Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sketch I: "Arrival at Court"

Paris, 1740

Count Théodore d'Alien stood in the shadow of gilded carriages, watching the sunlight play on the spires and carved facades of Versailles. A gentle breeze stirred his perfectly tailored velvet coat, a deep burgundy adorned with silver embroidery. The scent of autumn leaves mingled with the aromas of fresh grass and the perfumes of courtly ladies that lingered in the air.

The palace loomed on the horizon like a mirage, gleaming in golden rays. Its grandeur was striking: windows gleamed like watchful eyes, reflecting light, while ornate balustrades and sculptures framed the alleys, harmoniously blending with the landscape. Versailles was not merely a seat of power — it was a symbol, a monument to ambition that coursed through the veins of everyone who dreamed of entering its gates.

Théodore involuntarily held his breath, feeling a mix of emotions. Though he had seen the grand palaces of Vienna, Prague, and London, Versailles remained unparalleled. This was not just a palace — it was an arena. Here, in these halls, destinies were woven like webs, and downfalls became part of the spectacle played out before the king and his court.

He ran a hand over the button on his cuff, a subtle gesture reminding himself: You are ready. Beneath his coat, in the folds of his attire, lay a steely resolve. He was no longer merely a man; he was Count Théodore d'Alien. His new name shone like a polished shield, hiding the truth of who he had once been — Maglor, a man whose roots stretched into shadow.

As he approached the gates, Théodore lifted his gaze. The massive iron gates, adorned with the Bourbon crest, stood before him, both inviting and forewarning. Beyond these gates lay a world where every gesture and word could become a weapon.

The palace alleys teemed with life. Men in vibrant coats strutted with airs of self-importance, directing footmen to retrieve discarded cloaks or gloves. Ladies, living portraits of grace, moved elegantly, their jewel-encrusted gowns shimmering in the sunlight. Laughter mingled with whispers, yet no movement here was accidental. These people were like chess pieces, and every smile could conceal cold calculation.

Théodore knew: to become part of this world, he would need to play by its rules. Confidence was his armor, and intellect his weapon. His gaze swept over the courtiers. Towering wigs, strings of pearls, gilded brooches — all disguising the true nature of those who might prove far more dangerous than they appeared.

A royal valet, dressed in a dark blue livery trimmed with silver, bowed respectfully and gestured for him to follow. The soft rustle of silk shoes accompanied their steps as they entered the massive doors of the reception hall.

The hall dazzled. Chandeliers adorned with hundreds of candles bathed the room in soft light. Enormous mirrors along the walls created an illusion of infinite space, while the floor, inlaid with rare marble, reflected the light like a rippling pond. Louis XV sat on a dais at the far end of the hall. His gilded throne resembled a theatrical prop — too grand, too opulent, but undeniably imposing.

Courtiers surrounding the king, like a flock of bright birds, watched each new guest with hawklike intensity. Their faces masked hidden intentions, their gestures pompous yet meticulously calculated.

"Count Théodore d'Alien," the steward announced loudly, and the murmur of conversation abruptly ceased.

Théodore stepped forward. His movements were precise, like those of a dancer, each step resonating in the hall. He stopped at a respectful distance from the throne and executed a deep bow, ensuring the sweep of his cloak accentuated the lines of his attire without appearing contrived.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice steady and polished, like the notes of a finely tuned violin, "it is an honor to stand before you and offer my services to the Crown of France."

The king lifted his gaze to him. His eyes, weary yet sharp, glimmered with a flicker of interest.

"Count d'Alien," Louis said softly, with a hint of challenge in his tone, "your reputation precedes you. Europe has given you knowledge, but can you prove your worth to France?"

Théodore inclined his head slightly, holding the pause with calculated grace.

"Your Majesty," he replied, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips, "as a sculptor sees beauty in unshaped stone, so too am I prepared to use all my knowledge to craft a new vision of grandeur for your crown. All I have gained abroad — connections, mastery of negotiation, the art of persuasion — now belongs to France."

The king, his expression unchanged, seemed to ponder the words. His entourage remained still, betraying no emotion.

"Time will tell," Louis XV said, "what you can offer. But your mind, Count, has already earned you a place at court."

These words were, in essence, his ticket into the game. Théodore felt the gazes of the courtiers pierce him once more, like spears testing his resilience. Behind their courteous smiles, plans were already forming — to exploit or to destroy him.

Thus began the service of Count Théodore d'Alien at the court of the French king. Beneath the name of an aristocrat lay a man ready to become a master of intrigue. Here, among the gold and silks, every step was not just a movement — it was a strike or a defense. And Théodore knew: to survive in this world, one must not only play but also win.

Chapter Text

Sketch II: "First Steps at Court"
Versailles, 1741. The hum of courtly life merged with the rustle of dresses and quiet whispers echoing through the long corridors of the palace. Count Théodore d’Alien, having just received his first assignment, walked across the marble floor, trying to focus. His new life at court hadn’t begun with grand duties or participation in diplomatic negotiations but rather with the small errands typical for newcomers.

From morning until evening, he was occupied with a multitude of minor tasks. Letters to deliver, requests to address, and messages to relay between the king’s advisors. At first, these seemed insignificant, but Théodore understood that this was an important phase—a time to observe, learn, and build trust.

Today’s task seemed even more trivial: he was to deliver a few letters from one of the king’s close associates, Marquis de Trémont, to his countryside estate. "A messenger," Théodore thought to himself with a wry smile as he turned into one of Versailles' dimly lit corridors. He could have resented such a simple errand, but instead, he saw it as an opportunity to demonstrate his patience and ability to handle any task, no matter how minor it seemed.

Stopping at the door of the royal secretary’s office, he knocked and entered, immediately feeling the gaze of several courtiers upon him. His arrival drew the attention of Madame Lafarge, the king’s favorite, who stood in the shadow of a window, and the Marquis de Trémont, who was deep in discussion with the secretary. Théodore bowed and handed the marquis the scroll.

“Here is your message, Marquis,” Théodore said politely, inclining his head, aware of Madame Lafarge’s eyes on him.

The marquis thanked him and opened the letter, but before letting Théodore leave, he scrutinized him carefully.
“I hear you’ve only recently arrived at court, Count d’Alien. How do you find our customs?” he asked with a faint hint of mockery.

“They seem entirely worthy to me, Your Excellency,” Théodore replied, maintaining a neutral expression. He knew that the marquis, like many others, was testing his patience and diplomatic skill.

“That’s a good start. But remember,” the marquis added, slowly folding the letter, “the court has its own rhythm, Count. Things won’t always be as simple as delivering letters.”

Théodore turned and left the office, struggling to suppress an ironic smile. Of course, things wouldn’t always be simple. But that was the essence of his ambition—to become part of this world, to understand its rules, and perhaps, one day, to use them to his advantage.

Days passed in such a routine. Théodore ran errands, conversed with advisors, made acquaintances, and despite the seeming insignificance of his duties, he began to understand the court from the inside. Every remark, nuance, veiled behind silk smiles and the courtiers’ jests—all of it was part of the game.

One evening, after an especially long day, he stood on the balcony of his room, gazing at the gardens stretching into the distance. The flicker of candlelight in the palace windows reminded him that every person behind those panes was part of a complex mechanism, where every step could change everything.

Théodore knew his journey was just beginning. The minor tasks were merely the first step. But he was patient and clever. He waited for the moment when his name would resonate at court not as that of a mere messenger but as someone to be entrusted with far more serious matters.

A light went out in one of the windows, and Théodore, straightening up, turned toward his room, ready for the next day. He knew: every step, no matter how small, brought him closer to his true goal.

Chapter Text

Sketch III: "The Art of Connections"

Versailles, 1742

Sunlight glided over the marble walls of the corridors, reflecting off gilded moldings and polished mirrors. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut roses, candle wax, and the sharp tang of perfumes dominated by musk and amber. A faint mustiness clung to the heavy velvet drapes, behind which, they said, secrets were whispered—secrets that could change destinies. With every step of the courtiers came the rustle of taffeta and silk drawn taut by corsets, accompanied by the soft chime of spurs worn by officers whose rank permitted such a sound. Somewhere in the distance, muffled laughter echoed—perhaps a careless remark had already sparked the kind of scandal that would be whispered about at the card tables tomorrow.

For Count Théodore d’Alien, this year had been one of change. At first, he carried out insignificant errands, growing accustomed to the shadows in the corridors and the people who spoke one thing while thinking another. But now his trials had grown more complex. Finding allies in this nest of vipers—that was his true task.

He was neither foolish nor naive. He observed. How the Marquise de Lavois, with the mere tilt of her head, signaled who was in favor at the moment. How the Duke de Cheverny stretched a pause in conversation just long enough to make his interlocutor uneasy. How an officer of the Royal Guard, seemingly passing by by chance, caught fragments of conversations only to later relay them to those who needed to hear them.

But one observation Théodore made especially quickly: Versailles was not only a seat of power—it was a trap. One misplaced smile, offered to the wrong person, could be enough to find oneself shut out from the salons where decisions were made.

On the day his fate at court began to shift, sunlight danced in ripples across the surface of the ornamental lake. In the shadows of the colonnades, ladies strolled, lace parasols held aloft, their curious gazes hidden behind plump fans. The air was rich with the scent of freshly cut grass and damp earth after the morning’s watering of the alleys. Théodore walked unhurriedly, restraining the urge to glance around—after all, a skilled player never looked cautious.

That was when he noticed the figure clad in a deep blue coat embroidered with silver thread. The Duke de Rochemon.

They said he was the second most well-informed man in France after the king. But unlike Louis, the duke chose which rumors reached him and which were to be silenced. He was a man whose favor could open doors for Théodore—but also one who, without a word, could turn him into an outcast.

"Count d’Alien," the duke murmured, his voice soft but carrying the weight of a man accustomed to being heard.

"Your Grace," Théodore bowed, feeling the weight of the man’s scrutinizing gaze.

"Have you settled in at court?"

"I am growing accustomed," Théodore replied evenly. "But I must admit, the rules here require a finesse I am only beginning to grasp."

"Oh, undoubtedly." The duke ran a thoughtful hand along the terrace railing, as if assessing whether it had been polished to his satisfaction. "Versailles is not merely a palace. It is a labyrinth. Here, the king is not always the one crowned."

Théodore remained silent. There was something more than mere rhetoric in the duke’s words. This was a test.

"I am fortunate to learn from men such as yourself, Your Grace," Théodore allowed himself a slightly deeper bow. This was not just courtesy—it was a move.

"Learning is one thing. Applying knowledge is another," Rochemon narrowed his gaze slightly. "But you seem a perceptive man. Perhaps soon, I shall find you a task more interesting than minor errands."

And in that moment, Théodore understood: the game had begun.

At court, etiquette was a weapon. And for those who did not know how to wield it, it would be turned against them.

During one of the formal dinners, Théodore made a misstep. A minor one—but here, no misstep was minor.

The king raised his glass. The courtiers waited for his gesture. Théodore lifted his own a fraction of a second too soon.

The silence did not change. The music continued to play. But the Marquise de Lavois let her gaze linger on him for just a moment longer. The Duke de Cheverny lifted an eyebrow ever so slightly, as if he had just been informed of something amusing.

They had noticed.

Théodore lowered his glass, his expression calm.

At Versailles, voices were never raised. Accusations were never made outright. Here, people smiled at you while, moments later, discussing your misstep and deciding whether it was worth turning into a rumor.

Théodore learned from this.

He became more attentive. He noted how the marquise, passing the duke, let her hand linger just a heartbeat longer on his sleeve. How the officer of the guard exchanged glances with the king’s valet. How the old viscount, feigning sleep over his cards, subtly hinted at whispers that had yet to be spoken aloud.

He was learning.

Late that night, in his chambers, he cast off his cloak, sank into a chair, and reached for a glass of wine—then hesitated.

He looked into the mirror.

The face was the same. The eyes were the same. But now he knew what it meant to look at people not simply with his gaze—but with assessment.

On the table lay his family signet. He ran a finger over it. It felt heavier than it had a year ago.

"Here," he thought, "every step is a move, every word—a play."

He leaned in toward the mirror, studying his reflection intently.

"And I will play as skillfully as they do."

Chapter Text

Sketch IV: "Shadows of Intrigue"
Versailles, 1743.
The shadows of sunset slowly crept down the gilded walls of Versailles' corridors, where every corner seemed to harbor secrets, whispers, and gossip of days gone by. The fading sunlight fractured through mirrors, casting a ghostly glow that shrouded the galleries in a mysterious, almost mystical atmosphere. The air was thick with a blend of aromas: the sweet scent of candle wax mingled with the delicate perfumes of ladies, their traces still lingering in the deserted halls.

Courtiers were dispersing, their figures fading into the playful twilight, leaving behind echoes of laughter and music that had filled the day. The laughter was deceiving, like everything else here—it unsettled rather than reassured, a reminder that every step, every word, could be a weapon or a shield. For Count Théodore d’Alien, tonight held special significance.

He walked across the cold marble floor, his boots barely making a sound. His fingers gripped a letter recently handed to him by Marquis de Trémont. The letter appeared ordinary, but the meaningful look that accompanied its delivery told a different story. The red wax seal bore the royal crest—a fleur-de-lis entwined with intricate designs, as though warning that this document was not meant for everyone.

Théodore couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no simple task. Versailles was never a place of coincidences. Even the smallest details here could be part of a complex game. Each step along the mirrored and candlelit corridors was not merely a movement but a part of an invisible chess match.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a quiet yet confident voice:
“Count d’Alien.”

Théodore turned to see Madame Lavois emerge from the shadows. She seemed to belong to the night itself: her gown of crimson silk shimmered with golden hues in the candlelight, and her dark curls framed her face like shadows framing a portrait. Her eyes gleamed, those of a huntress who had spotted her prey.

“Are you in a hurry, Count?” she asked, approaching him. Her voice was soft, almost tender, but carried an undercurrent of threat.

Théodore inclined his head slightly, maintaining an air of cold politeness.
“Merely a routine errand, Madame,” he replied, striving to appear calm.

But Madame Lavois was not one to be satisfied with vague answers. Her gaze dropped to the letter in his hand.
“An errand? In Versailles, Count, nothing is ever routine,” she said with a faint smile, her voice laced with certainty. “Do you know that even the smallest step here can alter destinies?”

Her gown rustled faintly as she stepped closer, her eyes locking onto his.
“And to whom is your message addressed?” she asked lightly, almost carelessly, but Théodore sensed the burning curiosity behind her words.

He quickly composed himself, hiding his unease behind his usual mask of composure.
“My apologies, Madame, but I am not at liberty to discuss royal matters,” he replied with a slight bow.

Madame Lavois laughed softly, barely audibly.
“Of course, I understand,” she said, stepping back. “But remember, Count: in this palace, it is not only the writers of letters who matter but also the readers.”

Her gown swirled as she turned and disappeared into the corridor’s dimness, leaving behind the faint scent of rose oil. Théodore stood motionless, tension gripping his body. He knew that in Versailles, every word, even an offhand remark, carried weight.

When he returned to his quarters, his footsteps echoed on the marble floor. The room was dimly lit, with candles on the table casting a soft glow on the walls adorned with embroidered tapestries. Théodore sat at his massive, intricately carved desk and placed the letter before him.

His eyes lingered on the seal. It seemed monumental, almost intimidating—the royal crest appeared to watch his every move. He reached out to touch it, feeling the gentle warmth of the candlelight.

Questions swirled in his mind. What secrets did this letter hold? Why had the marquis chosen him? The questions multiplied, but answers eluded him.

The flickering candlelight cast strange shadows on the walls, as if they were alive. Théodore sighed and slid the letter into a leather folder. His decision was final: he would not open it.

He understood that every step in Versailles had to be calculated. One mistake could cost him his position—or even his life. Tomorrow, he would deliver the letter as instructed, but the echoes of this task would linger in his thoughts for a long time.

Later that night, he stood by the window. Cold night air filled the room as he opened the panes and gazed out at the gardens of Versailles. Under the moonlight, the alleys and fountains seemed endless, their patterns dissolving into a soft silver haze. The lights in the palace windows flickered like stars, and in some of them, shadows of people could be seen, still engaged in the affairs of the day.

Théodore’s gaze lingered on one such window. It seemed to him that everyone behind the glass was weaving their intrigues, each a part of this vast mechanism where he was still just a small cog.

He straightened, inhaling the cold air deeply. Tomorrow would bring a new day, new errands, and new trials. And he knew that if he wished to rise higher, he must not only play the game but win it.

Versailles was an arena, and Théodore d’Alien was already on it. The game of intrigue had begun, and with each passing day, the stakes grew higher.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch VI: "The Yew Ball"
Versailles, the night of February 25–26, 1745

The Hall of Mirrors appeared transformed that night. Instead of its usual dazzling brilliance, its reflections, bathed in soft candlelight, seemed veiled in a delicate shroud of mystery. The flames of hundreds of candles cast whimsical shadows, turning marble and gold into the scenery of a fairytale world. The scent of wax mingled with the aroma of spicy perfumes, while the rustle of silk gowns and velvet doublets blended with the harpsichord’s melodies. Everything signaled that this ball would be unforgettable.

