Paris, August 1784.
The Necklace Affair had rippled through France like a stone cast into still waters. Though Versailles officially declared it resolved—Cardinal de Rohan disgraced, Marie-Antoinette cleared yet scarred in reputation—the whispers refused to die. Every salon hummed with speculation; every pamphlet pressed ink into venom.
For Jeanne de La Motte, it was a triumph. She had survived, grown rich, and tasted the intoxicating thrill of bending princes and cardinals to her will. But survival demanded more than diamonds hidden in secret drawers. It required power, protection, a patron so elevated that even scandal could not touch her.
And Jeanne believed she had found him: Philippe d'Orléans, cousin of the King.
What she could never imagine was that her every step toward the Palais-Royal, every whisper rehearsed to seduce the Duke into partnership, had already been charted—not by her cunning, but by the hand of the Dauphin who pushed her with discussion and infiltration of her entourage by the one named Simon or as he now preferred Pierre because not every operation starts with gunfire but the most memorable have it in them.
It began, as all her schemes did, with a conversation cloaked in flattery and insinuation. Jeanne was received in a private chamber of the Palais-Royal, its windows draped heavy against prying eyes, its air perfumed with incense and smoke.
The Duke sprawled in his chair, velvet coat unbuttoned, lace undone, as if etiquette itself dared not constrain him within his own walls.
"Monseigneur," Jeanne began, her voice honeyed, "imagine a place that mocks Versailles not with words but with deeds. A place where courtiers who smile at the King by day empty their purses by night. A place that fattens your coffers and feeds your ambitions."
The Duke's brows arched. "You speak of a gaming house."
"Not a common house," Jeanne corrected swiftly. "A temple of fortune. Gold lamps, imported carpets, croupiers in silk. A sanctuary where nobles, diplomats, even princes of foreign courts may gamble under your roof—beyond the reach of Paris police. For here, Monseigneur, your status is law."
Philippe d'Orléans leaned back, amused. "And you would manage this temple?"
"I have the capital," Jeanne lied smoothly. "I have allies. I have discretion. You have the palace. Together, we could reign over the passions of Europe."
He chuckled, his eyes gleaming with both mischief and calculation. "You tempt me, Madame. You tempt me indeed."
Jeanne left that night convinced she had ensnared the Duke. In truth, it was she who had stepped into a snare, one woven months before in a chamber far removed from the Palais-Royal.
In his study at Versailles, the Dauphin listened to the report of his agent with that unnerving calm that had begun to unsettle even hardened men.
"She has approached the Duke, just as you foresaw, your highness. She spoke of a temple of fortune, of luring nobles and diplomats into his orbit. He is intrigued."
The Dauphin's lips curved, though his eyes remained cold. "Good. Let her believe it is her idea. The Duke thinks himself patron, Jeanne thinks herself partner. In truth, both are my instruments."
The agent hesitated. "Forgive me, but… what purpose does such a den serve? It is vice, corruption, scandal. Does this not weaken the monarchy?"
The Dauphin's fingers tapped lightly on the desk. "Yes. And that is the point.When something is rotten , it's sometimes easier to dump it and get a new one. Vice is bait. Scandal is the hook. In the salons of the Palais-Royal, where law does not reach, tongues will loosen. Ambitious nobles, discontented bourgeois, foreign envoys—they will gamble not only with cards but with secrets. And we shall be listening."
The boy's eyes darkened with a gravity far beyond his years. "The Revolution does not yet march in the streets, but it festers in whispers. If we cannot kill it, we must know it, shape it, master it. The Palais-Royal shall be my mirror into their souls.
Indeed, the Palais-Royal was unique in all France. Unlike any other property, it lay beyond the jurisdiction of Paris police. Its master, Philippe d'Orléans, enjoyed near-immunity as a prince of the blood. Within its gardens and arcades, anything could be said, anything could be done, without fear of royal spies—or so the frequenters believed.
Cafés buzzed with gossip. Prostitutes prowled in daylight. Foreign agents mingled with libertine poets. To plant a casino here, amid such libertinage, was like setting fire to dry tinder. Nobles would come for pleasure, but their wagers and words would betray their loyalties.
And behind Jeanne's glittering smile, behind the Duke's indulgent laugh, behind the rattling of dice and the turning of cards, the Dauphin's invisible hand would guide all.
For Jeanne, it was a dream. She moved through the Palais-Royal with renewed confidence, feeling herself mistress of intrigue. She courted financiers for loans, recruited croupiers, whispered promises to adventurers who smelled profit. She boasted, in private, that soon she would command not only diamonds but rivers of gold.
She did not see how carefully her steps were shadowed. Her letters were intercepted before reaching their addressees, then replaced by identical copies that reached their targets without suspicion. Her allies, so eager to please, were already reporting their conversations to another master.
Even her words to the Duke, repeated in smoky chambers and candlelit halls, were known to the Dauphin before the ink of her notes had dried.
She believed she spun the web. In truth, she was its centerpiece, dancing in circles while the spider watched unseen.
Philippe d'Orléans, too, fancied himself clever. He relished the thought of mocking the King by hosting such a den of vice, of siphoning wealth from courtiers who detested him by day yet could not resist the allure of his gaming tables by night.
But his debts grew heavier. His ambitions grew more reckless. And in his reckless pursuit of fortune and influence, he walked precisely where the Dauphin wanted him: compromised, dependent, and ensnared.
The Duke believed he was master of his house. In reality, every lamp lit in his Palais, every table opened to play, every coin exchanged in shadows, enriched the Dauphin's map of France's discontent.
One evening, as the Dauphin's agent laid a stack of reports upon his desk, he read it in silence, eyes flickering across names, sums, places.
"Here," he said at last, before his subordinates, pointing to a line. "This banker lends discreetly to men who speak of liberty in the Duke's salons. Watch him. And this nobleman, ruined at the tables, now rages against the Queen. Push him further—let him speak to others. His ruin shall be their rallying cry."
The subordinate bowed, awed and unsettled. "You watch their pleasures as snares, their sins as weapons for his highness."
The agent's expression was unreadable. "We turn their own hands against them. That is how you fight a phantom—you become the greater phantom."
In the Palais-Royal, laughter rang out, glasses clinked, dice rolled. Jeanne de La Motte glittered like a jewel, believing herself untouchable, partner to a prince, mistress of secrets. Philippe d'Orléans basked in the chaos, imagining he mocked the monarchy.
But in Versailles, a boy closed a dossier, extinguished his candle, and smiled faintly into the dark.
The casino was not Jeanne's creation. It was not the Duke's indulgence. It was his theater, his net, his phantom menace.
And one day, when the Revolution burst into flame, he would already hold the names of those who lit the fire.