Versailles had a gift for silence. Scandal could roar like thunder, but once the King decreed peace, it vanished as though swallowed by the gilded walls. So it was with the Affair of the Diamond Necklace. By the time summer gilded the palace gardens, tongues that had wagged with fury fell still, and those who had danced nearest to ruin found themselves strangely, quietly rewarded. It was awfully fast but the baron shined even more so.
For Jeanne, survival wasn't enough; it was triumph she craved. She had played her part to perfection—the trembling victim, the loyal subject who risked death to defend her Queen. Versailles saw in her a heroine, or at least a convenient fiction to fill the role. Courtiers who had once sniffed at her origins now nodded approvingly in galleries and corridors, offering discreet words of thanks.
But the true reward was far heavier than gratitude. Hidden in her private chests lay the dismantled diamonds of the fabled necklace—stones that had once glittered in the dreams of jewelers and princes. Sold piecemeal, they would transform her from adventuress to grande dame, wealth cloaked in respectability. And who would dare accuse her? The affair was officially closed, the debt settled upon Rohan's shoulders. The King himself had sealed the matter in silence.
At night, Jeanne presented the diamond to the Dauphin. She had bent, she had bowed, but she had not broken. And while others languished in exile or disgrace, she was rising.
The Dauphin's shadow hovered behind it all, unseen yet guiding. Jeanne had bowed to survive—but survival had become power.
Hours later
The Dauphin entered his father's study with a solemnity that belied his tender years. Louis XVI, immersed in correspondence, looked up, startled by the grave expression on his son's face. "What troubles you, my child?" the King asked.
The boy hesitated, then drew closer, lowering his voice. "Father, I must speak of my dreams. They come every night since the necklace affair. I see masked figures wandering Versailles, whispering about the Queen, plotting in shadows. They laugh at you, at us, and I wake with the certainty that the danger is not only in dreams."
Louis frowned, uneasy at his son's intensity. The Dauphin pressed on. "This scandal has shown how easy it is for impostors to slip into our world. If they deceived a cardinal, how much easier to deceive a servant or courtier? I fear for Mother, for you, for our family. Father, Versailles is too open, too crowded with flatterers and curious nobles. Every stranger could carry poison in his words—or his hand."
The King leaned back, troubled. He knew well the resentment that would swell if the gates of Versailles were narrowed, but the boy's words carried a chilling logic. The Dauphin's voice grew firmer: "Let us not give the envious and the disloyal the stage upon which to act. Restrict the court to those whose loyalty is proven. Better to endure whispers of pride than to expose ourselves again to scandal and betrayal."
For a long moment, silence hung heavy. Then Louis XVI reached for his son's hand. "You speak with wisdom beyond your years. Perhaps it is time we made Versailles less a spectacle, and more a fortress of trust."
The Dauphin exhaled, relief softening his features. The nightmares had found their purpose.