Despite all the experiments accomplished with his microscope, the Dauphin still found himself astonished. Each time he peered into the polished tube of brass and glass, a whole world revealed itself—tiny threads on cloth, the veins of a leaf, the dark crawling dots upon a crumb of bread. At times he had to pull back and remind himself that these were not fairy illusions, but reality itself, magnified and made plain to human sight.
Looking over the sheet of achievements, carefully written in his father's neat, deliberate hand, Louis-Joseph realized something that filled him with both pride and humility. Despite his own suggestions, despite the quiet hints he had slipped into the ear of Parmentier and the artisans, the craftsmen of this century were not as limited as he had sometimes imagined. They were men of skill, of perseverance, and of genius in their own right. His role had been to guide them, to nudge them toward possibilities, but the execution—the shaping of glass, the grinding of metal, the balancing of screws—belonged entirely to them.
There, in ink, were the signs of their progress:
First, the problem of aberrations, those rainbow fringes that bled around the edges of objects when seen through glass. By drawing inspiration from the techniques of astronomical telescopes, the artisans had attempted to create achromatic lenses. Their prototype was not perfect—nor could it yet rival the glass of distant centuries—but it was a step toward clarity, a sharper window into the hidden world.
Second, the mechanics. The coarse, clumsy adjustments of earlier microscopes were being replaced by screws of finer thread, platforms that moved with delicate precision, and bases of sturdier construction. Each improvement was small, perhaps, but together they transformed the microscope from a curiosity into a true tool.
Third, the matter of illumination. Here, Louis-Joseph's heart leapt with excitement. It was not enough to magnify; one had to see. The artisans had managed to add a concave mirror, polished to catch and bend the glow of a lamp's flame, focusing it upon the specimen. It was clever, ingenious even.
He closed the sheet of notes and smiled to himself. Yes, he thought, they are more than capable. Perhaps it is not I who shall change everything, but I who shall help them change faster.
The Christmas of 1784 at Versailles
The scientific triumphs of November merged seamlessly with the rhythm of the court. Yet as the days shortened and the chill of winter deepened, another anticipation rose within the palace walls—the holy season of Christmas. For the Dauphin, still only a child in body though far older in soul, it carried a magic of its own, luminous and tender.
Christmas at Versailles was not merely a courtly obligation. It was a mixture of sacred solemnity and familial intimacy, a paradox the Queen cherished. The outward splendor belonged to the chapel, the music, the light of a thousand candles reflected upon marble and gilt. But the inner warmth belonged to the small gatherings in her private rooms, where she allowed herself to be not a Queen, but simply a mother.
On Christmas Eve, the palace stirred late into the night. Torches blazed in the courtyards, carriages rattled upon the cobblestones, and noblemen in heavy cloaks made their way toward the Royal Chapel. Inside, the great space glittered with chandeliers and candles, their flames multiplied by gilded cornices and polished balustrades. The choir's voices soared, filling the dome with the majesty of sacred music.
The royal family entered in procession, Louis XVI solemn in his bearing, Marie-Antoinette luminous in velvet trimmed with white ermine. At their side walked Madame Royale, already six years old, her little hand in her mother's. Beside her toddled Louis-Joseph, dressed in dark blue satin embroidered with silver thread, a small lace collar at his throat. He carried himself with surprising composure for one so young.
The Dauphin was keenly aware of the significance of the moment. Though the incense stung his nose and the Latin words rolled in long waves he could not yet follow.
As the host was elevated, he clasped his small hands together, and for once his childish restlessness fell away. His mother glanced down, surprised at the intensity of his gaze, and her heart warmed. To her, it was the pure innocence of a child touched by the sacred. To him, it was nothing more: the recognition that power and duty, science and knowledge, meant more than the greater mystery of faith.
The following morning, after the solemnity of mass, came the softer joys of family. Marie-Antoinette had arranged, as she did each year, for a magnificent crèche to be set up in her apartments. Not the humble wooden figures of a village church, but delicate figurines clothed in silks and satins, each a marvel of craftsmanship. Shepherds in embroidered vests, angels with gilded wings, even the ox and the ass fashioned with velvet hides.
The Queen invited her children to help arrange them, a task that delighted Marie-Thérèse. She bustled about, deciding where each figure ought to stand, her laughter ringing like a bell. Louis-Joseph, however, approached with more seriousness. He lifted one shepherd and turned it in his small hands, then looked at his sister.
"No, Mousseline," he said softly, using the pet name their mother loved. "Place the shepherd here, so he may see the Child more clearly."
His tone carried an unexpected gravity, a tenderness that belied his years. The Queen, watching, felt her eyes sting with sudden tears. How was it that her son, so young in age, could sometimes speak with the heart of an old soul? She bent down and kissed the top of his fair hair.
In France, the true moment of gift-giving—the étrennes—belonged to New Year's Day. Yet the spirit of generosity already filled the rooms. The Queen had ordered small boxes of sugared almonds, candied fruits, and marzipan animals for her children. Louis-Joseph and Marie-Thérèse opened them with delight, nibbling the sweets as their mother looked on with laughter.
The Dauphin, however, was less entranced by the sugar than by the idea of giving in return. That evening, he brought forth a folded sheet of paper where he had sketched—clumsily but earnestly—the shape of a microscope, its brass legs crooked but recognizable. Beneath it, in his uneven child's hand, he had written: Pour Papa et Maman.
When he presented it, Marie-Antoinette pressed the paper to her heart, while Louis XVI smiled in quiet pride. It was not the drawing itself that moved them, but the thought behind it: their son, who might have asked for toys or jewels, had chosen instead to gift them with his vision of knowledge.
That Christmas of 1784 would remain, for all who lived it, a moment of rare peace. Outside the palace, pamphlets and politics whispered of unrest,and nobody knew that the Dauphin had a hand in it. Within its walls, a microscope revealed invisible worlds, and a small crèche reminded all of the greater mysteries of faith. Between science and devotion, between candlelight and starlight, the Dauphin's heart swelled with a certainty that he could not yet name: that knowledge and love were not enemies, but allies.
And in that fragile union of glass and prayer, of invention and innocence, Versailles shone brighter than all the gilded mirrors it contained.