Hello everyone! Here is a new chapter that I had to split into two parts because it turned out to be quite an important one. Part 2 will be coming soon.
Thank you for your continued support, Black_Wolf_4935, Ic2096, Porthos10, Daoistjuhlup, paffnytij, Bellnconnue, bepoed, A_Revolving_Door, Galan_05, Yako_3972, AlexZero12, Ponnu_Samy_2279, , Elios_Kari, and Mium!
Enjoy!
-----------------------------------------
Louis XV had left Versailles and traveled to one of the royal residences to which he was most attached: Fontainebleau.
The palace was a truly remarkable complex, shaped, enlarged, and transformed over the course of successive reigns. Several kings of France had even been born there.
Louis XV was not among them, but that did nothing to diminish his affection for the place. It was here, after all, that he had married Marie Leszczynska.
Like his predecessors, he too had wanted to leave his mark on the residence.
François I had transformed an old medieval fortress into a charming Renaissance residence worthy of the age. Henri IV, from whom Louis XV was directly descended, had considerably expanded the complex, while Louis XIV had embellished it further and, above all, given it a magnificent French formal garden. To accomplish this, it had first been necessary to bring order to a chaotic mosaic of older gardens, separated from one another by walls.
For the time being, however, the architectural legacy at Fontainebleau of the king known as the Beloved was limited to a large brick-and-stone wing, relatively austere but highly elegant.
Construction had begun in 1738 with the demolition of the old wing, which had been deemed too small to meet the needs of the Court.
The new wing was intended to accommodate a greater number of courtiers, for whenever the King traveled, he was never accompanied by a small entourage.
A large part of the Court followed him, along with a veritable army of servants, officers, suppliers, and all manner of people whose presence was essential to the functioning of the Maison Royal. The sovereign's arrival would thus transform the town.
Ever since the kings of France had taken to staying there, even if only for a few weeks at a time, Fontainebleau had grown considerably, benefiting greatly from the influx of visitors looking for accommodation and supplies.
Despite the years that had passed since construction began, the work was still unfinished.
In fact, the site had spent more time idle than filled with masons. The eastern section of the wing, along with its central pavilion, had been completed as early as 1741, but with the War of the Austrian Succession, it had wisely been decided to prioritize funding for the King's armies and navy.
Fontainebleau could wait.
When the conflict ended in 1748, however, construction did not resume. Other projects had been deemed more urgent or more worthy of royal expenditure, among them the Petit Trianon and the Opéra Royal.
Then came the Six Years' War.
Once again, the priorities of the kingdom were thrown into disarray, and the resumption of construction was postponed. Even after victory, considerable sums had to be devoted to consolidating the gains that had been made and restoring the kingdom's military strength.
It was not until 1770 that work finally resumed.
This wing formed part of a much larger architectural project, conceived around the desire to modernize and harmonize the façades facing the town. The aim was to gradually erase the differences inherited from the château's successive expansions, particularly those undertaken under Louis XIV, in favor of a more coherent and classically styled whole.
An ambitious project.
For the moment, however, no one was really thinking about architecture.
That August, the heat was oppressive. The forests and bodies of water surrounding the palace still offered a few islands of coolness, but they were no longer enough to make the atmosphere bearable.
The levels of the rivers and canals had fallen dangerously low, making it difficult to keep the fountains supplied. The grass had turned yellow and broke beneath people's feet like straw, while some trees had already shed their leaves as though it were October.
The heat was so intense that after ten in the morning, almost no one ventured outside, not even for a walk of a few minutes. Temperatures did not become bearable again until after sunset.
The courtiers, at least those who did not accompany the King on his stag hunts, therefore spent their entire days in the cool interior of the château, with its windows shuttered. Everything was done to keep the heat outside those thick walls, giving the impression that Louis XV's Court was almost made up of vampires.
Fortunately, the vampires of Fontainebleau were not short of things to do. They played cards, read, talked, listened to music, or attended small performances.
In a vast rectangular room, several gentlemen dressed with the refinement reserved for the kingdom's most distinguished personages mingled with the ladies of the Court around several gaming tables. Conversations passed back and forth above the cards, punctuated by light laughter and muffled exclamations.
At that hour of the day, the sun was still on the other side of the building. The thick red-and-gold curtains had therefore been opened wide, allowing brilliant sunlight to pour into the room and strike the opposite wing's façade directly.