Amid the decorated crowd, where each face was concealed by a mask, Count Théodore d’Alien remained almost invisible. His attire, while adhering to the masquerade theme, was understated—a deep dark green velvet with gold embossing that barely stood out against the opulent costumes of trees and forest spirits. Yet it was precisely this restraint that allowed him to observe unnoticed.

Théodore absorbed the ball’s atmosphere as a seasoned strategist studies a battlefield. His keen gaze swept over the guests, not just seeking familiar faces but noting the tiniest nuances in movements and conversations. The sounds of laughter, whispers, and music merged into a symphony where every note could reveal a secret. Yet his true focus was on King Louis XV. Usually impenetrable and reserved, tonight the king was uncharacteristically open. His gaze, filled with lively interest, was fixed on a single woman—Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, a name yet unfamiliar to most present.

Jeanne appeared in the hall like the heroine of an ancient myth. Her attire, inspired by the goddess Diana, exuded both elegance and strength. The finest silk of her gown shimmered in the candlelight, like moonlight on a tranquil lake, and her meticulously chosen jewelry accentuated her natural beauty. Behind her mask, expressive features hinted at confidence, and her eyes radiated unwavering assurance. She moved with the grace of a huntress, her mastery evident in every step, each one seemingly catching the light and making her presence impossible to overlook.

“Who is she?” someone among the courtiers whispered, but Théodore knew the answer was not yet important. What mattered more was how the king looked at her.

Louis XV, concealed behind an ornate mask, could not take his eyes off Jeanne. His movements, typically measured and deliberate, were now charged with fresh energy. This was more than mere curiosity—his gaze betrayed something deeper, almost reverent.

Théodore, striving to remain in the shadows, moved closer to the king. He positioned himself near a column, from where he could observe Louis and Jeanne. Their meeting was inevitable, and it was crucial for the count to catch every detail. The king took a few steps forward, leaned in, and began speaking softly to Jeanne. Théodore could not hear their words, but their body language spoke volumes. Louis was enchanted, and Jeanne held herself with remarkable poise, as if this encounter were entirely ordinary for her.

The ball’s very atmosphere seemed to underscore their unique connection. The candlelight, reflected in the mirrors, danced on the walls like glimmers of a starry sky. In the crowd, a palpable tension arose from their interaction. Whispers of their proximity began spreading like ripples in water.

“Have you found what you were looking for, Your Majesty?” a soft voice sounded behind Théodore. He turned to see Madame Lavois, her gaze, as always, brimming with enigmas.

“Perhaps,” Théodore evaded the question, but his eyes returned to the king. “And you? What brings you here tonight?”

Madame Lavois smirked, her smile reminiscent of a cat’s.
“This ball is merely a stage, Count. And on a stage, it is always interesting to watch not just the main players, but those behind the curtains as well. Don’t you agree?”

Her words gave Théodore pause. He understood perfectly well that in Versailles, even casual remarks were rarely accidental. Tonight, a new play might be taking shape, and he would have to decide what role he wanted to play in it.

As the music faded and the first guests began leaving the gallery, Théodore continued to observe. The king and Jeanne-Antoinette still stood together. Their figures, softly illuminated by candlelight, stood out against the shadows descending upon the hall. In that moment, Théodore realized this evening would mark a turning point not only for the king and his new favorite but for the entire courtly life.

Back in his chambers, the count sat by the window for a long time, gazing at the flickering starlight. Thoughts of Jeanne-Antoinette swirled in his mind. She was more than just a new player in the game. Her intellect and elegance suggested she would become more than a favorite. She would be an architect of destinies, a new force capable of reshaping Versailles itself. For now, her star was just beginning to rise, casting the Yew Ball in the glow of a new era.

Chapter Text

Sketch VII: "The Shadows of the Town Hall"
Paris, March 1, 1745

In the square before the town hall, illuminated by thousands of torches and lights, gathered everyone who held even the slightest influence at court or aspired to gain it. The streets leading to the town hall were strewn with gravel, and along the cobblestones stood carriages adorned with the crests of noble families, from whose windows emanated music and laughter. The air was filled with the scents of spicy perfumes, mingling with the coolness of the March night and the smoke of burning torches.

The evening was special—a grand ball to crown a series of festivities in honor of the dauphin’s marriage. Yet everyone knew that the night’s true highlight would not be the wedding but the meeting between King Louis XV and the mysterious beauty who had captivated his heart just days before.

Count Théodore d'Alien was among the first to arrive. He was never in a hurry, yet always found himself in the right place at the right time. His carriage, crafted in a restrained yet elegant style, came to a smooth stop at the grand entrance, and the count, dressed in a dark green coat embroidered with silver, stepped out with his usual grace. That evening, he had a feeling that significant events would unfold at the ball. A master of weaving intrigues and forging alliances, he understood that the king’s new favorite, Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, was on the brink of securing not only Louis XV’s attention but the power that such a relationship could bestow.

Théodore glided through the halls and corridors of the town hall, avoiding the clusters of courtiers. The enormous rooms, adorned with lavish tapestries and chandeliers, resonated with orchestral music and lively chatter. The crystal-laden chandeliers refracted light in a way that made the walls appear to glow from within. His interest lay less in the stage itself and more in what transpired behind the scenes. Among those lingering by the walls, he observed another Versailles—darker, colder, and perhaps far more dangerous. Here, conspiracies were whispered, and discussions of who might benefit from the rise of Madame de Pompadour—and who might prefer her downfall—took place. For the king, vigilance was always essential, but tonight, his focus seemed singularly fixed on one woman.

When the king appeared at the ball, he brought with him that unique aura which always surrounded royalty. But tonight, Louis XV seemed different. His tall figure stood out among the assembled guests, and his brocade attire, adorned with gold threads, underscored his regal presence. Théodore noticed how his demeanor changed the moment Jeanne-Antoinette entered the hall. Her exquisite gown, accentuating her slender figure, shimmered in the torchlight. Despite her humble origins, she carried herself as if born for Versailles. Her movements were fluid and elegant, her smile both enchanting and dangerous. Théodore, never losing sight of her, noted the moment her gaze met the king’s.

“Do you think she’ll endure?” a quiet question came from behind him. Théodore turned to meet the eyes of several courtiers standing nearby. These were seasoned observers of court intrigues, those who understood the cost of every smile and admirer.

“The king has already made his choice,” Théodore replied coldly. “She will do everything to remain by his side.”

He knew that Jeanne-Antoinette was not merely clever—she recognized how perilous Versailles could be. Louis XV needed more than beauty; he required strength and cunning to maintain his authority among the myriad rivals surrounding the throne. And Madame de Pompadour could offer him that.

When the king approached her, the crowd of courtiers fell silent. The ball transformed into a spectacle, with all the guests becoming mere spectators to this meeting. Louis XV, typically so indifferent and composed, smiled at her—a smile seen by very few. At that moment, it became clear: Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson was no longer just another courtier. She had become one of the most influential women in France.

Théodore, standing at the edge of the hall, observed their every move. His sharp mind quickly calculated the ramifications. He knew that behind the mask of beauty and charm was a woman prepared to go to any lengths to secure her power and position. And this was just the beginning of her journey.

As the king led her into a dance, another participant of the evening approached Théodore. The Marquis de Chalon, with whom he had crossed paths before, murmured quietly:
“What do you think, d'Alien? Is the king ready to take the risk?”

“The king has never shied away from risk,” Théodore replied evenly. “But this time, the stakes are too high.”

Chalon smirked, but there was a hint of unease in his eyes. Many at court were already anxious about the favorite’s potential interference in state affairs, which could alter the balance of power entirely. Théodore understood that the times were changing, and those who failed to adapt would find themselves left behind.

The ball continued, but for Théodore, the outlines of the future were already taking shape. Power was shifting into new hands. And as always, he was there, where change happened, ready to choose his role in the new game.

Chapter Text

Sketch VIII: "Service in the Shadows"
Versailles, 1747

A light rain had been falling since morning, making the corridors of the royal palace seem especially gray and deserted. The winds had not yet scattered the clouds, and a misty haze clung to the glass windows, leaving patterns reminiscent of cracks. At this hour, silence could serve as a haven for those who knew how to read the language of Versailles’ silent walls. Each step on the marble tiles echoed loudly, as though the palace itself was listening. The gilded moldings adorning the ceilings appeared dim under the light of sparse torches, their luster unable to dispel the oppressive atmosphere.

Count Théodore d'Alien, true to his custom, was among those who preferred to act quietly and inconspicuously. For several years, he had served King Louis XV, steadily climbing the ranks of court service. His figure blended into the dim corridors: a black frock coat, the subdued glint of silver buttons, and a sharp gaze that scrutinized everything around him. Working in the shadows was always his preference—observing, listening, analyzing. It was individuals like him who kept the court in balance.

Today, Théodore had received what seemed a minor task at first glance: to review certain documents and monitor how Madame de Pompadour, now an influential figure at court, conducted negotiations with important foreign guests. Her opulence and impeccable manners concealed a cold calculation and diplomatic acumen. Théodore knew her influence over the king was immense, and accordingly, it shaped the politics of the entire country.

He stopped before the heavy door to her study. Through the cracks, the soft scratching of a quill could be heard. Behind this door lay a center of power—not official, but no less dangerous. The Marquise, dressed in an elegant gown with silver patterns, sat at a massive desk immersed in correspondence. Her face was thoughtful, but her movements exuded the confidence of someone about to make a significant decision. The walls of the study were adorned with delicate paintings depicting scenes from classical mythology, while neatly arranged tomes lined the shelves behind her, next to a gleaming bronze candlestick. A small vase of lilies-of-the-valley added a touch of refined austerity.

“Count d'Alien,” her quiet yet commanding voice rang out as Théodore approached the door. She always knew when he was near. It was their unspoken agreement—he was always present, yet never crossed the boundaries of her personal space.

“Madame,” Théodore bowed respectfully, stepping closer to her desk. “Your instructions.”

“Today, I am meeting with the English ambassador,” the Marquise set down her quill and raised her discerning gaze to him. A spark gleamed in her eyes, as if she already foresaw the outcome of the meeting. “You know I trust barely half of those seated here. Diplomacy is a game of masks, but the king is often blinded by personal sympathies. I trust you to provide the support I need.”

“Of course,” Théodore replied succinctly, his mind working swiftly. The English were always cautious, but their intentions often carried ambiguity. His eyes flicked over the documents on her desk—official papers covered in intricate signatures and seals, a half-unfurled map of France. Everything pointed to the seriousness of the upcoming negotiations.

“I need to know everything that transpires during this meeting,” she added, her voice dropping slightly. “Every glance, every word. I trust you’ll notice more than just words.”

Théodore understood her perfectly. The court was a place where not just official speeches, but the subtleties behind them, held significance. Louis XV was a king who trusted those he loved, but Théodore knew that love and trust were not always wise counselors.

He left her study with a clear understanding of his mission. Small assignments were gradually being replaced by higher-level tasks, and each step toward success bolstered his position at court. But most importantly, he knew never to betray the trust of those who relied on him. This time, the Marquise had chosen to depend on him, and in Versailles, this meant far more than merely following orders.

As evening fell and the ambassador arrived at Versailles, the atmosphere transformed. Candles lit in countless crystal chandeliers filled the hall with a soft golden glow, reflected endlessly in mirrors. The delicate scent of lavender mingled with the perfume of the courtly ladies. Massive brocade drapes in warm tones added grandeur to the space. As always, the king sat at the center, but his attention was clearly not on the negotiations—Théodore noticed this within moments. The focus was on another figure—the Marquise. Her every smile, every bow was perfectly calculated. She maneuvered with the skill of a diplomat, playing the role of mistress of the court.

The English ambassador, a tall man in his middle years with thick gray hair and an air of cold dignity, appeared somewhat wary. His gestures were restrained, but his gaze wandered, lingering alternately on the king and the Marquise. Théodore stood in the shadow of a column, closely observing the details: how the ambassador leaned slightly toward the Marquise, how his fingers tapped nervously on the armrest of his chair. These were signals too important to ignore.

When the negotiations concluded, Théodore stepped back into deeper shadow, analyzing all that had transpired. His eyes followed every movement of the ambassador, his gestures, his expressions. The Englishman turned away from the king too often and listened to the Marquise too intently. It was enough to understand that Jeanne-Antoinette’s influence was growing.

Théodore left the hall, leaving behind the intricate game he was yet to fully enter. With each passing day, his role grew more significant. But he was in no hurry. For him, working in the shadows, beyond the attention of the king and the courtiers, was more valuable than basking in the light. He knew the moment would come when he, too, would have to step into the spotlight. But until then, he remained in his familiar role—an observer, an analyst, an invisible player in the grand chess game of Versailles.

Chapter Text

Sketch IX: "The Secret Quill"

Paris, 1750. The night had wrapped the city, steeped in cold winter air, and the narrow, cobblestone-covered streets were almost silently swallowed by fog. In one of the mansions on the Left Bank, a dim candlelight pierced through heavy window drapes. Inside, in a small yet exquisite room, Count Théodore d'Alien was bent over his desk. A candelabrum, weary from burning long, flickered its candle flames, casting whimsical shadows on the polished wooden panels of the walls.

On the desk lay neatly arranged sheets of paper, alongside an inkwell engraved with his family’s crest. However, these items spoke not of luxury but of discipline and precision: everything in the study breathed order, even the quill left at an angle as if ready for battle.

Théodore reached for the quill, his slender fingers grasping its smooth handle effortlessly. The metal nib glided over the paper like a blade slicing through air. He was writing the final lines of his novel—lines that made his heart beat ever so slightly faster. A distant cry from a night watchman drifted through the window, but he barely noticed it. His entire world had shrunk to the confines of the desk and this text, which was more than just a story. It was his revenge, his challenge, his truth.

The pages of this novel contained biting caricatures, infused with observations amassed over years. It was satire, but of a kind that could be a death sentence for its author. Théodore wrote about the splendor and filth of palace life. Of empty words, hidden hatreds, and a luxury bordering on madness.

Théodore felt a particularly bitter pang as he penned lines that alluded to Madame de Pompadour. Her influence over the king and all of French politics was a secret only to those who had never been near the court. But in the book, she appeared under another name, masked so elegantly that no one could lodge direct accusations. Théodore smiled faintly, recalling how she had once said in conversation that "words are useless without power." He knew that now his words had become her greatest enemy.

Closing the inkwell, Théodore leaned back in his chair, upholstered in dark velvet, and gazed intently at the manuscript. The air carried a light scent of warm wax and old wood. For a moment, it seemed the shadows cast by the candles whispered to him: "Dangerous. Dangerous." But he had already made his decision. The novel would be published, no matter the difficulty.

Several weeks earlier, Théodore had met with a man who would help him bring his plan to life. It was a secret meeting in a dark room on the outskirts of Paris, where the smell of dampness mingled with the aroma of cheap tobacco. The publisher—a short man with sharp features—nervously eyed the manuscript, which Théodore had placed in a leather folder.

"Are you sure you want this?" he murmured, carefully running his finger along the edge of the folder. "Books like this, Count... they lead to trouble."

Théodore smiled coldly. "I'm not sure of anything. But sometimes trouble is the only thing that can move this world."

The publisher nodded, as if conceding that argument was futile.

And so, weeks later, the novel "Shadows of Versailles" appeared in Parisian shops. At first, it was sold discreetly, only to trusted clients. It was discussed in whispers, behind tightly closed doors, where every breath seemed too loud. But soon, like a forest fire, the book spread through all of Paris. It entered salons, where it was read with a refined smile, and its sharpest lines were carefully commented upon.

At one such gathering, in an opulently decorated room adorned with mirrors and portraits, a young lady in a lilac dress read aloud: “And there they are, these warriors of luxury, ready to defend their silks and jewels, yet betraying all else for a moment of glory.” The listeners, seated on velvet chairs, laughed, but there was tension in that laughter. Everyone saw themselves or someone they knew in those lines.

One evening, during dinner, Madame de Pompadour, in a gown the color of peach dawn, casually remarked: “Have you read 'Shadows of Versailles'?” Her voice was calm, but the glance she cast at the king was as sharp as a blade. Louis XV lifted his eyes from his plate, moving deliberately slowly, though an icy interest was evident in his gaze. “I have heard of it,” he said with a shrug. “It amuses the public, nothing more.”

Théodore, seated nearby, noted how Madame de Pompadour’s gaze lingered slightly on the king. Her hands, gloved in fine lace, moved too slowly, as if she considered every gesture.

Théodore watched this wave of interest unfold from a distance. He showed no emotion, but inside him, contradictory feelings flared. It seemed that every mention of the book brought closer the moment when someone would connect the dots.

One day in a narrow corridor of Versailles, he overheard two courtiers animatedly discussing the novel. “The author is either a madman or a genius,” one said. “But he knows the court like the back of his hand.” Théodore pretended not to hear, though a chill passed through him for a moment.

He knew he was playing with fire. But he also knew something else: in a world where power belonged to those who believed they could control everyone, the word became the sharpest weapon. And he, Count Théodore d’Alien, wielded this weapon like no one else.

Chapter Text

Sketch X: "Secret Notes"
Versailles, 1751. The palace halls, brimming with golden embellishments and heavy velvet draperies, seemed to come alive in the glow of countless candles. Their flickering flames, trembling in the faint currents of air, reflected in mirrors, making the space appear infinite. The parquet floor beneath the guests’ feet creaked softly, as if Versailles itself whispered its secrets. Here, in this world of splendor and grandeur, every step, glance, and word was part of an intricate game, where victory belonged only to the cleverest and most patient.

