The summer of 1785 hung over Versailles with its particular heaviness: the long afternoons scented with lime blossoms, the polished stone of the courtyards glowing under the sun, and the ritual life of the court moving in its usual, glittering, oppressive cadence. In such an environment, the Dauphin, Louis-Joseph, found his mind chafing against the strictures of his lessons. Latin conjugations, genealogical recitations, and the endless repetition of ceremonial duties left him restless. He was four years old, heir to the most powerful throne in Europe, and yet he felt caged in gilded patterns designed for children far less curious than he.
It was in those days that he resolved to act—subtly, as he must. He knew that bold moves could provoke suspicion. At court, appearances were everything, and appearances could be weaponized as easily as cannon shot.
The opportunity came during an impromptu visit to the apartments of his aunt, Madame Élisabeth. Known for her piety and unblemished reputation, the King's youngest sister was the embodiment of virtue at Versailles. Where others whispered scandal, dallied with intrigues, or schemed in hidden corners, she lived with a purity of heart that commanded respect even from her enemies. To Louis-Joseph, she was the perfect ally: untouchable, sincere, and above all, devoted to the royal family.
That afternoon, they walked together in the gardens, the neat alleys of Versailles stretching into symmetry around them. The boy carried his schoolbooks under his arm, but his eyes kept straying toward the carp ponds and the high trees where birds darted and sang.
"Tante," he said with a sigh, letting the books slip against his chest, "I confess, I am weary of my studies."
Madame Élisabeth turned to him with gentle reproach, her veil catching a shaft of sunlight. "Weary? You, who must one day govern France, cannot afford to be weary of knowledge."
Louis-Joseph lowered his eyes with just the right mixture of contrition and boyish complaint. "I do not despise knowledge, ma bonne tante. But my preceptors speak always of old wars and ancient kings. They trace lines on faded maps, battles long finished. I would rather learn how things truly work. I hear of Monsieur de Gribeauval, who has made new cannons, and I have met Monsieur Lavoisier, who experiments with powders that burn brighter than the sun itself. Why must I learn from dead men, when living men reshape the world before our eyes?"
His words, though carefully chosen, bore the fire of authenticity. He was not acting entirely. The thirst for the practical, the mechanical, the real—it was his true hunger. He paused just long enough, then let the idea slip with studied innocence.
"What if," he murmured, as if the thought had only then come to him, "you were to help me? We might invite such men here—great minds, men of science and skill—and they could explain with models and devices. Small gatherings, nothing grand. We could call them our useful conferences. It would be a game, yet far better than my books."
Madame Élisabeth regarded him for a moment in silence. Her young nephew's eyes were bright with eagerness, and though she was not given to vanity, she felt the warmth of his reliance on her. He had appealed to her role as guide, protector, and moral guardian. The boy did not seek amusement in idle trifles—he longed to learn in ways that might make him a wiser king. That was a request a dutiful aunt like her could not ignore.
"You are earnest, my child," she said softly, placing a hand upon his hair. "And earnestness must be guided, not quenched. Let us consider this more closely."
Within the week, Madame Élisabeth carried the matter to her royal brother. Louis XVI was seated in his workshop at Versailles, surrounded by locks, maps, and half-finished globes, when his sister entered.
"Sire," she began, inclining her head with the grace of long habit, "your son shows a most remarkable curiosity. He speaks not of frivolity, but of artillery, of chemistry, of fortification. He proposes that, under my guidance, we hold modest meetings where learned men might demonstrate their discoveries. A practical education, serious and studious, fitting for a future king."
Louis XVI, whose mind had always been drawn more to mechanics than to politics, looked up at once with interest. "Does he indeed? That is excellent! I have often seen him take more pleasure in useful knowledge. Books alone do not shape a ruler; practice must inform theory. With your guidance, ma sœur, such assemblies could only do him good."
He tapped a finger against a half-finished lock on his table, his face alight. "Invite them, then. Let the boy see how France's finest minds labor for the future. We must raise him in the spirit of reason."
Thus the project won immediate royal sanction. Marie-Antoinette, though initially hesitant, could not oppose it without appearing to stifle her son's education, especially under the supervision of her saintly sister-in-law. The opposition of courtiers melted in the same way: who could find scandal in a child's lessons, sanctified by Madame Élisabeth and blessed by the King himself?
Madame Élisabeth proved efficient and discreet. Within weeks, invitations were drafted in her name, phrased with irreproachable dignity:
"Madame Élisabeth, acting in devotion to the education of His Royal Highness Monseigneur le Dauphin, has the honor of inviting Monsieur Antoine Lavoisier to present a discourse on the advancement of chemistry, in the presence of His Royal Highness."
Each note bore the weight of dual prestige: the pious princess's patronage and the implied command of the heir to the throne. Few men of science could refuse such an honor. Lavoisier, Gribeauval, several academicians, even a promising young officer of engineers named Carnot—all were drawn, one by one, into the orbit of the Dauphin's circle.
The chosen venue was the Petit Trianon, selected for its intimacy and tranquility, though plans already stirred to move the gatherings occasionally to the Tuileries, closer to Paris and the Académie des Sciences.