Among the courtiers, a woman approaching thirty watched everything with an attention that was anything but disinterested.
Madame du Barry, the King's official favorite, was seated slightly apart from the others. Her light pastel-blue dress, adorned with small pink ribbons, was perfectly suited to the season while remaining at the height of fashion.
She might have appeared modest, but appearances were deceptive: her influence was immense. With her, even if things were not quite the same as they had been with Madame de Pompadour, it was still wise to weigh one's words and think twice before speaking.
But there was another woman whose presence demanded even greater caution from those perceptive enough to look beyond the present.
Marie-Josèphe of Saxony, wife of the Dauphin and daughter-in-law of the King. She was seated not far away, spoke little but always intelligently, smiled from time to time, and seemed to observe everything.
The most far-sighted courtiers knew that Louis XV's reign would not last forever, and that the man who would eventually sit upon the throne would be his son, the Dauphin Louis. Everyone knew, including Madame du Barry, that he strongly disapproved of his father's behavior. He had witnessed firsthand the suffering the King had caused his late mother, who had died in 1768.
Even if something were to happen to the Dauphin before his father was called to his final rest, the Crown would pass to his eldest son, the young Duke of Burgundy, who shared his father's disdain for his grandfather's mistress.
There was therefore little doubt that, in the relatively near future, the King's favorite, despite all the affection Louis XV currently showed her, would be driven from the Court. She might even end her days in a convent somewhere in the provinces. And Marie-Josèphe of Saxony would become the most important woman in France.
The cleverest among them had already begun distancing themselves from Madame du Barry. The old Marshal de Richelieu, who had a decidedly poor relationship with the King's former favorite but held nothing against her personally, had likewise made a discreet strategic retreat.
Accompanied by his son, he had found refuge in a relatively quiet corner of the room, a glass of Bordeaux in his hand. Around him stood a few men who seemed far more concerned with the harvests than with the intrigues of the Court.
"Is it really as bad as you say, Monsieur?" the marshal asked in a deep, raspy voice, addressing Monsieur Turgot, Baron de l'Aulne, as he raised his glass to his lips.
"I'm afraid so, Marshal," he sighed, wearing the most concerned expression imaginable. "It will be another very bad year. We now have enough signs that there can be little doubt."
Richelieu gazed for a moment at the clear blue sky outside the window. There was not a cloud in sight.
"And what if it rains now?"
Turgot slowly shook his head, his expression grim.
"I'm afraid that wouldn't change anything. Some of the wheat has already been scorched by the sun. You must have seen it yourself on your way here: there is no longer any earth beneath our feet, only dust."
He gave a humorless smile.
"What a disappointment. I had really hoped this year would be different from the previous ones."
A heavy silence fell over the small group. The men exchanged a few glances.
"So... the price of wheat will rise again," a short, round man finally said, his powdered face looking as though he had plunged his head into a sack of flour. "The people will grumble again."
He grimaced as he remembered the terrible accounts he had heard of what had happened the previous year in some of the larger cities. Popular unrest, violence, looting, and brutal but, in his opinion, necessary repression.
Another man, thin and slightly stooped, pursed his lips.
"We can still cap the price of wheat. Ah... difficult decisions will have to be made once again."
His gaze drifted toward Turgot, who was well known for his views on the grain trade. Government control and interference in the market were matters that inspired deep mistrust in him.
Unfortunately, they had good reason to be wary, for there were always dishonest men willing to do anything to enrich themselves.
Turgot gently shook his head.
"We can freeze prices, monsieur, but that won't make sacks of flour appear in the granaries. What we need to do is allow grain to go where it is needed. I've been saying this for years."
He brushed away a crease that only he seemed able to see in his coat, then looked from one of his interlocutors to the next.
"The harvests cannot be poor everywhere in Europe. Not even in France. If we allow grain to circulate freely, prices will eventually stabilize. They might even fall."
He paused briefly.
"That is the position I intend to defend during my audience with His Majesty later today."
Richelieu took a sip of his wine.
"Your chances are slim."
"But not nonexistent," Turgot immediately replied. "And if His Majesty does not wish to follow my recommendation, at least I will have tried. I will have done my duty, and I will be able to go to bed without regretting that I remained silent when I should have spoken."
He raised his glass to his lips and savored the wine's sweetness, detecting several very interesting aromas beneath it.