Amid this chaos and order, Count Théodore d’Alien was the perfect player. His ability to appear unruffled, even indifferent at times, rendered him almost invisible. Tall, composed, and always impeccably dressed, he inspired a mix of respect and subtle fear in those around him. His gray-green eyes, deep and piercing, seemed to see more than they should. Yet no one could have imagined that this rational and cold-blooded man harbored a secret capable of shattering his world at any moment.

Late in the evenings, when the palace gradually sank into twilight, Théodore remained in his study. This room was his refuge from the glitter and clamor. Heavy curtains shielded him from prying eyes, and the shelves were lined with books in which he found solace and inspiration. Among them stood volumes of musical scores—works by Bach, Handel, and obscure composers whose names had been veiled by the passage of centuries.

On his desk, beside papers and an inkwell, lay a case containing an instrument he hid even from himself. It was a violin, crafted by an unknown master many years ago. Its body was dark, as if steeped in the shadows of countless nights, and its strings gleamed in the candlelight. Théodore ran his fingers over the instrument’s smooth surface, sensing history flow through his hands. This violin was his secret, his soul.

When the nocturnal silence fully enveloped Versailles, Théodore would lift the bow and draw it across the strings. The first sound was faint, almost imperceptible, but with each note, the music filled the room like water spilling over the edges of a vessel. He played for himself, for those long gone, for his dreams and memories. His melodies evoked the night wind, the soft rustle of leaves in the gardens, the shadows of clouds gliding over the earth.

These compositions were not just music to him. They held everything he could not express in words—pain, hope, joy, fear. Sometimes he wrote his pieces down on sheets of music, folding them carefully and hiding them among other papers. These scores became part of his double life.

Théodore’s music had long echoed through Versailles, but no one knew its author. Under pseudonyms and through intermediaries, he passed his works to musicians. Now, when another of his pieces was performed at a reception, the hall was filled with awe and admiration. His music spoke to the listeners’ souls, leaving them spellbound.

One day, at a private concert, musicians performed his latest composition. Its slow, contemplative melody seemed to bring the night of Versailles’ gardens to life in the hall. The courtiers’ gazes wandered around the room; some listened with closed eyes, while others tried to guess who could have created such beauty.
“This is extraordinary,” said Louis XV, leaning back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as if he had momentarily left this world. “I would like to know who composed this piece.”
The king’s words were a sincere compliment, but to Théodore, they sounded like a bell tolling danger. A chill ran down his spine. No one must ever know the truth—not even the king.

Madame de Pompadour, a woman who always noticed more than others wished to reveal, listened intently to the music. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept the room. After the concert, she approached Théodore. Her smile was light, but her tone held persistence.
“What do you think of this piece, Count?” she asked.
“Magnificent, madam,” he replied, suppressing his emotions. “The composer seems to know how to touch hearts.”
The Marquise tilted her head, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer than usual.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” she said. “I hope we discover who he is one day.”
Théodore merely offered a slight smile, but his chest tightened. She suspected. He was certain of it.

Each night, as Versailles slept, Théodore returned to his violin. He played for himself, for the silence, for a future where perhaps his music would endure while his name faded into obscurity. He did not seek fame. For him, music was a way to remain true to himself in a world where everyone wore masks.

Every note born under his bow was a part of his soul, a fragment of what he could never reveal to the world. And so, let no one learn the truth. Let the music speak for him.

Chapter Text

Sketch XI: "A Maneuver in the Shadows"
Versailles, 1754. Sunlight, soft and warm like late summer rays, streamed through the gallery windows, painting the marble walls and gilded cornices in amber hues. Beyond the glass, perfectly trimmed hedges, symmetrical alleys, and fountains shimmering with rainbow reflections stretched out like living paintings. The grandeur of the garden was mesmerizing, but it was merely a deceptive façade. Beneath this beauty lay a world of intrigue, where every word could become a weapon, and every gesture a fatal misstep.

Théodore d'Alienne stood in the shadow of one of the gilded columns, his posture relaxed but his gaze—calm and piercing—tracked the courtiers like pieces on a chessboard. The soft rustle of footsteps, the chime of bracelets, and the murmured voices surrounded him, forming a background that seemed to dissolve into the vaulted ceilings of the gallery. It was the rhythm of the court—subtle and unceasing.

Théodore’s attention was drawn to Madame de Pompadour. She moved through the hall with effortless grace, like a dancer treading on invisible threads binding everyone around her. Her gown, shimmering in shades of peach and gold, gave her the appearance of a sunbeam caught in a mirror. But her true weapon lay deeper—her voice. Soft, almost enveloping, it had the power to penetrate any defense, bending the will of her interlocutors like a master musician teasing out the nuances of a melody.

Théodore watched as she played her role. She paused near a group of young courtiers, her smile warming, her gaze taking on a maternal tenderness. Her words seemed light and playful, but Théodore knew they were chosen with surgical precision. The courtiers’ laughter was louder than the jest warranted—a clear sign of their eagerness to please her.

Then her attention shifted to the viscount, a newcomer at court. Tall, slender, with striking features and a daring smile, he exuded confidence. His words were quick and assured, yet his movements betrayed a faint nervousness that Madame de Pompadour’s practiced eye caught immediately. Her gaze swept over him, studying him as if he were a rare artifact, and then her smile widened just enough to hint at condescension.

King Louis XV entered the hall with regal grace. His posture was impeccable, and his dark blue velvet coat embroidered with gold accentuated his majesty. His gaze swept the room—cold and exacting, like the stroke of a blade. Courtiers bowed their heads, but the king seemed oblivious to them. His attention was drawn immediately to Madame de Pompadour.

She stepped toward him, like a dancer making a well-rehearsed entrance. Her movements were flawless, her voice soft enough not to disrupt the gallery’s atmosphere, yet loud enough to command the attention of those nearby. Théodore observed as she leaned slightly toward the king, her gestures deceptively casual. But every word she uttered was meticulously calculated. The king nodded, his expression unreadable, but one nearby courtier suddenly turned pale, as if grasping something dire.

The viscount, who had stepped slightly aside, was unaware that he had become part of a grand game. His ambitions, which he had once considered his weapon, now made him a puppet. Madame de Pompadour had already ensnared him—Théodore understood this without needing words.

Beside him stood the Marquis de Laval. His powdered wig was styled with impeccable precision, and the golden chain of his pocket watch gleamed with every movement. He looked perfect, but his quiet voice betrayed tension.
“Did you notice that as well, Count?” Laval asked without turning his head.
“Of course,” Théodore replied, his gaze never leaving the scene. “She’s making her move.”
“As always,” Laval remarked with a faint smile. “But you’ll stay out of the game, won’t you?”
Théodore nodded slightly, his expression thoughtful. He always preferred to observe, never interfering. While others vied for Madame’s favor, he knew that the power of the shadows lay in their invisibility.

Through the windows, the light of the setting sun streamed in, casting intricate patterns on the marble floor—like additional pieces on an unseen chessboard. Théodore felt the invisible threads of intrigue weaving around the king, the viscount, and Madame de Pompadour. Each of them was a player in this endless, merciless game.

But he knew one truth: the light always drew attention, revealing the players. The shadows, remaining unseen, concealed their intentions. That was his strength.

Chapter Text

Sketch XII: "An Unexpected Alliance"

Versailles, 1755. After another diplomatic dinner where new tax reforms were discussed, Théodore d'Alien, as usual, remained in the shadows. His presence in the palace halls was so inconspicuous that he seemed like part of the décor. He glided silently, like a shadow, avoiding the bright candlelight, preferring to stay hidden behind tall marble columns or in the niches of walls adorned with tapestries. The atmosphere of the hall was saturated with luxury and the art of deception: the rustle of fine fabrics, the cloying aroma of perfume mingled with the scent of burning wax, and the murmur of voices discussing someone's fate.

Théodore understood how this world worked. Every glance, every gesture here carried weight. The eternal intrigues, evolving into alliances or betrayals, resembled a chess game where the pieces were moved with calculated caution.

Leaving the brightly lit halls, he made his way to the more secluded corridors. Here, a cool stillness prevailed, and the marble floor, polished by countless footsteps, reflected the faint flicker of torches. In the tall stained-glass windows depicting scenes from royal life, shadows danced in intricate patterns.

It was here that his solitude was interrupted.

At the turn of one corridor, he encountered a young man whose silhouette stood sharply against the light of a window. It was Louis-Sébastien, the nephew of one of the influential ministers—a figure that had long caught Théodore's attention. Sébastien stood motionless, arms crossed over his chest, his posture exuding self-assurance.

His face, illuminated by the torchlight, displayed a mix of confidence and subtle audacity. Dark eyes gleamed with resolve, and his sharply defined lips bore the shadow of a smile. He stepped forward, his shoes with silver buckles sliding softly across the marble.

"Count d'Alien," he began in a quiet but insistent voice, as though wary of disturbing the corridor's silence, "I believe we could become allies. You and I share similar views on the future of France."

Théodore halted, his gaze narrowing slightly. He was always cautious in choosing connections. Sébastien's directness both alarmed and intrigued him.

"In the future, everyone here sees something of their own," he finally said. "But not every vision brings benefit. What is it that you see?"

Sébastien stepped closer, and the faint light revealed his face more clearly. It was youthful but serious, as if he had already experienced more than his peers. For a moment, he paused, considering his words, and his slender fingers touched the windowsill. Then he spoke:

"I see a country where reason is valued above titles. Where the welfare of the people stands above personal ambition."

The words rang with such conviction that Théodore did not reply immediately. The air carried the faint scent of dust and wax, and somewhere in the depths of the palace, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly. Théodore had heard whispers of a group of young reformers forming around the king, but hearing such thoughts from someone so close to power was unexpected.

"You are playing a dangerous game," Théodore observed, taking a small step forward. His dark cloak fell in soft folds onto the floor. "Your passion might lead you to ruin."

"Or to success," Sébastien countered with a light but confident smile. "You know as well as I do, Count, that not all victories are visible immediately. Sometimes, triumphs are steps no one notices."

Théodore studied him thoughtfully. The young man's face showed determination, but also something more—perhaps foresight. There was something in this youth that reminded Théodore of himself in his younger days, though he carefully concealed this thought behind a mask of composure.

"Your ideas are too bold for Versailles," he said slowly, as if weighing each word. "They will require not just courage but caution."

"That is precisely what I seek," Sébastien inclined his head slightly, a gesture both polite and defiant. "An ally who could help me see where boldness must yield to wisdom."

Théodore raised an eyebrow. His gaze drifted to the stained glass, where scenes of royal triumphs stood out against the night sky. This conversation stirred something in him that he had long thought forgotten.

"We will speak of this again," he said quietly, then stepped toward the exit. His footsteps faded at the end of the corridor.

Sébastien remained by the window, his gaze fixed on the distance, where the faint glow of lanterns dissolved into the night.

Back in his quarters, Théodore could not sleep. The soft light of candles cast trembling shadows on the walls, and the silk curtains swayed gently in the draft. He sat by the window, watching as the first light of dawn tinged Versailles' marble courtyard with pale shades of pink.

"Perhaps it is men like him who can change the world," Théodore thought, fingering the embroidery on the cuff of his coat. "But am I ready to risk everything for change?"

These questions troubled him until morning. And though he decided to remain an observer for now, Théodore knew deep down that his meeting with Sébastien was the beginning of something greater. Perhaps not just for himself, but for all of France.

Chapter Text

Sketch XIII: "The Shadow of Damien"
Versailles, January 1757. A cold wind howled through the grand corridors of the palace, piercing everything in its path. Winter's icy grip tightened around the château: snow blanketed the palace square, sparkling under the dim light of the winter sun, creating an illusion of perpetual stillness, as if all was frozen in anticipation of something inevitable. The tall, dark arches, marble columns, and gilded moldings coiling around the walls seemed even colder and more lifeless as the relentless wind invaded every corner, chilling stone and hall alike. The muffled crunch of footsteps on ice and the occasional drip of melting snow from the palace roofs added to the haunting stillness, as though winter itself hungered for the long-awaited spring. Snow, like suspended fog, seeped into every corner, reflecting off mirrored walls and casting an eerie pall over the opulent surroundings.

The year had just begun, and despite the harsh weather, life in Versailles carried on with its usual intrigues. Grand and petty plots alike continued to reverberate through the palace walls, even on the coldest days. Evenings were filled with glittering splendor, elaborate costumes, and insincere smiles. But behind this outward beauty lurked growing shadows—discontent among the populace and increasingly visible cracks in the foundation of the monarchy. None could have imagined the event that was about to shake the very pillars of power and forever alter the course of history.

Theodore d'Alien, now well-established at court as a count with an undeniable reputation, stood not far from Louis XV. The king, though eternally adored by the courtiers, had become increasingly the subject of rumors and dissatisfaction. Theodore's position, while not the closest, allowed him to observe events while remaining in the shadows. He had mastered the art of being present without being seen, moving like a shadow through the light, always at the heart of events yet elusive. Small assignments, which had once been his primary occupation, had given way to more significant matters, and Theodore now often handled the king's personal affairs—those requiring utmost discretion and flawless execution.

The royal carriage, adorned with gilded engravings and draped with emerald velvet curtains, slowly moved through the palace courtyard, surrounded by courtiers and guards. The sound of wheels, the clinking of spurs, and the rustle of silk gowns merged into a cacophony of noise, creating the impression that the palace, with all its grandeur and magnificence, was part of a grand game, where every detail and movement held meaning. It was in this moment, amid the throng of servants, nobles, and whispering ladies, that a shadow appeared.

Robert-François Damiens—a servant who had endured years of hardship—forced his way through the crowd as though driven by some supernatural compulsion. Few noticed him until the dreadful encounter with the royal carriage. He pushed past the courtiers, ignoring their outraged stares. In the instant that his knife struck the king, barely a fraction of a second passed before screams echoed through the palace, mingling with the pervasive atmosphere of dread. Those seconds stretched into eternity: the king, clutching his side, swayed but remained standing. His face paled, and his eyes, wide with fear and confusion, stared into the void, struggling to grasp what had occurred. Guards and attendants quickly surrounded him, shielding him from further harm.

For everyone in Versailles, this moment was more than a failed assassination attempt. It was not merely an attack on the man who sat on the throne; it was a blow to the very foundation of authority—a strike against the symbol that upheld the entire system. Panic swept through the crowd. Theodore found himself in the midst of the chaos, yet, as always, he remained composed. He moved among the people as if he were part of the turmoil, but his heart held neither fear nor anxiety. Too many years of observing court life had taught him that in this palace, every shadow could be a sign of a greater game.

After Damiens was captured, Theodore moved closer to the king. Louis XV was pale but alive. The knife, as it was later revealed, had only grazed his body, but for Versailles, the shock was no less profound. What could have driven this insignificant servant, living in poverty, to challenge the most powerful man in the world?

That evening, Theodore could not shake the thought that deeper motives lay behind the attack. And he resolved to uncover them. As most courtiers gossiped about the incident in their chambers, Theodore used his position to slip into the underground dungeons where Damiens was being interrogated. The darkness and damp stench of the prison could not overshadow Theodore's determination to learn the truth. The guards silently stepped aside as he approached. His presence was unquestionable—his authority at court too great for anyone to dare interfere.

Damiens, battered and exhausted, stood like a shadow of his former self. His face was bruised and bloodied, his body frail with fatigue. Yet, despite the suffering, his eyes burned with a strange mix of determination and despair. Standing before him, Theodore felt an odd aura—this was not merely a criminal. Here was a man who had dared to challenge the very system that consumed and crushed its servants.

“Why did you do it?” Theodore asked quietly, leaning toward him. His voice was barely audible amidst the prison's murmurs, but his words carried weight.

Damiens slowly raised his head. His voice was hoarse, yet it held a desperate strength:
“I wanted to wake France. The king is deaf to its suffering. Though he did not die, this strike is a warning—a warning for all of us. We cannot remain silent while the people starve, while tyranny reigns.”

Theodore remained silent, gazing into the eyes of this man who, despite the madness of his act, voiced thoughts that had long stirred in the minds of many. France was suffering, and this act of violence was but a reflection of the mounting anger and suppressed helplessness of a people who saw no other way forward. The shadow of this act, like Damiens himself, now loomed over Versailles.

As Theodore left the dungeon, he knew that this attempt on the king's life would become a turning point. The structures of power, shaken by the crisis, were already beginning to tremble. This moment was not merely an attack on the king—it was a warning to all of France. And those prepared to fight for their power would defend the throne with even greater ferocity. But Theodore also knew, as Damiens had said, that France was beginning to awaken.

The shadow that fell over Versailles that day would not dissipate. And Theodore d'Alien, as always, would watch as this new chapter of the great game unfolded.

Chapter Text

Sketch XIV: "The Little Prince"
Versailles, 1758. The bright autumn sun generously poured over the endless gardens of the palace, bathing gravel paths and neatly trimmed bushes in warm golden light. Roses still bloomed in the flowerbeds, filling the air with a sweet fragrance mingled with the crispness of the fall. The gardens, always impeccably maintained, seemed an infinite labyrinth of beauty and order. Somewhere in the distance, fountains murmured, their sound resembling a melody audible only to the soul.

