. My secret was out.
And Jean was nowhere to be seen.