The economist, who also served as intendant of the généralité of Limoges, added:
"And I see a second reason not to give in to pessimism. According to my observations, the harvest in my généralité is shaping up to be somewhat less poor than last year's, which, I think we can all agree, was truly catastrophic."
The small, round man with the powdered face raised an eyebrow.
"Why do I feel that we're supposed to rejoice at that? Going from catastrophic to bad..."
A few smiles appeared around him.
"It is still an improvement, Monsieur Quesney," Turgot sighed. "Though I admit it is hardly a reason to organize grand celebrations. I think prices will remain high this year, but if the price of bread can fall by a few deniers, the people will certainly not complain."
"We can only hope," Richelieu's son cautiously interjected, "that this improvement continues next year and in the years that follow. The people are exhausted. In some neighborhoods of Paris, you would think we had just lost a war."
Old Quesney, who was approaching eighty, sighed as well.
"Then let us pray. It is still the best thing we can do."
He turned toward Turgot.
"But I also think we are moving in the right direction. The harvest of 1770 was a disaster, last year's was only slightly better, and this one, for the moment, appears to be somewhere between mediocre and poor. If we follow that logic, the harvests of 1773 and 1774 could be average to good. And who knows? Perhaps we will finally have a truly excellent year."
Turgot opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Out of politeness toward a man he greatly respected, he preferred to keep the objections that had come to mind to himself.
It was then that movement outside caught everyone's attention. Dust-covered riders had just entered the courtyard, accompanied by a pack of hunting dogs that, despite the heat, were still overflowing with energy.
Almost immediately, the great doors of the room opened and an officer of the Maison du Roi appeared. Every face turned toward him, and the conversations fell silent.
"The King has returned."
Nothing more was needed.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the room changed, even though the King had not yet dismounted.
The conversations did not resume at once. The cards were gathered up, the wagers forgotten on the tables. Everyone prepared to assume the posture appropriate to their standing in the presence of the sovereign. The men straightened and adjusted their clothing; the women quickly checked their makeup, their hairstyles, the arrangement of a ribbon, or the fold of a dress.
At Court, an insignificant detail in the eyes of an ordinary person could be enough to make or break a favor.
Richelieu, for his part, barely moved.
He calmly emptied his glass, then poured himself another without the slightest hurry. His expression remained perfectly impassive.
Only after raising his glass to his lips did a faint, almost imperceptible smile appear at the corner of his mouth.
François Quesney did not miss it.
The two men were within two years of each other in age, but their temperaments could hardly have been more different.
"Why are you smiling, Your Grace?"
Richelieu gave a little snort before taking another sip.
"It's nothing. I was simply thinking about something amusing."
"Oh? I wonder what you could possibly be thinking about to smile like that."
The Marshal-Duke raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Hmm? Listening to you, one might think I was a man incapable of enjoying himself. Have they finally forgotten my reputation?"
Quesney gave a crooked smile at the joke.
"Ah, that's true. You had another reputation once. Your reputation as a... soldier seems to have left a greater impression."
Richelieu shrugged slightly.
He was well aware of everything people said about him, as well as the nicknames some had given him. His way of commanding, particularly during the last war, both in Germany and in America, had profoundly altered the way people viewed him.
To some, he was little more than a bandit who had been entrusted with an army.
Perhaps he would have fallen from the King's favor had his campaigns not been crowned with so much success.
"I was simply thinking about the way all these people start scurrying about at the slightest mention of His Majesty. I feel as though I'm watching flies around a jar of honey... And His Majesty hasn't even had time to change clothes yet."
His gaze briefly settled on a group of courtiers surrounding the Dauphin's wife.
"But whom are they really waiting for? The King... or the Dauphin? I wonder."
The few men gathered around the Marshal immediately exchanged embarrassed glances. They looked around to make sure no one had heard him. The Marshal might not have cared what people said about him, but they certainly did.
Nevertheless, none of them seemed to think otherwise.
These gentlemen and ladies of the Court were prepared to do anything to attract the attention of King Louis XV or his successor, hoping to obtain a favor, an office, a pension, or simply a promise.
The nobility of France had changed considerably in a century.
The Marshal's son, Louis-Antoine-Sophie de Vignerot du Plessis, Duke of Fronsac, stifled a mocking laugh. In another age, all these people would have been devoured. In the time of Louis XIII, being a nobleman had truly meant something. These people were nothing but parasites endowed with a sense of honor wildly disproportionate to their actual usefulness.