Théodore d'Alien walked along one of the alleys, his gaze wandering across the landscape, though his thoughts remained focused. His soft leather shoes slid silently over the gravel, and his hand absentmindedly brushed against his glove, as if tracing the rhythm of his reflections. With each passing year, his position at court grew stronger, and his sphere of influence expanded. And with each passing day, his thoughts turned increasingly philosophical—what is power, and what is its true cost?

Today's assignment was a new one. He had been tasked with accompanying the young Dauphin, Louis-Auguste, on a stroll. Such an order was unexpected; typically, princes were attended by governesses or ladies-in-waiting, but apparently, the King had decided otherwise. For Théodore, this was a significant moment. A meeting with the heir to the throne was always more than a mere duty. It was a moment when the fates of the present and the future could intertwine.

Approaching a fountain, Théodore saw the Dauphin. Young Louis-Auguste stood at the water's edge, surrounded by servants who kept a respectful distance. The child looked delicate, almost fragile, against the monumental walls of Versailles. His fair hair gleamed in the sunlight like threads of pure gold, and his blue eyes sparkled with the joy of childhood.

“Monsieur d'Alien?” the boy suddenly asked, turning to Théodore. His voice was thin, like the chime of a small bell, yet it already carried the confidence of a future ruler.

Théodore smiled and stepped forward, stopping at a respectful distance.
“Your Highness, it is an honor to serve you,” he said, bowing his head.

Louis-Auguste held his gaze on the stranger for a moment, then smiled, as if sensing comfort in his presence. His smile was soft, sincere, almost shy, and for a moment, Théodore forgot that before him stood the heir to the French throne.

“Have you seen the squirrels, Monsieur d'Alien?” the boy asked excitedly, pointing toward the nearest tree.

“No, Your Highness,” Théodore replied, tilting his head slightly to emphasize respect. “Show me where they are.”

The boy, forgetting formalities, immediately darted toward a large oak, his light footsteps echoing faintly on the path. Théodore followed, maintaining a calm yet attentive watch on the child. This boy, who had yet to understand the weight of his destiny, was now just like any other child—captivated by nature's wonders.

They stopped under the sprawling tree. Two squirrels darted among the branches, their red tails bright flashes amidst the green and golden leaves. The boy stood still, as if enchanted. Light filtered through the foliage, casting soft beams onto his face and gilding his hair.

“Do you think they know I will be king?” Louis-Auguste suddenly asked, his gaze fixed on the squirrels.

The question caught Théodore off guard. He froze for a moment, then slowly shifted his gaze to the Dauphin. This child, surrounded by opulence, already understood that his life would be different from everyone else's.

“Perhaps not,” Théodore finally replied after a brief pause. His voice was quiet but steady. “Squirrels do not think about kings. They care about their own world—finding nuts and playing among the branches.”

Louis-Auguste turned to Théodore, his gaze serious, almost adult. For a moment, it seemed he was trying to unravel some deeper meaning in the count’s words.

“And will I be a good king?” the boy suddenly asked. His voice was pure, but it carried an unease that had no place in a child's heart.

Théodore took a step closer, lowering his gaze to the small figure who, strangely enough, commanded respect. What could he say? No one could predict what kind of ruler this boy would become, but one thing was clear: before him stood someone whose fate would shape a nation.

“You will be a king who does everything possible for his people,” Théodore finally said, carefully choosing his words. “That is what matters most.”

The Dauphin smiled, satisfied with the answer, and turned his attention back to the squirrels. His face once again lit up with the joy of childhood, and this transition from seriousness to play brought a smile to Théodore's face.

When the walk ended and they returned to the palace, Théodore could not shake a peculiar feeling. Meeting this boy had been more than a duty. It was a glimpse into the future. Louis-Auguste was still a child, but in his eyes burned the spark of destiny—a spark that could one day ignite into a flame capable of illuminating France or consuming it entirely.

As Théodore d'Alien watched the Dauphin walk away, he knew one thing: his role at court was changing. He was no longer just an observer but a participant in the events shaping the one who would one day be king. Grandeur and destruction already lived within the walls of Versailles, and the little prince stood at the center of this story.

Chapter Text

Sketch XV: “Shadows of the Seven Years’ War”

Versailles, 1756. Somewhere far beyond the grand gardens and towering walls of the palace, war raged. The Seven Years' War—a bloody conflict that had engulfed Europe like a giant web stretching from the Atlantic to Russia. It seemed distant, as if it belonged to another world, yet its echoes were creeping into every corner of France. Even in Versailles, the heart of luxury and splendor, tension lingered in the air. Whispers of defeats on battlefields mingled with the splashing of fountains, while anxiety, veiled behind the smiles of courtiers, reflected in the mirrors of the vast halls.

An autumn evening cast its crimson shroud over the palace. The scarlet sun sinking below the horizon left a bloody streak across the sky, hinting at events unfolding far away. Théodore d'Alien strode through the long corridors of Versailles, his soft footsteps echoing in the empty halls. A palpable unease filled the air. The palace's opulent decorations—gilded candelabras, parquet floors reflecting the shadows of dusk—seemed to lose their grandeur under the weight of the looming crisis.

Tonight, Théodore was heading to the office of Marshal Belle-Isle. The man was a key figure in France’s military strategy, and his office had long been a place where decisions that could shape the nation’s destiny were made. Théodore, who held a modest yet promising position at court, understood that every task related to the war carried more significance than mere formalities.

Stopping before the massive oak door adorned with intricate carvings, Théodore hesitated for a moment. Behind this door lay a map of Europe, crisscrossed with front lines, battle markers, and lists of casualties. This was where the future was decided, and every word spoken inside bore weight. Knocking, he heard the marshal's deep voice.

"Enter."

Théodore stepped inside. The air in the room was heavy, thick with the scent of paper, ink, and a faint trace of wax candles. The marshal’s office was austere: a massive dark oak desk cluttered with maps, scrolls, and metal rulers; shelves lined the walls, filled with ancient books whose leather spines had darkened with age. Tapestries depicting the triumphs of the French army hung on the walls, but today they seemed out of place—symbols of faded glory.

Marshal Belle-Isle stood by the desk, studying a map. He did not look like a man accustomed to victory. His shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of years and responsibility, and his face, lined with sharp wrinkles, showed his fatigue. His dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and his piercing eyes scanned the map as if searching for answers in its lines and dots.

“Monsieur d'Alien,” he said without looking up. “How are negotiations with our allies progressing?”

Théodore approached and bowed slightly before replying.
“Everything is proceeding as expected, Your Excellency. Austria continues to support us, though their interests often overshadow the common goal. As for the other allies, many are still waiting to see what Prussia will do.”

Belle-Isle sighed, running a hand over his face, which bore the weariness of a man used to carrying a heavy burden.
“Prussia…” he muttered, as if tasting the word. “Frederick the Great, that ‘soldier-king,’ moves too swiftly. He is clever, cunning, ruthless. And our allies…” He waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing away a thought. “They care more for their own borders than for the fate of France.”

The marshal turned to Théodore, his gaze heavy and penetrating. In his eyes, one could read not only the weight of the war but also his inner doubts.
“Tell me, Count,” he said after a pause, “this war… will it change France?”

The question caught Théodore off guard. He knew it was not mere curiosity. The marshal sought not comfort but truth. Théodore hesitated, sensing that his answer would hold significance.
“Every war changes a country,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully. “It changes not only its borders but the hearts of its people. Sometimes the changes lead to prosperity, sometimes to chaos. It all depends on how we face them.”

Belle-Isle allowed a faint smile, a shadow of approval flickering in his eyes.
“A wise answer. But I hope we can guide these changes in the right direction.”

When Théodore left the office, he stepped into the cool evening air. The sky had darkened, with only the crimson trace of the sunset lingering on the horizon. Inside the palace, the sounds of music and laughter from the courtiers still echoed, but to Théodore, this world felt fragile, like glass ready to shatter at the slightest misstep.

He walked into the gardens of Versailles, where the night’s chill already embraced the neatly trimmed hedges and marble statues. The fountains murmured their endless melodies, their reflections shimmering in the moonlight. Yet even here, amidst such beauty, the war felt close.

Théodore stopped by a fountain, gazing at its calm surface. Everything around him seemed still, but beneath the water’s surface, there was motion—a hidden unease.

He understood that France’s future hung by a thread. This war had already changed much, and its consequences would be felt by everyone—from the humblest peasant to the king himself. If France were to suffer defeat, it would not be merely a military blow. It would mark the collapse of the monarchy, the end of an era, and the beginning of something new, yet unknown.

Looking back at the majestic palace, its windows glowing gold in the dark night, Théodore felt the weight of the challenging times ahead. Versailles, like France itself, stood on the edge of a precipice, and every step, no matter how small, would determine which way they would fall.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch XVII: "Secrets of Mirrors"
Versailles, 1763

Summer breathed with oppressive heat, even in the palace's spacious corridors, where the coolness of marble walls couldn't mask the heavy humidity. The Seven Years' War had ended, leaving France in a state of exhausted tranquility. The Treaty of Paris brought temporary relief, but unease lingered at court, as if everyone knew this calm was merely the prelude to another storm. Louis XV, contemplative and reserved, sought to restore France's former glory, but the kingdom seemed like a cracked vase, held together by the fragile illusion of order.

Théodore d'Alien, a count of impeccable reputation, had long mastered the role of a shadow at court. His skill in remaining unnoticed, even amidst the heart of events, earned him respect from some and envy from others. He was trusted not for his nobility but for his usefulness. Théodore had learned to read the faces of courtiers like open books and to perceive their true intentions behind their words.

That evening, as the sun slowly set over the gardens of Versailles, bathing the palace in a rich golden light, a footman arrived with a message for Théodore. He had been summoned by the Marquise de Pompadour. Her name, spoken in whispers, was always accompanied by either respect or envious malice. A woman who had managed to maintain her influence at court for so long, despite the perilous waters of intrigue, always had a few aces up her sleeve.

The marquise’s cabinet was located in a distant wing of the palace, where even the faintest sound echoed loudly. Its walls were adorned with delicate tapestries depicting pastoral scenes: sheep, shepherds, and idyllic landscapes—a naive illusion that contrasted with the stark reality of this place. Mirrors in gilded frames reflected the light of numerous candles in candelabras, creating the effect of countless flickering flames, as if the marquise surrounded herself with stars.

Théodore entered the room with his usual calm and composure, his footsteps almost inaudible on the parquet floor. The marquise stood by the window, her silhouette sharply outlined by the rays of the setting sun. Her silk gown, in a soft ivory hue, enveloped her figure like a cloud tinged with fire.

"Count d'Alien," she said without turning, her voice soft and resonant, flowing through the air like fine cognac. "Tell me, what remains after great wars?"

Théodore stopped at a respectful distance and bowed. He knew conversations with her were never straightforward. Her questions were keys to puzzles, where every word held hidden meaning.

"Great wars, madame, leave great memories," he replied after a brief pause, gazing at her reflection in the mirror opposite. "But more often, they give birth to new battles."

The marquise turned. Her face, framed by curls, seemed both serene and stern. Her eyes—deep as the night sky—studied Théodore so intently that he felt she was reading his thoughts.

"After war, there always comes a time of reckoning," she said quietly, taking a step toward the mirror. "Do you know why I love mirrors, Count?"

Théodore remained silent, waiting for her explanation. She traced her fingers along the gilded frame, her movements elegant and deliberate.

"They show us what we try to hide. True faces, true intentions. Mirrors do not lie. Even when we turn away, they keep our reflections."

Théodore watched her closely, trying to discern her hidden meaning. Every word she spoke was laden with subtext, every intonation hinted at something deeper.

"In the coming weeks," she continued, her voice lowering, "you will see the shadows move. People we thought were allies may turn out to be traitors. And then you will realize this war has not ended. It has only shifted arenas."

She paused, stepping closer to him, her gaze now sharp as a blade.

"You must be cautious, Count. Remaining in the shadows is your art, but even shadows can betray. I cannot reveal everything, but… stay vigilant."

A chill ran down Théodore’s spine. Her words carried a truth that was both frightening and captivating. He understood this was not just a warning—it was a challenge.

"What must I do?" he asked, meeting her eyes intently.

The marquise stepped back, her face lighting with a faint smile, cold as an autumn breeze.

"Observe. Remain unseen. And when the time comes, make your move."

Her final words sounded like both a command and a riddle.

When Théodore left her chambers, he felt the tension mounting. The palace corridors were silent, yet in that silence, he discerned muffled footsteps and whispers—the ceaseless motion of the court, where intrigue thrived even at night.

Back in his room, he lit a candle and sat at his writing desk. His journal, always hidden from prying eyes, was his sole confidant. Yet just as he picked up his quill, there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" he asked, staring at the door with tension.

A figure in a dark cloak stood at the threshold, their face obscured by a hood.

"Count d'Alien," the person said in a hoarse voice, "I have a message."

Théodore fixed his gaze on the stranger, his focus sharpening on this enigmatic figure.

"A message? From whom?"

"From those who know more than you think."

These words sounded like the beginning of a new chapter. Théodore realized that the apparent calm was only a deceptive veil. The game was beginning anew.

Chapter Text

Sketch XVIII: "The Loss of Colonies"

Versailles, 1763.

The atmosphere in the palace was heavy, as though an invisible cloud of disappointment enveloped the walls adorned with luxury and grandeur. The air was thick with the scent of burning candles mingled with the perfumes that usually symbolized refinement but today seemed overpowering and intrusive. The gleam of gilding on the moldings and mirrors now appeared less a celebration of triumph and more a cold reminder of past glory.

France had lost its colonies in North America and India. The Treaty of Paris, signed in February, had formalized France’s defeat in the Seven Years’ War. Now all of Europe knew: the nation's power had faltered. Whispers of the once-great power's weakness echoed through the corridors of the palace, while court intriguers wove these rumors into their schemes.

Théodore d'Alien sat at his desk in a small room. He was surrounded by piles of papers, old maps, and his ever-present inkwell, its edges stained with dried black streaks. The dark oak tabletop bore deep scratches, as if it, too, had endured the struggles of its owner. In the corner stood his violin—a finely crafted gift from his father, made by an Italian master. Its varnish, once lustrous, had faded, and a layer of dust had settled on its strings, making the instrument seem as though it shared in his sorrows. Opposite the window hung a faded tapestry depicting heroic battles fought by French troops. In the flickering light of a dim candle, the scene appeared ghostly, like a memory of victories long past.

Théodore's thoughts wandered. Images of New France with its endless forests blanketed in snow and its icy rivers, where French forces had fought for every inch of land, filled his mind. He envisioned the forts built on the frontier of the wild and the colonists whose homes would now fall under the English flag. Tales of the rich sugar plantations in the West Indies came to mind—lands where the grueling labor of slaves had generated immense wealth, wealth that would now go to their enemies. Each loss felt like a blow, and the blows seemed to grow heavier by the day.

The court was gripped by unease. Louis XV, though striving to maintain a facade of composure, could not conceal his dissatisfaction. The loss of New France, fought for so fiercely by French troops, dealt a severe blow not only to military prestige but also to the economy. Revenues from fur, sugar, and spice trade had vanished, along with hopes for swift recovery. Wine merchants and traders who had supplied goods overseas were facing ruin, and discontent spread even among the nobles, accustomed to living off the bounties of colonial riches. This tense atmosphere seeped into every corner of Versailles, reflected in the furtive glances of courtiers, their subdued voices, and cautious movements.

As a trusted confidant of the king, Théodore felt the strain more keenly than most. His days were consumed by negotiations and discussions that rarely bore fruit. Behind closed doors at Versailles, heated debates unfolded. Some urged the pursuit of new allies, others spoke of the need for economic reforms, and still others demanded revenge. Yet every discussion ended in deadlock, and this helplessness weighed most heavily on Théodore. He felt like a musician handed a broken instrument and told to perform a symphony.

One morning, he was summoned to meet the king. Théodore hastened to the royal chambers, anxiety tightening in his chest. Along the way, he passed through long galleries, where marble statues of ancient gods and heroes, bathed in the cold light of the winter morning, gazed at him with indifferent eternity. Louis XV stood by the window, his back to the entering count. Weak light filtered through the glass, illuminating the gray winter beyond the palace walls. The king looked older than his years: deep lines etched his face, and his stooped shoulders seemed to carry the weight of defeat.

“Count d'Alien,” the king began, his voice hoarse yet firm, without turning. “You know what has happened. We have lost New France. The West Indies. Our overseas colonies—they were our pride, our wealth.”

Théodore stood still, his head bowed. He understood that the king was not seeking words from him but was struggling to find the right ones himself.

“Now England will rule those lands. They will reap the riches that should have been ours. This defeat…” The king fell silent, clenching his fist as though suppressing his anger. “But I cannot allow France to remain in this position. We must find a way to restore our greatness.”

Louis turned, and Théodore saw not only weariness in his eyes but also a spark of determination.

“I want you, Count, to assist me. We will need to act in secrecy. Seek out new allies, forge new trade routes, and strengthen ties with those who have not yet turned away from us. Diplomacy is now our only hope.”

