June 9, 1787 — Versailles
The gardens of Versailles shimmered under the early summer sun, the air heavy with the scent of roses and trimmed boxwood. Birds darted in and out of the shadows, and the marble statues watched in silence as the royal children played in the private court reserved for them.
Louis-Joseph, the Dauphin of France, was on his knees in the grass, his coat already stained with streaks of green. His little brother, Louis-Charles, the Duc de Normandie, chased a wooden ball with the enthusiasm only a two-year-old could summon, his laughter echoing against the stone balustrade. The Dauphin smiled faintly at the scene — the kind of soft, fleeting smile that came from habit rather than joy.
Inside, a different kind of storm turned behind his calm eyes. That morning, he had reread the report from his network — the one regarding the uprising in the United Provinces. The so-called Patriot Revolution had gained ground faster than expected. Pamphlets spread like contagion, cities simmered with rebellion, and no foreign observers whispered of France's hidden hand guiding the chaos.
It had worked — too well, perhaps.
He knew what revolutions looked like when left unchecked. In his memories — the ones that did not belong to this body — he had seen them consume kingdoms and devour reason. And yet, from his vantage in the gardens of 1787, he also knew that this particular revolution served a purpose. France needed its rivals distracted. England needed its fleets sabotaged. The chessboard was aligning.
Louis-Joseph straightened and brushed his knees. The child beside him tugged his sleeve.
Louis-Charles looked at him, holding two small sticks like engineers before a river.
"In a moment," said the Dauphin, distracted but kind. He turned his gaze toward the terrace where the nursemaids were gathered. A soft cry rose from a cradle under the parasol — his sister, Princess Sophie Béatrice, not yet one year old, her small face red and wet with tears.
Her wail was persistent, the kind that twisted the heart of every woman nearby. One of the maids — a nervous, middle-aged woman with a pale cap — tried rocking the cradle. Another murmured something about "a soothing mixture."
Louis-Joseph frowned. "Mixture?" he repeated under his breath.
The word had a strange weight. He excused himself from his brother and approached the nurses. Their chatter fell silent the moment they saw him. It was not that they feared the little Dauphin, but there was something unsettling in the way he looked at people — calm, assessing, almost adult.
"What are you giving her?" he asked.
The senior nurse curtsied slightly. "Just some water, monseigneur, with drops of honey. It soothes the throat and helps her sleep."
The words hit him like a musket shot.
Honey.
He froze, staring at the small pewter cup in her hand. A memory surfaced — not from this century, but from the experience of an uncle in the XXI century. Infant botulism. A bacterial poison invisible, ancient, and deadly. Babies under one year old lacked the defenses to fight it. Even a spoonful could kill.
His breath caught. For a moment, the mask of calm cracked. "You gave this to her before?"
The nurse hesitated, then nodded, unsure. "It will be the first, Monseigneur. It is harmless, I swear. It is what my mother gave me as a child—"
"Your mother," he interrupted, his voice suddenly cold, "did not nurse the blood of France."
The tone — quiet, cutting — silenced every maid in the courtyard.
Anger surged through him, hot and clear. In another life, he would have shouted, demanded a physician, ordered an inquiry. But he stopped himself. Fury was dangerous in this place, in this body. Every word, every gesture from the heir to the throne became a rumor by supper.
He took a deep breath, forcing composure. His hands, which had begun to tremble, folded neatly behind his back.
"Take her away," he said softly. "Let my sister sleep. I will deal with this."
The nurses exchanged confused glances, but his tone left no room for questions. He turned on his heel and walked toward the shadows beneath the colonnade, where one of his personal guards stood watch — a discreet, loyal man named Captain Duval, part of the Dauphin's growing inner circle.
Without preamble, Louis-Joseph spoke in the clipped cadence of command. "The nurse — the one who tried to give the mixture. Take her quietly. No scene. No explanation. Say it's suspected poisoning of a royal child."
Duval blinked, startled, but nodded. "As you command, Monseigneur."
The Dauphin looked back toward the garden, where his little sister's cries had faded to a soft, sleepy murmur. He felt a strange pang — not just relief, but the cold echo of something else: calculation.
He had not meant to act on instinct. But perhaps instinct had served him better than reason.
When Duval returned an hour later to confirm the arrest, Louis-Joseph was sitting in his study, the report from Holland open before him again. His mind turned like a machine, connecting threads others could not see.
"What name did she give?" the Dauphin asked.
"Jeanne, Monseigneur. Jeanne Lefèvre."
A thin smile ghosted across his lips. The coincidence was too perfect. "Jeanne," he repeated softly — the same name as the woman he had lost track of during an internal shuffle, a potential informant he had "let slip" in order to preserve another operation.
Now, by royal decree, Jeanne was arrested — not as a common nurse, but as an attempted poisoner of the royal bloodline.
He exhaled slowly, the shape of a plan forming in his mind. One pawn replaced by another. The court would never know the difference.
That night, the incident spread in whispers. Within hours, it reached the ears of courtiers who embroidered it with every shade of gossip.
"The King ordered the arrest of a maid for attempted murder!"
"They say she poisoned the little princess with honey — honey, of all things!"
"No, no, it was the Queen's doing. She is superstitious, they say, sees omens in everything."
By the next morning, the rumor had reached the royal palace in Paris, retold with exaggerations so wild that even the ministers debated its meaning. And from there, as such tales do, it slipped beyond the gilded walls into the taverns and markets of the capital.
"Did you hear? The King's own servants tried to poison the baby!"
"Bah! It's a sign. Even God turns His face from Versailles!"
The Dauphin listened from afar. In the following days, he watched how the story spread, how words twisted and mutated through channels of gossip, how one spark of fear could move faster than any decree.
It was not what he had planned — not directly — but it was instructive. The court's paranoia was a weapon sharper than any blade.
When his mother, the Queen, finally heard of it, she summoned him gently, worry etched into her elegant features.
"My son, did you speak of this to anyone? The nurse?"
He met her eyes with practiced innocence. "Only to Captain Duval, Mother. I thought it was important."
She sighed, pressing a hand to her brow. "You meant well. But you must learn — every breath in this palace echoes tenfold in Paris. Even the truth becomes poison when repeated."
He looked down. "Then perhaps the court deserves its poison."
Marie-Antoinette froze, startled by the cold edge in his tone — a line far too mature for his age. She opened her mouth to scold him, but stopped when she saw his expression.
The boy was calm again, serene as marble.
That night, as Versailles settled into its candlelit quiet, Louis-Joseph stood by the window, watching the moonlight glint on the fountains. Below, the guards changed posts in silence. Somewhere in the dungeons, Jeanne Lefèvre sat bewildered, unaware that she was now both scapegoat and signal — the perfect ghost in a game only he could see.
He thought of the Patriots in Holland, of the contagion of rebellion and rumor. He had just watched the same contagion bloom in miniature, born from a cup of honeyed water and a cry in a cradle.
Revolutions did not need fire or steel. They began with whispers.
And as the moon climbed higher, the Dauphin — strategist, and child — realized that even silence could be a weapon, if wielded patiently enough.