Although he too belonged to the nobility, and even held the title of duke despite owning no land associated with it, since the duchy belonged to his father, he felt he had nothing in common with them. The contempt he felt for all these well-dressed people, covered in silk, lace, and jewels, was plain to see in his eyes.
For him, who, like his father, had pursued a military career, not one of them deserved to breathe the same air as the King. They could be wealthy, possess ancient titles, and bear names surrounded by glory, but what remained behind all that?
They could no longer raise their own armies, nor did they possess the private fortresses of their ancestors. The days when a handful of great lords could directly challenge the sovereign's authority belonged to the past.
Louis XIV had made sure of that.
All that remained, then, was pride, greed, and, sometimes, deceit.
Had he been in the Dauphin's place, upon ascending the throne, he would not have hesitated for a second to clean house. He would have kept only those truly capable of serving the Crown, even if that meant rebuilding the nobility of the robe and the sword on sound foundations.
His gaze passed over every man present.
Then he turned away.
Fortunately for them, he was not the Dauphin.
Outside, the return from the hunt had brought the great courtyard to life, although part of it remained plunged into the shadow of the surrounding buildings.
Servants rushed toward the foam-covered horses while the panting hounds barked joyfully despite their thirst. The huntsmen did their best to keep them under control.
Amid all the commotion, the King stood out.
Louis XV dismounted.
He was dressed in a magnificent three-piece ensemble, naturally made from the finest materials and adorned in a manner befitting its wearer. It consisted of a brilliantly green wool waistcoat, richly decorated with gold and lined with chamois, matching buff breeches, and a slightly darker green hunting coat with a black collar and sleeves trimmed with braid.
At first glance, the outfit might have been mistaken for some extravagant court fashion. Yet it was indeed a hunting uniform, specifically one intended for deer hunting.
When he returned to Fontainebleau in the autumn and decided to hunt wild boar, the King would wear a very different outfit, dominated by blue and red, much like the magnificent uniform he had given the young King of Denmark-Norway in 1768 during his stay in France.
Louis XV stroked one of his precious hounds as it happily brushed its tail against his leg. He smiled sincerely.
The King knew his dogs well, despite their great number.
Like them, he was overwhelmed by the heat. It was only ten in the morning, yet his clothes were soaked with sweat. His forehead gleamed like a lantern, and drops of salty perspiration fell into his eyes.
Although he greatly enjoyed hunting, it was difficult to appreciate the activity under such conditions. He wiped his forehead with an irritated gesture, then brushed away the dust that had accumulated on him with a few brisk movements.
The sovereign then exchanged a few words with the men who had accompanied him on this rather unsuccessful hunt before returning to the palace.
The coolness of the rooms brought him immediate relief.
His tall black leather boots, known as bottes à chaudron, struck against the marble before echoing across the wooden floor of the room where he changed.
A few moments later, he reappeared wearing an outfit that was seemingly plain, entirely white as snow.
On his chest gleamed the cross of the Order of the Holy Spirit, resting over his heart. Louis XV also wore the broad blue sash of France's prestigious order of chivalry across his chest.
The moment he emerged from the room, the courtiers drew closer like a swarm of ravenous insects. Such a sight might have terrified an inexperienced young king, but he had long since grown accustomed to it.
Technically, he had been reigning since 1715.
When his predecessor, the great Louis XIV, the Sun King, died, Louis XV had been only five years old. Others had naturally governed the kingdom on his behalf until he came of age in 1722. His personal rule, however, had not begun until 1726.
Nearly half a century had passed since then.
Louis XV therefore felt little when a crowd of courtiers pressed around him, armed with false smiles, each with a dozen compliments up their sleeves, ready to be deployed.
His son, the Dauphin Louis, who had also changed clothes, came to stand beside him.
The two men were becoming less and less alike. The King had remained relatively slender; his son, on the other hand, had gained a great deal of weight over the years despite the physical exercise he practiced every day. He now had a pronounced double chin and a round belly, as though he had spent several days feasting without pause.
Fatigue was easily visible on the monarch's serious face.
He greeted several people as he passed, an immense honor for which many would have been willing to kill.
He made his way toward Madame du Barry, who greeted him with a radiant smile.
The old King, who could easily have been her father, returned her smile and publicly showed her his affection. They exchanged a few polite words under the admiring, envious, suspicious, or contemptuous eyes of those watching, then the King withdrew.