Théodore nodded, masking his own doubts and fears behind a composed expression. He knew the king’s words were not merely an assignment but a plea. Louis still believed in the possibility of recovery, and it was Théodore’s task to set this fragile mechanism in motion.

“I am ready, Your Majesty,” he said, feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavily on his shoulders. “We will find a way.”

After the audience, Théodore returned to his room, his thoughts burdened. The war was over, but the battle for influence had just begun. He knew that every action, meeting, or letter from this point forward could prove decisive. The stakes were not just France's future but his own life as well.

He sat at his desk, unfolded a map, and gazed at the outlines of rivers and the contours of lost territories. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he murmured:
“A new era begins for France—an era of shadow trades, secret pacts, and delicate political maneuvers.”

The candle burned low, casting its final flickering shadows, as though warning him how little light remained in this fight.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch XX: "A Chance on a New Stage"

The death of Madame de Pompadour shook Versailles like a storm in a tranquil harbor. The loss of one of the court’s most influential figures triggered a chain reaction: the dissatisfied began to rearrange their plans, allies retreated into the shadows, and neutral courtiers doubled their caution, striving to predict which way the pendulum of power would swing. The faint whispers echoing through the galleries spoke of an era that had ended and a new one whose contours were still shrouded in mist.

Amid this chaos came news that caught Théodore d’Alienne off guard: the King had appointed him ambassador to Austria.

When he learned of his new post, his study was filled with the rustle of unfolding parchment. The fine vellum bearing France’s golden crest trembled in his hands. In the lines, carefully penned in ink, lay not just the monarch’s decree but also a subtle hint. Théodore instantly understood: this was either an opportunity or a trap.

His circle was less diplomatic. Rumors of exile spread faster than maids could sweep the corridors. Some courtiers offered restrained congratulations, but behind their polite smiles lurked malice and satisfaction. Others whispered of political banishment. Yet, as Théodore studied the map of Europe spread across his desk, he saw in this unexpected twist not a threat but a challenge.

His usually silent study came alive with sound: the rustle of maps, the scratch of a quill, the faint steps of servants bringing fresh documents. The fireplace crackled, casting long shadows on the walls adorned with tapestries. Above the mantel hung a painting of a naval battle, a reminder of France’s past victories. Théodore couldn’t help but reflect on how often triumphs turned to defeats with a single misstep.

At that moment, a knock came at the door. His loyal friend and advisor, Count Lamarque, entered with his usual deliberate gait, embodying a man accustomed to analyzing every detail.

“Well, exile-bound, are you ready for the Austrian chill?” Lamarque asked with a hint of irony as he settled into the armchair by the fire. His tall, slightly stooped figure seemed to sink into the plush upholstery.

Théodore didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he picked up the map and showed it to Lamarque. Red lines crisscrossed Europe, marking trade routes, political alliances, and potential threats.

“They think they’re sending me into exile,” he finally said, pointing to Vienna, “but in reality, they’ve handed me the key to a new game.”

Lamarque laughed, though a flicker of admiration passed through his eyes.
“Only you could find a key in the sound of a closing door,” he remarked. “But tell me, what do you plan to do? Austria is not Versailles. Our rules don’t apply there. You’ll have to start from scratch.”

Théodore gazed thoughtfully at the flames in the fireplace, as if seeking answers in their dance. He knew that Austria, despite the alliance, remained an enemy in the hearts of many. Viennese diplomacy was renowned for its cold-bloodedness and mastery of intrigue, while its courtiers were known for their caution and suspicion.

“I’ll start by sowing trust,” he said at last. “Vienna is a labyrinth, but every labyrinth has an exit. The key is knowing where to look.”

Later that evening, Théodore stepped onto the balcony. The winter air stung his face, and in the distance, beyond the fountains and alleys of Versailles, the lights of small villages flickered. He was about to leave this place, which for years had been his home and his battlefield. Yet, instead of bitterness, his heart held a strange mix of anticipation and resolve.

“Versailles is just one node in the web,” he thought, gazing at the horizon. “But the web stretches farther. Much farther.”

The next day, he watched as servants packed his belongings. Each trunk was a reminder of the past he was leaving behind: books, letters, small trinkets gifted by the King or friends. All of it was a part of his life but had now become a burden he was carrying into the unknown.

A carriage, drawn by a team of four horses, stood at the palace gates. Its gleaming windows reflected the columns of Versailles, as if reminding him of the grandeur he was leaving behind. Courtiers, hiding in the shadows, watched his departure. Some were already celebrating his downfall, but Théodore knew that true defeat came only when one stopped fighting.

As the carriage began to move, he looked back at the palace until its golden spires disappeared around the bend in the road. The cold morning light illuminated his face. This was not an end but a beginning. Snowy roads, Austrian palaces, new intrigues, and opportunities awaited him. Théodore knew: in every labyrinth, there is an exit, and he would find it.

Chapter Text

Sketch XXI: "In the Courtyard of Maria Theresa"

Vienna greeted Théodore d'Alien with a gray autumn sky, a cold wind, and drizzling rain that turned the streets into mirrored surfaces reflecting the heavy gray clouds. The city seemed austere, as though its stone facades stood frozen in an eternal confrontation with time itself. The shadows of Gothic church spires fell across the wet cobblestones, where passersby, wrapped in cloaks, hurried to escape the inclement weather.

Théodore’s carriage slowly approached the gates of the imperial palace, surrounded by massive stone walls crowned with baroque decorations. The enormous wrought-iron gates, adorned with the emblems of the Austrian Empire, seemed to separate the palace world from the rest of the city. Footmen in high collars and white gloves bowed reservedly, opening the gates for the distinguished guest.

Stepping out of the carriage, Théodore raised his eyes to the palace. Its architecture was breathtaking: columns adorned with figures of classical heroes towered above the entrance, as if reminding every visitor of the power of the Habsburgs. The windows reflected the gloomy sky, while flickering candlelights glimmered deep within. It was a symbol of might and wealth but also of stern grandeur.

Inside the palace, the air was filled with the scent of wax candles, polished wood, and faint hints of incense wafting from massive candelabras. The corridors were lined with marble, their vaulted ceilings adorned with delicate gilding and frescoes depicting scenes of mythological triumphs. A soft murmur of courtiers, drifting from distant rooms, seemed to be part of the daily ritual unfolding in this space.

Théodore was led to the reception hall, where a particular solemnity reigned. The space was strikingly grand: the walls were covered with tapestries depicting the victories of the Austrian army, and the ceiling featured an enormous painting with allegories of peace and justice. At the center of the hall stood the throne, occupied by Maria Theresa.

The empress was the embodiment of power. Her figure, framed by a heavy silk gown embroidered with silver, gave the impression of an unmovable rock. Her face, with sharp features and deep lines around the eyes, spoke of decades of rule, marked by both triumphs and tragedies. Maria Theresa's eyes were cold and scrutinizing, as though attempting to dissect Théodore before rendering a verdict.

Théodore bowed deeply, inclining his head slightly, and said:
"Your Majesty, it is a great honor for me to be here, representing the interests of the King of France."

His voice was firm and confident, without excessive pomp. He understood that the empress valued substance over flattery.

"Monsieur d'Alien," she began, her voice low and slightly husky, each word slicing through the air like a blade. "France has chosen a man with an interesting reputation for this mission. Tell me, what brings you here?"

After a deliberate pause, Théodore raised his head and met her gaze directly. His gray-blue eyes locked with hers in a silent duel; he felt her power but refused to waver.

"Your Majesty," he said, his tone softening, "I have come to build bridges between our great nations. Our peoples are connected by much, but even more can unite us if we overcome distrust."

Her lips barely twitched, hinting at a smile, but her gaze remained inscrutable.

"Alliances are often built on distrust, Monsieur d'Alien. France seeks advantage. And you? What is it that you seek?"

The question was both a challenge and a test. Théodore responded with a slight smile:
"I seek opportunities, Your Majesty. And I believe that great opportunities arise when people are willing to listen to one another."

Her gaze grew slightly softer, though it still held an icy sharpness. She nodded almost imperceptibly, as if acknowledging that his answer was worthy of further engagement.

"Very well, Monsieur d'Alien," she said, signaling to the courtiers to proceed. "We shall see if you can turn your words into actions."

As Théodore left the hall, he caught the whispers of courtiers. They watched his every move intently, studying the new guest and trying to discern what role he might play in their world.

He paused by a large window overlooking the inner courtyard, where ravens circled in the gray sky. His expression was focused, and his lips curled into a faint smirk.

"This game has only just begun," he thought. "But I know how to play it."

In the distance, among the bustling corridors and heavy doors, the sound of trumpets announced a new reception. The entire court, like a great mechanism, continued its life, but Théodore felt that he was now a part of it.

Chapter Text

Sketch XXII: "The Intriguing Reputation of Count d'Alien"

In the quiet halls of the Viennese palace, the name of Théodore d'Alien had long been the subject of whispers and intrigue. The renowned French ambassador, the enigmatic count who had arrived at the court of Maria Theresa, captivated attention from the very moment he appeared—like a magnet drawing iron. His manners were impeccable, as smooth as silk stretched to flawless perfection; his words, sharp and precise like the finest blade; and his voice, soft and enveloping, sounded as though each note had been meticulously calculated in advance. There was nothing accidental in his behavior—every gesture, every smile, even his silences, seemed honed by years of careful practice. This man was an architect of his own image, and the courtiers felt it.

The grand marble columns, the high ceilings adorned with exquisite frescoes, and the heavy velvet draperies of the palace only amplified his presence. When Théodore entered a hall, time seemed to pause for a moment. All eyes turned to him, even when he said nothing. His bearing alone—his upright posture, the slight tilt of his head in greeting—spoke more eloquently than the long-winded speeches of most courtiers. Some admired him, others envied him, and still others harbored suspicions—suspicions that lingered in the air, turning into quiet, barely audible whispers behind his back.

Debates over who Théodore truly was never ceased, though every attempt to shed light on his identity only deepened his mystery. Some claimed he was a shadowy figure, a master of intrigue, inseparably tied to Louis XV. Rumors held that d'Alien never took a single step without clear instructions from Versailles, that each of his visits and every conversation were part of a grand design orchestrated by the French court. Others saw in him a brilliant diplomat, a man whose personal qualities and talents had led him to triumph where others had failed. But all agreed on one thing: this man was no mere observer. He knew too much, and his knowledge made him dangerous.

Particularly tantalizing were the rumors of his mysterious journeys to distant eastern lands. Some insisted he had spent long months in Persian palaces; others swore they had seen him in the ports of India, while still others claimed he had traveled with caravans crossing the lifeless deserts of Arabia. They said he had studied unknown sciences there, mastered languages most Europeans had never even heard of, and returned with knowledge capable of upending the established order. But these were only rumors, nothing more. No witness could ever prove that they truly knew what Count d'Alien had been doing on his enigmatic travels.

What truly unsettled Maria Theresa’s court, however, was his purpose. His arrival in Austria could not have been mere coincidence. This man was too skilled, too experienced to be limited to carrying out routine diplomatic assignments. Even the Empress herself, known for her perceptiveness and caution, had allowed him into her court. This meant she saw something in him that others did not—and that something made her trust him, at least to some extent. Yet such trust, like a cold blade, could turn in any direction.

On one of those long winter nights, when the marble halls of the palace were illuminated only by the soft glow of candles and the reflections of crystal chandeliers, the courtiers had not yet retired to their chambers after a grand reception. In one of the intimate salons, where a massive painting of a hunting scene hung above the fireplace, Count von Westenberg idly turned a glass of deep ruby-red wine in his hands. His brows were slightly furrowed, and his face bore an expression of intense thought. Slowly, he turned to his companion, Baroness von Rhein, whose delicate figure, clad in a silver-blue gown, stood out gracefully against the heavy furniture.

"This Frenchman… Théodore d'Alien… raises too many questions," he began, barely paying attention to the fact that the baroness was occupied with admiring her intricately painted fan. "Have you noticed how he responds? It feels as though he knows what you are about to ask before you even open your mouth."

The baroness lifted her gaze, a hint of playful mischief in her eyes, and laughed softly, barely touching the rim of her glass to her lips.
"Or perhaps he does not answer at all? Maybe he evades questions so gracefully that you believe you've heard exactly what you wanted to hear."

Von Westenberg frowned. There was a grain of truth in her words, and that only irritated him more. He set his glass down on the marble table and, shifting his chair slightly closer to the baroness, spoke with emphasis:
"That only makes him even more dangerous. They say he is not only tied to the French aristocracy. His name has been mentioned among merchants from the East. Who knows what connections and agreements he forged during his travels? Perhaps he has his own agenda here."

The baroness raised a delicate eyebrow and ran her fingers thoughtfully along the handle of her fan.
"You mean to say he is playing a double game?" Her voice was soft, yet there was a barely perceptible tension in it.

"I am merely suggesting that we remain vigilant," von Westenberg replied. "If this man truly has his own ambitions, he should not remain at the palace."

The baroness smiled, but a cold glint flickered in her eyes. She knew all too well that true danger rarely came from those who were suspected. More often, it lurked behind the most innocent faces—and perhaps, that was what she was trying to convey to her companion.

Meanwhile, Théodore d'Alien was in his spacious chambers. The fire in the hearth burned steadily, reflecting in copper candelabras and the golden patterns of the furniture. The dimly lit room was filled with warmth, and the air seemed motionless, as if time itself had stopped here. Théodore fastened the buttons of his coat, polished to a gleaming perfection. The mirror before him reflected his image: sharp features, a cold, observant gaze, and a faint half-smile that seemed like a mask concealing his true thoughts.

He knew what they said about him. He heard the whispers behind his back, knew of the suspicions that surrounded him, but rather than fear, they gave him a quiet satisfaction. Like a web, these rumors wrapped around his figure, making him even more enigmatic. And that was precisely what he intended. Every whisper, every suspicion was his invisible ally—a weapon he wielded skillfully. Let the courtiers puzzle over his secrets. While they were preoccupied with that, he was quietly strengthening his position.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A servant entered, bowing deeply, and announced that the Empress was expecting him. Théodore ran a hand over his impeccably arranged hair, glanced once more at his reflection, and inclined his head slightly, as if greeting himself. A barely perceptible smile touched his lips.

"Let them think they are playing a game with me," he murmured. "In truth, I am the one arranging the pieces on the board."

Adjusting his cuffs, smoothing his coat, he strode toward the exit. The fire behind him continued to burn, casting shadows that seemed to watch him, following his every step.

Chapter Text

Sketch XXIII: "Meeting Maria Antonia"

The Viennese court was strikingly different from what Théodore d'Alien had left behind in France. In Versailles, life surged like a furious waterfall—endless feasts, dancing until dawn, looseness of morals, and the glitter of gold filled each day. Here, in the capital of the Habsburg Empire, everything seemed more austere, orderly, and almost cold. Discipline, religiosity, and strict etiquette seemed to permeate the very air of the palace. Even the palace halls, adorned with heavy velvet curtains and ancient tapestries, exuded restraint.

Even at balls, where the Viennese nobility gathered, the atmosphere was different. French balls were a storm—bright, lively, filled with music, laughter, and, at times, daring conversations. Here, the orchestra played only within the bounds of strict classical music, and dancing couples moved with prim grace, never for a moment forgetting decorum. Laughter was rare here, and even when someone allowed themselves a smile, it was done cautiously, as if too much emotion might disrupt the order.

For Théodore, raised among the luxury and freedoms of Versailles, it took very little time to realize that his usual manners and style of communication were not only unacceptable here but could be perceived as a challenge. Maria Theresa, the formidable and authoritative matron, known for her piety and strict moral values, was far from the kind of figure one could win over with charm or eloquence. Her court resembled a mechanism with countless gears—each part had its place, and any misstep could lead to collapse.

The watchful eyes of courtiers, following his every move, only reinforced this feeling. Théodore felt constantly observed. His behavior, manners, even his facial expressions were carefully analyzed by those around him. Like predatory birds, these people sought any excuse for gossip, be it an unfortunate word or an inappropriate gesture. He knew that in such a society, survival was not enough—one had to earn trust. That was why Théodore spent hours studying Viennese etiquette, memorizing the smallest nuances: how to bow properly, how to address seniors by title, what topics to avoid in conversation.

His presence here was dictated not only by diplomatic duties but also by Maria Theresa’s personal decision. She saw an alliance with France as the key to strengthening her empire. Special attention was given to her youngest daughter, Archduchess Maria Antonia. She was only thirteen, yet her entire life had already been meticulously planned. The young girl was being prepared for her role as the wife of the French dauphin, the future King Louis XVI.

One evening, as the sun had already set beyond the horizon and the palace was illuminated by the soft glow of candles and crystal chandeliers, Théodore strolled through the galleries. His footsteps echoed beneath the high arches, but he relished the solitude. Suddenly, his gaze landed on a figure in the distant corner. It was Maria Antonia. She sat on a carved bench, slightly turned toward the window, a book in her hands. The light from a nearby candelabrum cast a glow on her face, highlighting her delicate features—a high forehead, a slender nose, and slightly upturned lips that gave her expression a touch of lightness.

