The Dauphin's chambers in the Tuileries were transformed into what he called his "Cabinet des Projets"—a room less like a salon and more like a miniature exposition.
Four stations were prepared:
The Hall of Maps and Fortifications: A great wall lined with detailed topographical charts of France and Europe. Here Carnot and other engineers displayed wooden and wax models of bastions, gates, and fortified cities.
The Theater of Artillery: A long table covered in miniature bronze cannons, affixed to scale-model carriages, demonstrating Gribeauval's system of mobility and standardization.
The Laboratory of the Engineer: A space for inventions of communication and mechanics. Claude Chappe, a young dreamer, displayed a working model of his semaphore telegraph—two wooden arms pivoting atop a frame, transmitting coded messages by position.
The Bureau of the Chemist: Lavoisier's domain, with glass vials, diagrams, and papers describing the composition of air and his experiments in refining powder to produce cleaner, more powerful combustion.
The arrangement was theatrical, calculated to impress and to instruct. Courtiers who might have scoffed at science found themselves captivated by the novelty of machines and the elegance of models.
The conferences opened not with idle chatter but with a theoretical challenge posed by the Dauphin himself. Standing beside Madame Élisabeth, he addressed the room with solemn clarity:
"Messieurs, our subject today is speed. The speed of a message, the speed of a march, the speed of a cannon brought into action. How may science and invention grant France the advantage of speed?"
From there, the gathering became a guided tour.
At Chappe's station, the young inventor demonstrated how his semaphore could transmit a message from Lille to Paris in minutes rather than days. The Dauphin, eyes bright, pressed him: "But Monsieur, what of fog? Have you a method for verifying a message unseen?"
At Gribeauval's artillery table, the Dauphin asked: "Your system suits the plains, but what of Corsica's mountains? How might we adapt your carriages to rough ground?"
At Lavoisier's desk, he examined powders of different refinement, questioning the chemist with unnerving precision for a child: "If purity increases force, could not the burden of transport be reduced? Might we carry less powder for the same effect?"
These exchanges, innocent in appearance, forced the savants to reveal more than they intended—yet under the pretext of teaching a curious boy, they could refuse nothing.
The criterion for invitation was simple: a theory, a plan, or a model. Those who brought only words were excluded. This weeded out flatterers and left only the doers.
The conferences thus drew two kinds of men:
The Têtes d'Affiche, great figures like Lavoisier and Gribeauval, whose presence lent legitimacy.
The Jeunes Loups, ambitious outsiders like Carnot and Chappe, eager for recognition and patronage.
In this crucible, the Dauphin forged bonds with men who, in the coming storm of revolution, would shape the fate of France.
The conferences were not mere spectacle. They yielded results: A "Cahier du Dauphin" was compiled, a printed record of each presentation, circulated privately among the trusted participants. To be included was to belong to an elite circle.
Thus the conferences became not only educational sessions but a machinery of patronage, drawing talent into the Dauphin's orbit.
To the world, it was the picture of virtue: a saintly princess guiding her nephew through the wonders of science. To those within, it was the birth of something more dangerous: a network of innovators, loyal not to institutions but to the prince who had given them recognition.
The duality was perfect. Who would suspect conspiracy in the sight of Madame Élisabeth presiding over toy cannons and glass vials? Who would accuse a child of plotting while he asked about smoke and fog?
For the Dauphin, it was a masterstroke. By enlisting Madame Élisabeth, he gained:
Impeccable cover: No rumor could taint gatherings under her supervision.
Direct access to talent: Her invitations were commands. No one refused.
A shield at court: Her presence deterred jealous rivals.
Legitimacy: The project was seen as pious, patriotic, and educational.
And for Madame Élisabeth, it was a vocation: she believed sincerely in nurturing her nephew's mind, in guiding him toward virtue through science. She saw no conspiracy, only the fruits of knowledge.
The carriage swayed gently as it rolled along the road back to Versailles. Inside, the Dauphin sat nestled between his aunt, Madame Élisabeth, and his nurse, who was quietly humming to soothe the younger royal child. Outside, the cool afternoon air carried the scent of damp earth and pine, and the faint clatter of the horses' hooves echoed against the cobblestones.
Louis-Joseph, his bright blue eyes alive with curiosity, glanced up at his aunt. She had been unusually quiet since their departure, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the passing countryside. For a boy of his age, such silences were invitations.
"Aunt," he began innocently, tilting his head in a disarming way, "why is it that you are not married?"
The question landed with the abruptness of a musket shot. Madame Élisabeth's cheeks flushed a soft rose, and she immediately busied herself with adjusting the folds of her gown. She laughed lightly, though her voice betrayed a tremor.
"My dear child," she said, choosing her words carefully, "I serve our family, and that is my duty and my joy. Marriage… it is not necessary for me."
But the Dauphin was not satisfied with such an answer. His sharpness—born not just of childish curiosity but of the mind of a man reborn—pushed him to press further. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for her to hear.
"Yet I noticed how the Chevalier de Lamarck looked at you earlier today. His eyes were fixed, as if he could see no one else."
Madame Élisabeth's composure faltered, her hands tightening on her rosary beads. She turned her gaze to the window, as if the trees and fields outside could shield her from the boy's piercing innocence.
"You see far too much for one so young," she murmured softly, more to herself than to him.
The Dauphin only smiled, satisfied, knowing he had touched upon a truth she dared not voice.