(Versailles, Late February 1785)
The firelight had grown deeper as the afternoon advanced, gilding the walls with a glow that softened every gilded contour. The three boys bent over their wooden fortress, each adding touches according to temperament—Antoine arranging measured lines, Charles inserting sudden towers at odd angles, and Louis-Joseph gently smoothing the quarrels their different visions provoked.
It was then that the comte d'Artois, never long able to remain silent, cleared his throat with theatrical flourish.
"Well then, my brave knights," he said, stepping nearer with a twinkle in his eye, "we must speak of the greater battle soon to be joined. Your dear aunt—" he gestured toward Marie-Antoinette, reclining serenely with her hand upon her abdomen—"will soon give France a new jewel. Tell me, what do you wish it to be? A little prince to ride with you, or a princess to charm you?"
The boys froze mid-game. The question, though playful, carried weight.
Charles, characteristically incapable of hesitation, shouted, "A cousin! A boy cousin! Then we can be soldiers together. We'll march and fight, three against all the world!" He swung an invisible sword, scattering his own castle walls in the gesture.
The Comte d'Artois roared with laughter, clapping his hands in delight.
Louis-Antoine, who had folded his hands at once, spoke with careful gravity. "A prince would strengthen the line of succession. It is the most reasonable hope for the kingdom." His words, rehearsed from conversations with tutors and governors, fell like little pebbles of reason onto the carpet.
All eyes turned to the Dauphin.
Louis-Joseph rose, small yet steady, and padded across the room to his mother's chair. He placed his tiny hand against the gentle swell of her belly. His gesture was unstudied, natural, yet infused with a tenderness that made even the jaded courtiers pause.
"My sister Mousseline wants a little sister," he said softly. "I only wish for someone who will be happy."
The silence that followed was more eloquent than applause. Marie-Antoinette blinked rapidly, her eyes moist, and bent to kiss her son's golden curls.The Comte d' Artois's smile softened into something quieter, almost reverent. Even Antoine seemed touched, his solemnity pierced by the sincerity of the moment.
For a few breaths, the salon seemed transformed. The Queen, often painted by gossip as frivolous or vain, was revealed simply as a mother; the Dauphin, still so small, appeared as a bridge between childish innocence and profound wisdom.
Charles whispered, as if reluctant to disturb the hush, "You're kind, Joseph. Kinder than most princes in stories."
Louis-Joseph smiled, squeezing his mother's hand before returning to his place on the carpet. "Stories are only good if they teach us how to be better," he replied with a wisdom that made Antoine's brows lift in surprise.
The spell broke gently, and the boys returned to their blocks. Yet something had changed. The laughter was warmer, Antoine less stiff, Charles a little more attentive. The Queen, now tired, allowed herself to recline fully, while the Comte d' Artois drew nearer her chair to speak in hushed tones.
The cousins attempted one last ambitious design: a fortress with towers for each of them. Antoine declared that his would hold the library, Charles demanded stables for horses, and Louis-Joseph quietly added a chapel, "because every castle needs prayers as well as walls."
At last, as shadows lengthened, the governor announced it was time for the Ducs d'Angoulême and de Berry to depart. Charles groaned aloud, protesting, while Antoine inclined his head with proper composure.
"This was fun," Charles declared. "You're nice, even if you are the Dauphin. Next time we'll build a bigger castle. Maybe with a drawbridge!"
Antoine, hesitating only a moment, added in a voice stripped of stiffness, "Thank you, my cousin. It was an honor… and also a pleasure."
Louis-Joseph waved with genuine warmth. "Come again soon. We'll build it together."
And so they left, the door closing softly behind them, leaving behind the faint echo of children's laughter.
Marie-Antoinette motioned for her son to sit beside her. She stroked his hair absently, lost in thought.
"You have a gift, Joseph," she murmured, almost to herself. "You draw people together. Even Charles, who is wild as the wind, listened to you."
The Dauphin, gazing into the fire, only smiled. He did not answer. To speak would have betrayed too much of the secret will coiled within his small frame. He let her think it was instinct, not design.
Artois, watching, felt a rare solemnity. "This boy will not be as other kings," he muttered.
The Queen's hand tightened protectively on her son's.
Hours later, Versailles had quieted. Torches flickered in the corridors; the distant strains of music from another wing drifted faintly, then died. In his own chambers, the Dauphin sat at a small desk, quill in hand, pretending to copy letters under the eye of his valet. Once the servant withdrew, closing the door softly, another figure entered: Jean, his head guard.
Jean bowed low, then placed a folded report upon the desk. The boy unfolded it with a seriousness far beyond his years.