Her large blue eyes moved across the pages of the book, revealing her deep engagement in reading. Her posture was relaxed, almost childlike—her legs slightly tucked in, hands casually holding the book. Yet, even in this solitude, there was something regal about her, an almost imperceptible posture of a princess who never lost awareness of her status.

Théodore paused for a moment, admiring this contrast. Her serenity seemed to dissolve the heavy, solemn atmosphere of the palace. He stepped closer, slowing his pace, and, stopping a few steps away, bowed slightly.

— Your Highness, I hope I am not disturbing you, — he said, trying to keep his voice soft.

The girl lifted her gaze from the book. A flicker of curiosity appeared in her eyes, then a faint smile touched her lips.

— You are not disturbing me, — she said, closing the book and placing it beside her. — You must be the French envoy? People here speak of you quite often.

Her voice was clear, yet carried a youthful openness, lacking the affected seriousness she had likely not yet learned to adopt.

— The French envoy? That sounds far too grand, Your Highness, — Théodore replied with a slight smile. — I am merely a servant of my country and, I hope, at your service should you need anything.

Maria Antonia laughed, her laughter ringing melodiously through the gallery. She stood, slightly lifting the heavy folds of her dress, and stepped closer.

— France, — she murmured, as if savoring the word. — They tell me it is nothing like here. That your court is all joy, dancing, and luxury. Is that true?

Théodore hesitated for a moment, considering how best to answer. He did not want to shatter her illusions, but lying would also be wrong.

— France is famous for its merriment, — he said, looking into her eyes, — but it is not so simple. Beneath the joy lies a web of intrigues that often make court life difficult.

Her face grew serious, as if she were trying to grasp the meaning of his words.

— Intrigues… — she repeated quietly, as if tasting the word. — I suppose I will have to learn how to handle them.

Théodore studied her carefully. There was still naive curiosity in her words, but her gaze revealed something more. He saw before him not just a girl, but a future queen, whose fate was already beginning to take shape.

— France will welcome you with honor, — he said at last, his voice more solemn. — You will bring light and warmth there. I am certain you will overcome any difficulties.

Maria Antonia lowered her gaze, her hands absentmindedly adjusting the folds of her gown. She looked pensive, as if trying to picture the distant land where she would one day live.

— You know, sometimes I think I will miss home, — she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

A pang of sympathy struck Théodore. Her words reminded him of how young and fragile she was. Yet, at the same time, he saw in her a glimmer of strength she might not yet recognize.

— Your Highness, — he said softly, — wherever fate takes you, you will always remain yourself. That is your strength. Do not forget it.

She lifted her eyes to him, and a faint smile touched her lips. For a moment, silence hung between them, filled with something unspoken yet understood by both. Then Maria Antonia returned to her book, and Théodore, bowing, slowly walked further down the gallery.

He knew she had a long road ahead—one of both glory and tragedy. And the weight of that knowledge made his steps feel heavier. Her journey had already begun, though she did not yet realize it.

Chapter Text

Sketch XXIV: "Theodore and Diplomatic Intrigues"

After several months at the Austrian court, Théodore d'Alien began to notice subtle changes in the way people treated him. At first, the French count was met with caution, as if he were an outsider from a country whose reputation was tainted by luxury and moral excesses. The Austrian nobility, strictly adhering to religious and ethical norms, regarded him as a potential threat to the traditions of their court. However, Théodore had a talent for patiently and consistently earning trust. His manners, refined speech, and ability to listen gradually broke down barriers, while his deep knowledge of diplomacy won the respect of even the most critical aristocrats.

A significant milestone in his diplomatic career came when he was invited to dine with Maria Theresa herself. This was a crucial moment that could change everything. Théodore knew that the empress’s invitation was not only a sign of trust but also a test. The banquet hall was the epitome of opulence. The high vaulted ceiling was adorned with frescoes depicting mythological scenes, each detail rendered with astonishing craftsmanship. Crystal chandeliers glowed with hundreds of lights, casting a soft radiance on the marble floors and gilded wall ornaments. The enormous table was set with exquisite fine porcelain, and at its center stood an arrangement of fresh flowers, exuding the delicate fragrance of roses and lilies.

When Théodore entered the hall, his presence immediately drew attention. The men observed his every move, evaluating his confidence and demeanor, while the ladies cast discreet glances, noting his elegant posture and impeccable attire. His powdered wig was styled according to the latest fashion, his dark blue velvet coat was embroidered with silver, and the golden buttons and gracefully tied silk cravat completed the image of a true courtier.

At the head of the table sat Maria Theresa. Her figure, austere and majestic, commanded respect. Her face, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight, reflected wisdom and keen perception. Every gesture she made, from the subtle movement of her hand to the way she attentively listened to her guests, revealed her exceptional intellect and experience.

As the dinner commenced, Maria Theresa did not rush to engage Théodore in conversation. She allowed her guests to chat freely, discussing various topics in a relaxed manner. But Théodore knew this was merely a prelude. The empress was watching him, studying his reactions, his manners, and his ability to sustain a conversation.

At last, she turned to him. Her voice was soft yet firm, carrying an undertone of command.

— Monsieur d'Alien, — she began, fixing him with a penetrating gaze, — what are your thoughts on the latest news from Paris? Our relations with your king seem… strained.

The question was posed without emotion, yet it held a challenge. Théodore understood perfectly: his words would be carefully weighed and analyzed. He slowly raised his wine glass, took a small sip, savoring the tart notes of red berries and the subtle oak undertone. This brief pause gave him a moment to gather his thoughts.

— Your Majesty, — he began with a slight bow, — you are right; the situation indeed requires a delicate approach. However, I believe that France and Austria can find common ground. Your decision to unite our nations through the marriage of Archduchess Maria Antonia and the Dauphin of France is a wise and far-sighted move. This union will not merely be a political agreement but a symbol of a new era of cooperation.

The empress slightly inclined her head, listening intently. A glimmer of interest appeared in her eyes, though her expression remained stern.

— And how do you assess the Dauphin himself? — she asked after a brief pause, her gaze sharp, as if she were trying to see into his soul. — You have met him, have you not?

Théodore gave a barely perceptible nod. He recalled the young Louis, shy and sometimes awkward, yet kind-hearted.

— The Dauphin is still young, Your Majesty, — he replied carefully, choosing his words with precision, — but I see in him the potential to become a great ruler. He has a good heart and a rare sense of justice. If he is surrounded by wise mentors and allies, he will be a strong pillar for France.

Maria Theresa pondered his words. Her gaze softened slightly, though a shadow of doubt lingered.

— Let us hope you are right, Count, — she finally said, her voice gentler. — But remember, royal marriages do not always lead to happiness. Intrigues can destroy even the strongest unions.

Théodore felt the weight of her words. He understood their significance all too well. Every court was rife with intrigue, and a single misstep could have dire consequences.

After the dinner, he returned to his chambers. The room was silent, illuminated only by the flickering candlelight. He approached the window and drew back the heavy curtains. The night was clear, and the moonlight bathed the streets of Vienna in a silvery glow. The city slept, yet Théodore could sense the invisible threads of political intrigues being woven around him.

He stood by the window for a long time, gazing at the nocturnal landscape. Much lay ahead of him. The political games that had begun with his arrival were only gaining momentum. But his primary concern remained the fate of young Maria Antonia. Her marriage to the Dauphin was meant to be a bridge between two great powers, yet Théodore knew that every step on that bridge would be a test.

Tomorrow would bring new negotiations, new smiles, and new traps. But for this moment, he allowed himself a brief respite, watching as the moonlight illuminated the rooftops of Vienna, behind whose windows secrets lurked—secrets capable of altering the course of history.

Chapter Text

Sketch XXV: "The Unmarried Envoy"

At one of the grand receptions held at the Viennese court, Théodore d'Alien once again found himself the center of attention. The morning of that day gave no hint of change. The rays of the spring sun gently filtered through the immense stained-glass windows, filling the hall with playful reflections that danced across the golden patterns on the walls and the dark lacquered floors. The air was infused with the light scent of rosewater, mingled with delicate notes of sandalwood—the fragrance of the candles burning in the massive candelabras at the corners of the hall. The gilding on the inlaid walls shimmered as if an invisible hand were brushing them with light, leaving behind a luminous trace. The subdued murmur of courtiers' voices filled the space like an ocean of melodies, while the measured steps of chamberlains, overlapped by the clinking of crystal and the laughter of ladies, created the rhythm of this refined chaos.

Théodore, as usual, kept his distance from the lively crowd. His austere black coat, embroidered with silver, and impeccably tied cravat contrasted with the bright attire of the courtiers. There was a reserved elegance in his appearance, emphasizing his status. He was an observer, analyzing every movement and every intonation. His gaze glided over faces, noting subtle details—a minister’s nervous gesture, a lady’s overly loud laughter, the barely perceptible exchange of glances between two conspirators. But this day was destined to be different. When the commanding gaze of Empress Maria Theresa rested on him, he felt that the forthcoming conversation would be more than just polite courtly discourse.

“Count d'Alien,” she said, summoning him with a gesture that could not be ignored. Her lace-trimmed hand moved slightly, like a white petal caught in the wind. “Come closer.”

Théodore, carefully considering every movement, approached and bowed his head. At first, her voice sounded soft, but beneath it lay an unmistakable sharpness. Maria Theresa never asked questions without purpose—each one was a calculated move in a grander game.

“You have been at my court for quite some time,” the empress continued, scrutinizing his face with keen interest. Her eyes, sparkling like diamonds, seemed to penetrate into the depths of his soul. “And yet, as far as I recall, you have not yet bound yourself in marriage. Is that correct?”

Her eyes gleamed as if she already knew the answer. It was a question Théodore was unprepared for—he had expected discussions of politics, not inquiries into his personal affairs.

“You are right, Your Majesty,” he replied, forcing a polite smile. His expression was composed, yet slightly strained. “My heart belongs solely to my duty—to the king and to our shared cause.”

Maria Theresa narrowed her eyes slightly, as if trying to discern whether he was telling the truth. A faint smile touched her lips, though it suggested that she suspected otherwise. Clad in a voluminous gown of silver brocade, she appeared almost monumental, yet her manner remained one of refined grace.

“Ah, duty...” she mused with a hint of amusement. “But every man needs a companion in life, especially one such as yourself—so talented and, as I have been told, musically gifted.”

The mention of music made Théodore tense. His passion for it was a closely guarded secret. Since childhood, he had found solace in playing the piano and composing melodies, but he never displayed this openly. In a world governed by politics, music could be seen as a weakness.

“Music is but one of my humble pastimes, Your Majesty,” he said with a slight bow, striving to maintain his composure. “I have always regarded it as an expression of the soul, nothing more.”

The empress continued to study him, as though reading his very thoughts. Her smile widened slightly, and she spoke with a knowing playfulness in her voice:

“You know, Count, my court has become far more musical since your arrival. My daughter, Archduchess Maria Antonia, seems to share your enthusiasm. Her young heart is deeply inspired by music... and perhaps by those who create it.”

Théodore’s heart clenched. He had already noticed the archduchess’s keen attention. Her gaze, innocent and full of admiration, unsettled him. He knew her affection was sincere, but its consequences could be dangerous.

“Archduchess Antonia is the true gem of your court,” he replied carefully, choosing his words with precision. “However, my position demands restraint.”

Maria Theresa tilted her head slightly, studying his reaction. Her eyes gleamed, and despite her smile, a tension hung in the air.

“Ah, Count, you are too strict with yourself. Even a diplomat has the right to happiness, does he not?” She paused, letting her words sink in. “I see how she looks at you. Her feelings are pure, but she is young and impressionable. However... such matters should not be taken lightly. Political alliances are a delicate game, but what of personal ones?”

Théodore felt his thoughts entangle. The empress’s words struck a nerve. Was she warning him or making an offer? Her phrasing left room for interpretation.

“I have always acted as duty dictates,” he said quietly, masking his uncertainty. “But your words give me much to consider.”

Maria Theresa’s smile deepened, as if satisfied with his reaction. There was a quiet triumph in her demeanor, as though she had just placed another piece on the chessboard.

“I believe, Count, that we will have much more to discuss in the future. After all, the Viennese court is not solely my daughter. There are other distinguished ladies here as well,” she added with a touch of irony. Then, shifting her tone, she continued, “Now, we must turn to the upcoming negotiations with the French king.”

Théodore bowed and, feeling a weight settle upon his shoulders, made his way toward the exit. His footsteps echoed through the hall, while the empress’s words still rang in his mind. He knew that a treacherous game lay ahead, where any misstep could prove fatal. Politics, music, emotions—all had become entwined in a single maelstrom. The space around him seemed to tighten, and he could feel the silent scrutiny of the courtiers following his every move, filling the air with unspoken questions.

At the heart of it all stood him. One day, he would have to choose—whether to yield to duty or allow his heart to emerge from the shadows. But for now, there was only one path—to keep playing the game.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch XXVII: "The Count’s Marriage"

Count Théodore d’Alien, a renowned diplomat and the French ambassador at the Austrian court, stood before a tall mirror in his chambers, carefully examining his own reflection. The candlelight flickered across the dark expanse of the marble floor, casting golden glimmers on the ornate patterns of the walls and the numerous mirrors surrounding him, reflecting his image from all sides. It seemed as if there were not one but dozens of identical incarnations of the nobleman in the room.

His snow-white wig was impeccably styled, each curled lock arranged as if by the hands of the gods themselves. A majestic coat, embroidered with delicate silver thread, hugged his figure, emphasizing his slender frame. Satin cuffs cascaded over his hands, partially hiding his elegant fingers. Every seam, every button—everything was flawless. Count d’Alien carried the subtle scent of musk, lavender, and a faint bitterness of citrus—a fragrance chosen not merely as a symbol of status but as a reminder to himself that he must always embody his position.

He stood upright, impeccably composed, as befitted an aristocrat, yet behind this perfect mask lay something more. He was not human. He was an elf.

Outside the windows, the muffled sounds of music mingled with occasional bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses. The celebration in his honor continued, yet he felt distant from it, as if he no longer belonged to this world. Today, he had entered into marriage with Marguerite von Wilsdorf, a virtuous, refined, and beautiful woman. It was a union blessed by none other than Maria Theresa herself—advantageous and solid, yet...

Yet it was not real.

Maglor knew this marriage was merely another thread in the intricate web of mortal fates, another link in the chain of his endless existence. He ran his hand across the smooth surface of the table, feeling the coldness of the marble beneath his fingertips. Marguerite, his new wife, slept peacefully in their bed, her dark hair spilling over silk pillows, her breathing even and quiet. She did not know that her husband was one who had witnessed the birth of worlds and the fall of kingdoms, who had endured wars and losses, who had lived so long that he had stopped counting his years.

Her life would pass like the flicker of a candle, illuminating his existence for but a moment before extinguishing, leaving him once again alone. He had seen it happen countless times. Friends, companions, allies—all came and went, while he remained.

He looked down at his hands. Immaculately kept, with slender, elongated fingers—no wrinkles, no traces of time. In this world of mortals, his body remained unchanged. His form could shift, but his essence remained the same.

How long could he continue this masquerade?

But he knew the answer.

As long as necessary.

The next morning, a footman entered his chambers, carrying a letter sealed with Maria Theresa’s insignia. The scent of wax and parchment mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, which stood on the table beside delicate silverware. He broke the seal and quickly scanned the text.

He was summoned to court.

Maria Theresa sat at a massive oak desk, her fingers idly tapping against the surface, which was covered with a flurry of letters and reports. The room was bathed in the morning light piercing through the heavy curtains. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden reflections onto her dark blue silk gown.

“Count d’Alien,” her voice was even yet commanding. “You have rendered invaluable service at court.”

Maglor inclined his head in a courteous bow.

“You flatter me, Your Majesty.”

The Empress tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp and discerning.

“You now have a new task before you. Archduchess Maria Antonia requires tutors. She is still young, but her fate is already sealed. She will become the Queen of France.”

Maglor involuntarily held his breath.

“And I want you to be among those who prepare her,” she continued.

He felt something tighten inside him.

A girl who had yet to learn that her life no longer belonged to her. An heiress whose path had already been written by others. How long could he conceal his true nature beside a being so pure and innocent?

But he had no choice.

Maria Antonia met him in one of the palace halls. Sunlight streamed gently onto the floor, reflecting off marble columns. The girl sat surrounded by books and delicately embroidered cushions, her white dress adorned with silver patterns.

She lifted her gaze.

“Count d’Alien?”

Her voice was light and clear.

He bowed.

“Your Highness.”

She studied him intently, and in her eyes, he saw something he had not expected.

“You are not like the others.”

He hesitated, only for an instant.

“What do you mean?”

The girl frowned slightly, as if searching for the right words.

“They are all... ordinary. But you are not. There is something... different about you.”

Maglor felt a strange sensation unfurl within him.

She was just a child, yet she instinctively perceived what adults failed to see.

“Perhaps it is because I have seen much,” he replied gently.

She smiled.

“Then tell me about it.”

In that moment, he understood: this child would change him far more than he could ever change her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch XXIX: "Duty and Happiness"

Count Théodore d'Alien, despite long years of service and the weight of diplomatic responsibilities, never lost his nature that yearned for harmony. His gaze often held a certain pensiveness, as if he heard echoes of other eras, yet those around him saw only a reserved and elegant aristocrat—a man of duty and honor. His appointment as France’s ambassador to Austria marked another twist of fate, leading him onto yet another political chessboard. In this art, he was a master beyond compare: his words were precise, his manners impeccable, and his smile—a weapon as deadly as a blade.

