The last days of march 1785 hung heavy over Versailles. Outside, winter's grip had not yet loosened, the air sharp with frost and the gardens skeletal under pale skies. Inside the gilded palace, however, the atmosphere was tense with anticipation. The Queen, Marie-Antoinette, was once again in labor. Courtiers, ladies-in-waiting, priests, and physicians hovered like restless birds in the corridors of the Queen's apartments, whispering prayers or gossip depending on their temperament.Yet tonight was not about politics or courtiers. It was about life itself. The Queen's cries of pain, muffled behind closed doors, seemed to reverberate through the palace. Servants hurried, physicians whispered, and nobles waited in gilded antechambers for the cry of a newborn that would signal the strengthening of the Bourbon line.Louis-Joseph, four years old, sat quietly in a small chamber adjoining his mother's apartments. He was watched by his governess, Madame de Polignac, who fussed with embroidery to distract herself from her own nerves. But the boy was not as anxious as the others. His mind — far older than his body — was steady, calculating, patient.Another sibling, he thought, hands folded in his lap. Mother risks her life with every birth, and yet it is through these trials that dynasties are secured. If fortune smiles, it seems the famed Louis XVII may live a longer life.Hours dragged by. Finally, in the chill dawn of March 27th, a cry pierced the walls — the shrill, unmistakable sound of a newborn. A cheer rose in the corridors, subdued by etiquette but undeniable in its relief. Messengers rushed down gilded halls. Bells tolled. The Queen had delivered a healthy looking child.When the Dauphin was ushered into his mother's chamber, the sight struck him more deeply than he expected. Marie-Antoinette, pale but smiling, lay propped among silken pillows. In a cradle beside her rested the infant, swaddled in fine linen edged with lace. The boy's skin was pink, his hair a faint golden down. His chest rose and fell in fragile rhythm, his tiny fists clenched against the vastness of the world.Louis-Joseph approached with deliberate steps. He leaned over the cradle, studying his brother with an intensity beyond his years.So this is Charles, he thought, recalling the name already chosen. The Duc de Normandie. Small, frail, yet full of promise. In you lies both a blessing and a risk. For every prince born strengthens the dynasty — but also complicates succession. Still… you are my brother, and I shall protect you.Marie-Antoinette reached out, stroking her eldest son's hair. "Joseph," she whispered, her voice tender but tired, "you have a brother now."The Dauphin looked up at her, his expression serious but gentle. "Yes, Mother," he answered. Then, turning back to the cradle, he murmured, "Welcome, little one. May you be happier than most of us."The baptism of the infant was arranged with all the pomp befitting a prince of France. The ceremony was to be more than a religious rite — it was a spectacle of dynastic power, a declaration to Europe that the Bourbons were not merely surviving, but thriving.The court had endured scandals before. Only months earlier, the disgrace of Cardinal de Rohan had shaken the foundations of polite society. His involvement in the affair of the necklace — cut short here by a resolute Louis XVI — had been suppressed before it could erupt into a public catastrophe. Rohan's fall from grace was swift, his titles stripped, his offices reassigned. For once, the monarchy had acted with firmness, and the court had taken notice.In his place as Grand Almoner now stood Louis Joseph de Montmorency-Laval, Bishop of Metz — a man of piety and quiet dignity. His presence offered a calm reassurance to the Queen, who had known too well the biting hostility of Rohan. With him at her side, the spiritual atmosphere of Versailles felt purged, if only temporarily, of intrigue.The chosen godparents were of immense significance. Joseph II, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and brother to Marie-Antoinette, was named godfather. Though he could not be present in person, his selection cemented the Austro-French alliance. Representing him would be the Comte de Provence, the King's own brother, whose ambition flickered behind every solemn gesture. The godmother was Madame Adélaïde, daughter of Louis XV and aunt to the King — a living embodiment of Bourbon continuity.On the same day, the chapel at Versailles glittered with candlelight. Nobles in their finest silks and jewels crowded the pews, while courtiers craned for a glimpse of the small figure swaddled in cloth-of-gold. The infant Duc de Normandie was carried to the font by his nurse, his cries softened by the solemn organ music echoing through vaulted ceilings.Louis-Joseph, standing near his mother, absorbed the scene with sharp eyes. He watched the Comte de Provence's stiff bow,Madame Adélaïde's regal composure, the murmuring courtiers who measured every gesture. The Dauphin's mind, though lodged in a child's frame, ticked with calculations. These ceremonies are theater, but theater that shapes power. And power must never be left unattended.When the rites concluded, the herald proclaimed the infant's new title: Louis-Charles de France Duc de Normandie. Applause rose, and the courtiers whispered approval. Marie-Antoinette glowed with maternal pride, while Louis XVI looked solemn but content.At that moment, Louis-Joseph seized his chance. He tugged lightly at his father's sleeve and, in a clear voice that carried farther than he intended, declared:"And what of me, father? My brother is Duc de Normandie. Am I to remain only Dauphin? Perhaps I should be made Count of Paris — so I might always stay close to mother."A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd at the boy's precocity. Louis XVI, momentarily startled, exchanged a glance with Marie-Antoinette. The Queen, hiding a smile, leaned toward her husband. "He is young, but his heart is shrewd. Perhaps it would not harm to humor him."The King sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Very well, Louis-Joseph. If it pleases you, you may be known also as the Comte de Paris."The Dauphin, who never thought it would work this easily, bowed with exaggerated solemnity, as though yielding to a compromise. "Thank you,father. I shall wear the title with honor."The courtiers, charmed, whispered among themselves of the boy's wit and boldness. Some laughed at his impudence, others nodded at his instinct. But for Louis-Joseph, it was not merely a child's whim. It was a maneuver — a reminder to all who watched that the Dauphin was not only heir, but already adept at shaping symbols into weapons.That night, as the palace quieted and the Queen slept with her newborn at her side, Louis-Joseph was alone in his bed. He thought of the tiny face he had studied, the fragile heartbeat beneath the lace. A brother was a gift — and a responsibility.One day, Charles may grow to stand beside me in arms, or he may become a pawn in greater games. For now, he is only a child. And yet already, there are eyes that measure him as they measure me. Very well. Let them look. We shall give them something to see.The candle burned low, casting long shadows from the Dauphin's desk. Outside, the bells of Versailles still echoed faintly, announcing to the world that France had gained another son.And in the quiet of his young heart, Louis-Joseph swore that no matter what storms came, he would guard his brother's cradle with the mind of a soldier and the will of a king