And it was there, among the gilded halls of the Viennese court, amidst the hushed conversations laden with hidden meaning, that he met Marguerite von Wilsdorf—a woman whose presence was unexpected yet inevitable. She was the daughter of an ancient lineage known for its loyalty to the Habsburgs, accustomed to attention and admiration. She was tall for a woman, yet her stride was light, her gaze sharp and mocking. Unlike many ladies at court, she did not seek to enchant him, nor did she attempt to flatter. Perhaps it was this very quality that drew Théodore to her—her quiet dignity, the invisible armor that concealed both intellect and caution.

Their union was blessed by Empress Maria Theresa herself, and many considered it part of a complex diplomatic game, advantageous to both nations. Yet, for Théodore, it became something far greater than a successful marriage. Having lived through so many lives, having seen so many people, he rarely encountered those who could truly reach into his thoughts. But Marguerite possessed a quiet perceptiveness that allowed her to refrain from asking unnecessary questions, from demanding answers he could not give.

In the early years of their marriage, he watched her as one observes a mystery, not rushing to unravel it. He saw her in various roles: at receptions, where her smile was barely perceptible yet flawless; in quiet evenings, when she brushed her thick dark hair by the fireplace, and the silence between them became warm, enveloping. He noticed how she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching—with a hint of concern, as if sensing something she could not put into words.

The days spent at their cozy estate on the outskirts of Vienna filled him with a sense of true happiness. They walked along shaded alleys, discussed music and literature, laughed at the absurdities of court life. In the garden of their estate grew ancient linden trees, under which Marguerite loved to sit with a book. The wind played with her hair, and in such moments, she seemed to Théodore an inseparable part of that landscape—unchanging, eternal. But he knew it was an illusion.

In the evenings, she would sit across from him at the chessboard, and their match would turn into a silent dance of minds. He loved to watch her squint slightly in thought, her slender fingers brushing against the pieces. In those moments, he forgot everything—the past, filled with loss, and the future, which would inevitably take her away.

Yet Théodore’s happiness was tinged with unease, a shadow that never fully disappeared. He had been granted eternity, and he knew that eternity could not hold Marguerite. He saw how time, gentle yet relentless, touched her face. The first fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint silver in her once midnight-black hair—these were not merely signs of age to him, but harbingers of an impending farewell. Sometimes, in moments of solitude, he allowed himself to close his eyes and remember her as he had first met her—young, laughing, with crimson lips and a radiant gaze. But the moment he opened them, he saw a woman still beautiful, yet now bearing the mark of time.

Marguerite, despite the inevitable changes, remained a devoted companion. She embraced the role of a diplomat’s wife with grace, skillfully navigating the intricate web of court politics, never asking about matters that did not concern her, yet always ready to listen and offer support. At times, she felt that Théodore carried within him some great secret, but she never tried to uncover it. Perhaps it was wisdom, or perhaps fear—the fear of learning something that should never be spoken aloud.

And yet, at times, he caught glimpses of worry in her eyes. On those nights when he returned home late without explaining where he had been, in those moments when his gaze became distant, as if looking not at her but through centuries. She never asked, but a strange feeling grew within her—as if the man she loved was something more than just a man.

At night, when the Viennese court lay in slumber, their home became a quiet island amidst the stormy sea of international politics. In those hours, Théodore allowed himself a weakness—to sit with her by the fireplace, hold her hand, listen to her voice. He knew he had to be strong, that he could not let feelings cloud his judgment. But when she touched his face, looked into his eyes, for a moment, he forgot his duty to history, to eternity.

Yet time passed, and each year they spent together became a treasure he could never truly keep. Théodore knew their journey would be brief. He could not change that, could not halt the march of time. All he could do was cherish each day, each moment, each breath she took.

And when she was gone, he would keep her image in his memory, like something meant to vanish yet remaining with him forever. He knew he would remember her even centuries later.

Perhaps one day, standing in his study, he would once again see the sunset over Vienna, hear the wind rustling through the linden trees, and realize that those days spent with her had been the most real of his endless life.

Chapter Text

Sketch XXX: "Lessons in Courtly Wisdom"

Count Théodore d’Alien stood by the grand windows of the Viennese palace, watching as Archduchess Maria Antonia played in the gardens below, among the manicured alleys and lush flower beds. Her silvery laughter echoed through the garden, light and ringing, like the rippling of a brook. The young girl twirled in dance, lifting the skirts of her brocade gown, while her ladies-in-waiting followed suit, laughing and exchanging playful glances. In that moment, she was neither an heir nor the betrothed of the Dauphin—just a young girl, lost in her world of music, dance, and carefree joy.

Théodore d’Alien sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. He knew her future would be vastly different. Versailles had no tolerance for innocence—there, every smile concealed an intention, every movement was part of an intricate game. That world demanded not just beauty, but cunning, calculation, and the skill of an actress. And he was the one who had to prepare her.

Turning away, the count made his way toward the study room. His footsteps echoed dully on the polished marble floor, the gilded candelabras mounted on the walls swayed slightly in the faint draft, and from somewhere deep within the palace, the distant strains of violins could be heard—someone was rehearsing for the evening concert.

When he entered, Maria Antonia was already seated at the harpsichord. Her long, slender fingers moved leisurely over the keys, producing a light, faintly teasing melody. She did not turn, but from the way she held herself and the slight tilt of her chin, Théodore could tell—she was not in a compliant mood.

"Today, mademoiselle," he began in an even, calm voice, "we shall discuss the finer nuances of conduct at the French court."

Maria Antonia’s fingers glided over the keys, producing a playful flourish. She let out a quiet huff.

"I already know what awaits me there," she muttered. "They don’t want me. They want an image, an ornament for Versailles. A French doll."

Théodore stepped closer and took a seat across from her.

"You are to become more than just an ornament," he said. "You are to become a symbol."

At last, she lifted her gaze from the harpsichord to look at him. Defiance flashed in her eyes.

"And why should I seek their approval? I am Austrian."

He held her gaze steadily.

"Because they will judge you. Not for who you are, but for how they perceive you."

Maria Antonia frowned, then abruptly turned away and placed her hands on the keys again.

"The alliance between Austria and France…" Théodore continued, watching her fingers tremble slightly, betraying her inner turmoil. "This is not merely a political arrangement, mademoiselle. It is the foundation of peace between our nations. Too much depends on you."

She took a deep breath, pressing her lips together.

"So I am just a tool?"

"You are a queen," he corrected. "And a true queen always knows how to turn circumstances to her advantage."

She did not respond. The room fell into tense silence, broken only by the faint sounds of the evening city outside the windows. Hooves clattered rhythmically against the cobblestones, somewhere in the distance the servants and footmen laughed as they carried out their final errands. But here, in this room, the air was thick with unspoken words.

"I know you enjoy balls, dancing, music," Théodore went on, leaning in slightly. "But the court is not just a place of revelry. It is an arena. And if you do not learn to play upon it, you will be cast aside, mademoiselle."

She lifted her head sharply, irritation flashing across her face.

"So I should become just as affected as those court ladies? Always wearing masks, always pretending?"

He smiled, though there was a trace of sadness in it.

"No. You do not need to become them. But you must learn to understand them."

Her brows twitched slightly, her eyes narrowed.

"Why?"

"Because otherwise, they will play you."

Silence settled over the room once more. Théodore watched as she processed his words. He knew they had struck a nerve. And that was good.

"Wearing a mask does not mean betraying yourself," he continued, his voice softer now. "It means protecting yourself. Concealing weaknesses—but using them when the time is right."

Maria Antonia leaned forward slightly. The childish petulance had vanished from her eyes—only curiosity remained.

"And how do I do that?"

Théodore inclined his head slightly.

"That is what you will be taught."

She lowered her gaze, tracing her fingertips along the keys without pressing them. Outside, the sun was already sinking toward the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the room. For a moment, her face seemed older, more mature in that light.

At last, she drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly.

"I will try," she said. And in her voice, there was no trace of her former playfulness.

Théodore d’Alien rose, bowed his head in farewell, and left the room.

He knew that long lessons lay ahead of them. Resistance, arguments, doubt. But today, the first step had been taken.

Chapter Text

Shadowed Threads of the Austrian Court

The Viennese court was a realm of strictness, refinement, and concealed cruelty. Here, at the heart of the Austrian Empire, every word, every glance, even silence itself, could be a step toward the abyss. Unlike France, where political games were played in the open, Austria’s intrigues were woven in hushed whispers, spun like the finest strands of a web—unseen until they had ensnared their victim completely.

Count Théodore d'Alien knew the worth of these games. He had long outgrown the age when ambition overshadowed caution. Years spent in Versailles had taught him not only to follow the rules but also to recognize when others broke them. The grand halls of Louis XV had been an arena of dazzling intrigue, and Théodore had survived among them, mastering the art of walking the fine line between what was permitted and what was not. But Austria was an entirely different world. Here, the iron will of Maria Theresa reigned, alongside the cold calculations of her advisors and an elusive set of rules—rules that remained hidden until their violation became fatal.

The slender arches and towering columns of the Viennese palace created an illusion of space, but in truth, the castle was a trap whose walls absorbed secrets, only to reveal them when most advantageous. The air carried the scent of wax from burning candles, fresh paper, and a faint trace of dried herbs brought in by the night breeze through open windows. The reflections of chandeliers glittered upon polished parquet floors, shimmering in the dark glass of the windows beyond which the endless night stretched.

The court reception had ended. The muted toll of the clock struck the tenth hour, and Théodore, lingering only as long as etiquette required, left the hall. He walked at an unhurried pace, lost in thought, when a voice—soft yet piercing, like the touch of a fine needle—sounded behind him.

— Count d'Alien.

He halted for a brief moment, then turned.

Prince von Metternich stood in the dim light, unmoving. The glow of the candles cast sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the angular features and the cold gleam in his eyes. He was not a man who spoke idly. Metternich preferred to wait, to observe with patience, and to use even the slightest weakness of his opponent at the opportune moment.

— You are becoming quite an important figure at court, — he continued, the corners of his lips curving into a semblance of a smile.

Théodore inclined his head politely but did not lower his gaze.

— Your Excellency, I am merely fortunate, — his tone was casual, but inside, every sense was taut as a bowstring. — The Austrian court is a place where any mistake can cost too much.

Metternich took a step forward, his movements smooth as the rustle of silk.

— Yet you have not made any mistakes, Count. On the contrary, you skillfully avoid the traps that ensnare foreign envoys within their first week. That is… intriguing. And, I dare say, impressive.

Théodore held his gaze. Beneath the cold shimmer in Metternich’s eyes lay a question. A compliment? Undoubtedly. But from the prince’s lips, such words carried an inherent trap. This was an invitation—not to a conversation of trust, but to a delicate game where the stakes were power and influence. Refusing was impossible, but accepting required utmost caution.

— It is an honor to hear this from you, Prince, — Théodore replied, his tone carefully measured.

Metternich inclined his head slightly, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.

— However, I imagine your impression of me will soon change should I reveal even the smallest weakness.

— Weakness? — Metternich echoed, his smile widening. — In this court, weakness can become an advantage—if used correctly.

Théodore hesitated before answering. He knew this moment was a test.

— Perhaps I am still learning that art. But for now, my greatest weakness is that I am too honest.

Metternich let out a short chuckle, as if amused by the remark.

— Then you should learn from Archduchess Maria Antonia. She may be young, but she is swiftly absorbing the spirit of this court. And I suspect… not only in matters of intrigue.

His voice softened, carrying something different now.

— The Empress sees more than most, Count. I would advise you to be cautious in how you offer your lessons to the young Archduchess.

Théodore felt the air in the corridor grow colder.

Any sign of favor, any special attention toward Maria Antonia could be twisted to serve the interests of the court’s schemers. A fleeting smile, a kind word, even the most trivial gesture of goodwill—everything could be turned into a dangerous weapon in the right hands.

He knew he was standing at the edge of a blade.

— I am merely an envoy, Your Excellency, — he answered evenly.

Metternich inclined his head, as if in agreement.

— And yet, Count, be careful, — he said quietly. — The Viennese court can be even more treacherous than Versailles.

As Metternich vanished into the shadows of the palace corridor, Théodore remained still.

He did not move until the last echo of the prince’s footsteps faded.

The air still carried the faint scent of wax and expensive perfume, and somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, marking another passing hour. The night wind slipped through the high windows, stirring the heavy velvet drapes.

He felt the chill seep into him.

That conversation had not been merely a warning. It had been a reminder—he was no longer an outsider in the eyes of the Austrian court. He had become a piece in someone else's game.

And now, he had to decide whether he would remain a player—or become the first piece sacrificed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch: "Return to Versailles"

Versailles, 1770

Count Théodore d’Alien slowly rode through the gates of Versailles, accompanied by his wife, Marguerite, and their children. The damp morning air was filled with the scents of freshly cut grass, flowers from the royal gardens, and the heavy perfumes of courtly ladies, mingling with the faint smoke of the night’s torches. The palace loomed before him in golden radiance, as if inviting him to once again tread its gravel paths, promising splendor and grandeur, yet hiding within its walls the shadows of intrigue and old resentments.

The carriage slowed and came to a stop at the main entrance. Footmen in immaculate livery bowed in ceremonial greeting, but in their gazes, Théodore caught more than mere reverence—there was a veiled curiosity, a desire to assess the man who had been absent from court for so long. Stepping out of the carriage, he took a deep breath, but the familiar scent of Versailles now seemed different—sweeter, slightly stale, as if concealing the decay of a fading era.

His new appointment: court advisor and mentor to Marie Antoinette, the former Archduchess and now Dauphine of France. Versailles, steeped in luxury and power struggles, greeted him with a new rhythm, new light, and new faces. The grand halls of the palace, adorned with crystal and gold, stood as majestic as ever, yet within their cold brilliance lurked a tension. King Louis XV had aged, and though the monarchy remained absolute, its former grandeur was waning. It felt as though behind the dazzling facades, the first cracks of a great edifice were beginning to show—like an aging mask, struggling to conceal the signs of decline.

As soon as Théodore crossed the palace threshold, he was surrounded by courtiers, footmen, and officials. Their bows were practiced to perfection, their smiles taut, but in their eyes flickered a hidden calculation. No one here offered favor without reason, and Théodore knew that their gazes held not only curiosity but also a subtle distrust. Each of them would soon have to choose a side, aligning themselves with the Dauphin and his wife, and any misstep could prove fatal.

— Count d’Alien! — One of the senior courtiers approached with a light smile, his eyes scanning Théodore appraisingly, as if weighing him on invisible scales. — Welcome back to France! Versailles has missed your talents.

Théodore responded with a brief nod, fully aware of the unspoken meaning behind those words.

— Thank you, — he said evenly, noting the faint undertone of envy and condescension in some of the onlookers. He had been away from the game for too long, and here, that meant only one thing—he would have to prove his worth once again.

— How was Austria? — his companion continued, then, as if in passing, added, — I heard you returned with an important mission. Or was it… other matters?

Théodore caught the subtle insinuation but betrayed no irritation.

— Austria is beautiful, — he replied calmly. — But I am glad to return to my duties at court.

He knew this conversation would not be the last. Versailles always tested newcomers—even those who were merely returning after a long absence.

As Théodore entered the antechamber, his attention was involuntarily drawn to the changes in the palace. Everything seemed familiar, yet somehow different. The gilded walls, gleaming mirrors, heavy draperies—they remained the same, but the air carried a new spirit, the spirit of an impending shift. Young courtiers, impeccably dressed and flawlessly mannered, yet devoid of memories of the early reign of Louis XV, now occupied the central stage. To them, the old king was not a formidable ruler but merely an echo of a fading era.

Marie Antoinette had already become the symbol of the new Versailles. Her laughter was light, her movements graceful, her smile enchanting. She easily won affection; her freshness and youth drew admiring glances. Yet Théodore saw what many overlooked—her naivety. She would have to learn to walk the fine line between charm and political wisdom, and he knew that, in part, it would be his responsibility to help her avoid missteps.

— This is no longer the Versailles I once knew, — Théodore murmured to his wife as they made their way to their new chambers. — Everything has changed. And I’m not sure it’s for the better.

Marguerite, walking beside him, gently squeezed his hand. There was intelligence in her eyes and something more than simple reassurance in her voice:

— Look closely at these people. They smile, but their eyes are cold.

Théodore glanced at her, silently acknowledging the truth in her words. The grandeur of Versailles remained, but behind its dazzling mirrors lay a disquieting uncertainty. He knew that ahead of him lay not only courtly intrigues but also the challenge of securing his place in this new order. And, most importantly—protecting his family.

Versailles had always been an arena for the strongest. Now, the question remained: did he still have the strength to reclaim his rightful place in this brilliant yet ruthless world?

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch: "Irritation After the Reception"

Théodore d'Alien slowly walked through the long corridors of his home after the reception had ended. The grand walls, adorned with carved panels, felt oppressive, as if the château had suddenly grown smaller. His footsteps echoed dully in the emptiness, each sound a reminder of the weight on his mind. Outwardly, everything had gone well—he had successfully diverted Madame du Barry’s attention—but the tension did not leave him. An evening meant to be celebratory and honorable had turned into yet another test of patience. He tried not to dwell on the consequences, but now everything felt like a harbinger of misfortune. Marie Antoinette, with her youthful, stubborn pride, failed to realize that her personal whims could extend beyond mere courtly intrigues.

In the hall, the last candles were burning down, casting long shadows on the marble floor, which gleamed faintly in the dim light. The scent of wax and the lingering traces of perfume left by the guests mingled in the air, a reminder of the evening past. The silence of the night was deceptive—somewhere below, the servants whispered quietly, hiding their exhaustion behind habitual restraint. The clock ticked, its steady rhythm feeling like mockery against his unease.

Théodore entered his study and shut the heavy door behind him, feeling how the solitude of the room wrapped around him like a dark cloak.

His wife, Marguerite, was already resting, and he was grateful for the chance to be alone with his thoughts. He sat at the massive mahogany desk, running his fingers over its smooth surface. His gaze swept over the scattered papers, but he found himself unable to focus. With a sigh, he rubbed his face, feeling the tension in his temples. This evening, this endless game in which he was forced to participate… He was exhausted.

A quiet knock at the door made him start. He held his breath, then exhaled heavily before saying:
— Come in.

The door opened soundlessly, as if the visitor was wrapped in an invisible veil. On the threshold stood Marie Antoinette. The candlelight illuminated her delicate figure in a thin, almost ethereal gown. It cascaded around her like a soft mist, accentuating her graceful form. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and in her eyes lingered something between worry and defiance.

— Count, — her voice was quiet yet tense. — You are avoiding me.

Théodore lifted his gaze to her. It was clear that she had noticed his change in demeanor. He knew he could no longer conceal his feelings. Rubbing his temples, as if hoping to shake off the burden of this conversation, he found that nothing had changed.

— Your Highness, — he began calmly but reservedly. — I have indeed been occupied with matters. However… — he hesitated briefly, searching for the right words, — that is not the only reason.

Marie Antoinette stepped forward, her movements unhurried but charged with tension. She sat across from him, her gloved fingers elegantly crossed on her lap. Her breathing was even, but he noticed the way she bit her lip.

— What is wrong? — she asked, scrutinizing him intently. Her voice wavered slightly—just barely—but he caught it.

Théodore exhaled slowly, moving his hands away from the desk. The room felt stifling, and he could feel the weight of her gaze pressing on him.

— Your Highness, I must speak to you as a friend, — his voice was steady yet firm. — Ignoring Madame du Barry may seem like a trivial act to you, but it is far from that. Her influence over the king is immense. She is not merely a royal favorite—she is a political figure. To disregard her is to disregard political reality.

— I cannot pretend to respect her, — the dauphine retorted sharply. She gripped the folds of her gown tighter, as if trying to suppress her irritation. — She does not deserve my attention.

Théodore rose and walked to the window, carefully pulling back the heavy drapes to let in some of the cool night air. A faint breeze brushed his face, carrying with it the fresh scent of the garden. He remained silent for a moment, gazing into the darkness before speaking again:

— Your Highness, — his voice was low but resolute. — This is no longer a matter of respect or personal sentiment. It has become an issue of national significance. France and Austria are allies, and this alliance must be upheld by all, including you. Madame du Barry, however unpleasant it may be, is part of this equation.

Marie Antoinette turned away, her shoulders trembling slightly with suppressed indignation. He saw the flicker of protest in her eyes, but before she could reply, he continued:

— Your attitude toward her is already being discussed at court and beyond. People whisper, ambassadors write reports—it could cause complications, particularly in relations between our countries. My reception was only a small part of the problem. What happens between you and Madame du Barry could escalate into a political storm.

— But must I endure her? — the dauphine exclaimed, whirling to face him. — Is that not unjust?

— Justice is seldom found at court, Your Highness, — Théodore replied dryly. He looked at her steadily, but there was no reproach in his gaze, only weariness and understanding. — You are at the center of this game, and ignoring its rules is dangerous. Believe me, I say this not for myself, but for you. If you do not begin to act more diplomatically, it could lead to tragedy—not only for you.

Marie Antoinette slowly rose. There was still pride in her movements, but now she seemed less certain. She stepped toward the window and gazed into the night for a long moment. The moon cast a silver glow on her face, making it appear almost fragile.

— I will consider what you have said, — she finally murmured. — But do not ask me to greet her with a smile. That would be too much.

Théodore inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her response.

— I do not ask that of you, — he said gently. — But sometimes, we must sacrifice our personal feelings for a greater cause.

She gave a small nod, and at that moment, her silhouette seemed especially lonely. A heavy silence filled the air—not hostile, but weighted with unspoken thoughts. He knew she still resisted, but perhaps, for the first time, she had truly begun to reflect. And that, at least, was a step forward.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch: "Conversations with the Dauphin"

Théodore d'Alien, Count and envoy of the King, walked leisurely through the corridors of Versailles, savoring the palace's familiar grandeur. Here, in these halls, every step was steeped in history, and every glance was reflected in countless mirrors, making the space seem infinite. The candlelight, flickering in gilded candelabras, cast shifting shadows on walls adorned with intricate stucco work. From afar, the sounds of a minuet drifted in—an evening reception was still in progress in the adjacent halls—but Théodore was headed elsewhere.

Rumors that the Dauphin, young Louis-Auguste, had summoned him had been circulating for days. Now, as the moment of their meeting arrived, he felt a faint tension. Louis XVI, though still young, already stood out among his peers not only for his status but for his growing seriousness. It was said at court that there was something strange in his gaze—an almost adult weariness—and Théodore was about to find out why.

Approaching the tall doors of the chamber, he slowed his steps. The massive panels, adorned with gilded carvings, seemed impenetrable—like the gates to a world not yet fully formed, the private realm of a young prince. Théodore knocked, and a quiet voice responded moments later:

— Enter.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room greeted him with silence. A spacious chamber, its high ceiling and heavy drapes partially veiling the windows, felt almost empty despite the exquisite furnishings. The golden light of the setting sun filtered through the delicate fabric, tinting the walls in warm hues. The air carried the scent of paper, ink, and a faint trace of lavender—the Dauphin, it seemed, had already grown accustomed to spending long hours here.

In the center of the room stood a massive oak desk, covered in documents, letters, and thick scrolls tied with ribbons. Amidst this chaos sat the young man—the future King of France.

Louis lifted his gaze from the papers, his eyes resting on Théodore for a moment before he gestured for him to sit.

— Count d'Alien, — he began, his voice steady yet tinged with a subtle weariness. A fleeting smile crossed his lips—more a formality than a sign of pleasure. — I have heard of your recent return to France and your influence at the Viennese court. I would like to speak with you.

Théodore bowed respectfully and took the seat across from him, studying the young Dauphin with the attentive gaze of a diplomat.

— Your Highness, it is an honor to be summoned by you. How may I be of service?

Louis-Auguste set his quill aside, his fingers hovering over the papers for a moment before he frowned slightly and turned his gaze toward the window. Théodore sensed hesitation in the movement—the young man was uncertain about something.

— You have served at court for many years, — the Dauphin finally spoke, leaning forward slightly, as if wishing to share his thoughts with the air around them but not with the world beyond these walls. — You know Versailles and its people well. I… I am not always sure of those around me. I am preparing for my role, and you know that soon I will face not only the throne but the immense responsibility for the people of France.

Théodore observed him closely. Before him sat not just a young prince but a man whose shoulders were already beginning to feel the weight of the crown. He recalled his own moments of doubt, the fear of making decisions, the inner battle when responsibility seemed too great a burden.

— Your Highness, — he spoke at last, choosing his words carefully, — you have a rare gift—thoughtfulness. The ability to question and doubt is not a weakness; it is the mark of true wisdom. But ruling a nation is not just a matter of intellect—it is a matter of the heart.

Louis looked at him sharply, interest flickering in his eyes.

— But how does one govern people who seem to care nothing for laws and order? — he asked, gripping his quill so tightly that a drop of ink splattered onto the paper. — I hear of injustices, of suffering all across France, and… I fear that I will be powerless to change anything.

Théodore held back his response for a moment. He understood that fear. He could hear it not only in the Dauphin’s words but in his entire posture—his tense shoulders, the firm line of his lips, the distant focus of his gaze.

— Rulership, Your Highness, will always be difficult, — he finally said. — But the secret lies in finding a balance between mercy and justice. Your people must see in you not just a king, but a man who understands their needs. The true strength of a monarch lies in the trust of his subjects. France is vast, but it rests on the shoulders of its people.

Louis took a deep breath, as if absorbing the words. He lowered his head again, looking at the documents on his desk—figures, reports, records. All reminders of the countless decisions awaiting him.

— You are right, Count… — he murmured after a moment of silence, his voice quieter now, almost introspective. — But how does one deal with this court? With its intrigues? It seems that everyone here thinks only of themselves.

Théodore allowed himself a small smile—not mocking, but understanding.

— Versailles is a living entity, Your Highness. It feeds on ambition, rumors, and plots. But that is also its strength. Learn to use it to your advantage. Find those who will be loyal to you and give them tasks that will make their loyalty useful. People at court serve their own interests—but if their interests align with yours, you win.

Louis nodded slowly, as if seeing, for the first time, some kind of logic in the chaotic web of palace life.

— Thank you, Count, — he said quietly. — Your words give me hope. I hope that when the time comes, you will be there to help me.

Théodore inclined his head in respect.

— I will always be at your service, Your Highness.

And in that moment, as twilight settled over the gardens outside, something more than just a conversation was born between them. It was the beginning of a trust that, perhaps, one day would change the fate of France.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch: "The Monarchy Will Endure as Long as We Live"

Versailles was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, and a light breeze rustled the treetops of the vast gardens, carrying away the last fragments of the day's concerns. The subtle scent of blooming orange trees mingled with the fragrance of ponds hidden deep within the park's alleys. The fountains, still flowing, caught the final gleams of twilight, like precious stones scattered across the mirrored surface of the water. The majestic palace was sinking into silence as King Louis XV, one of the most powerful monarchs of Europe, surrounded by his closest advisors—including Count Théodore d'Alien—watched the world from the height of his position.

Louis sat in his lavish study, surrounded by imposing portraits and busts of great ancestors, but tonight their noble gazes brought him no comfort. The velvet drapes shimmered in the soft candlelight, and the gilded ceiling cast reflections that turned the room into a play of light and shadow. Bowls of wine stood on the tables, and on a side table of black wood inlaid with gold rested an ancient map of France, marked by countless thoughts and decisions. The fire in the hearth crackled from time to time, but even those sounds seemed muted, as though all of Versailles was holding its breath.

The king appeared deep in thought, running his fingertips along the edge of his brocade robe, without taking a single sip of wine. The tension that had been building in society for years now seeped through the palace walls. What once seemed unshakable now brought him doubts, though outwardly he remained composed. It was difficult to tell whether he truly believed in the monarchy’s endurance, or merely refused to admit the inevitable.

“Count,” Louis said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, but carried tones of weariness—too evident for someone who wore a crown. He ran his hand across the smooth surface of the desk, as if trying to find reassurance in his own words. “Lately, I’ve been thinking often about our position—about the monarchy. But surely we know that it will endure, at least as long as we are alive.”

Théodore d’Alien, seated opposite, looked up. He had seen the king lose himself in thought many times before, but this time felt different. Louis XV, for all his experience and long reign, at times seemed distant, unwilling to admit that the clouds on the horizon might yet become a storm. The count understood: the king saw the problems, but preferred to turn away from them, trusting they would be left for his descendants to solve.

Théodore knew that his answer had to be careful. Louis did not appreciate being accused of indecision, yet the count also knew that to remain silent would be to betray his own beliefs. He paused, as though weighing every word.

“Your Majesty,” he began at last, his voice slightly hushed, “the monarchy indeed has deep roots. It has endured through centuries, thanks to your wise reign and the efforts of your forebears. But… there is something changing in the air.”

The king fixed him with a sharp gaze, narrowing his eyes slightly as if to study the reaction of his loyal diplomat.

“What do you mean, Count?”

Théodore paused again, feeling the fire crackle louder than before. This was a moment of truth. He could remain silent, could tell the king what he wanted to hear. But he chose the truth.

“The people,” he said, meeting Louis’s gaze. “They are becoming more demanding. More and more voices are calling for change. The recent wars have drained the country—and with it, the trust in power. When people are hungry, when they see the luxury of Versailles against the backdrop of poverty, they begin to ask questions. Your reign has been a time of great victories and defeats, but France is changing. And I fear your successor will face even greater challenges.”

Louis frowned but did not object. He knew France was discontent. He knew about the bread shortages, the growing influence of philosophers calling for liberty and equality. But what could he do? Relent? Admit that royal power was no longer absolute? He straightened in his chair and, raising his glass, squinted slightly.

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “but that is not our concern, is it, Count? Let future generations wrestle with their demons. We have built a system that can endure.”

Théodore pondered that. Was it wisdom or stubbornness? He knew the king could be calculating, capable of flexible politics, but in that moment there was something else in his words—a refusal to acknowledge reality. The monarchy, as the king saw it, was indeed the foundation holding up the entire world around them—but even the strongest foundation can crumble if eroded from beneath.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Théodore replied quietly, bowing his head. “But sometimes a fortress that has stood for centuries may collapse from a single crack—if it is not noticed in time.”

The king smiled faintly, raising his glass of wine as if his diplomatic advisor had just told him an amusing story.

“I appreciate your concern, Count. But as long as I sit on this throne, France is safe. And if the time comes, my descendants will fight for this crown. The monarchy has endured worse.”

Théodore nodded silently, knowing that further argument was pointless. The king’s authority and confidence were unshakable—or at least, they appeared to be. He understood that Louis XV sought to keep his conscience untroubled and to live at peace with the role history had given him. But Théodore d’Alien could not shake the feeling that shadows were thickening over Versailles, and that even Louis’s confidence would not withstand the coming change.

When the evening ended and Théodore left the royal chambers, he walked through the empty corridors of Versailles. A faint draft made the candle flames flicker, and the shadows on the walls trembled like ghosts of the past. The count pondered the king’s words: “The monarchy will endure as long as we live.” But what would happen after their time? All that remained was to wait—and to prepare for the inevitable.

Chapter Text

Sketch: "You Are Here As Long As the King Lives"

The Hall of Versailles was filled with the muted glow of candlelight, the flames flickering in the grand mirrors and casting reflections on silk fabrics and gemstones adorning the noble guests. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes, mingling with a faint hint of wax and resin. The polished marble floor mirrored the glow of a thousand lights, creating the illusion of a shimmering lake beneath one’s feet. Everything in this space spoke of grandeur, power, and the illusion of permanence—but Théodore d’Alien knew that even the most opulent walls could not conceal the shadows of impending change.

Madame du Barry, Louis XV’s favorite, was as always the center of attention. Her laughter—light, silvery—rippled through the hall like the chime of breaking crystal, echoed gently by the mirrored walls. She was surrounded by her usual circle—fawning courtiers, ladies craving her favor, and envious glances from those hoping to see her fall. Even her gown, exquisitely embroidered with gold threads and shimmering silk, seemed to underscore her position. And yet, though her star might be on the wane, du Barry held herself with unwavering poise, betraying no fear or uncertainty.

Count Théodore d’Alien stood apart, observing her with cold restraint, like a man studying a painting whose canvas was beginning to crack under the pressure of time. He knew that Madame du Barry’s power waned with each passing day. But did she know it herself? Her smile was unchanged, but a shadow of worry had crept into the corners of her eyes. A slight smile still played on her lips, but something in her posture—in the subtle motion of her fingers tracing the stem of her glass—betrayed tension. Time was relentless.

Théodore leaned against a carved column, slowly raising his glass to his lips, his gaze resting once more on her figure surrounded by servants and courtiers. Amid that crowd, she resembled a vibrant butterfly fluttering among lanterns, unaware that the flames had already begun to scorch her wings. His eyes lingered on her jewels—massive diamonds reflecting candlelight—and he wondered how swiftly such ornaments could pass into other hands. Life at court was merciless, and favorites were replaced before they even knew the game had shifted.

"You are here as long as the king lives, madame," he murmured under his breath, barely moving his lips. Loud words were unnecessary. Louis XV was no longer young, and his health was fading. Though the king’s shadow still cloaked France, not even it could protect his favorite from the winds of change forever.

Théodore turned his gaze to the other side of the hall, where the Dauphine of France—Marie Antoinette—sat surrounded by young courtiers. Her laughter was bright, but unlike du Barry’s, it bore no forced gaiety—only natural liveliness and youth. Her eyes held no worry yet, only amusement and a touch of flirtation. Her gown, embroidered with silver patterns, flowed around her like moonlight on water. She did not yet know the storms she would face. And yet, her very presence was already casting a shadow over the king’s favorite. France awaited change.

Noticing that Count d’Alien remained apart, Madame du Barry slightly turned her head and raised her glass with feigned ease. Her smile was flawless, as always, but a flicker of curiosity—or perhaps unease—passed through her eyes.

“Count d’Alien, you are unusually quiet this evening,” she said, lazily scanning him with her gaze. “Do you not enjoy the festivities?”

Théodore raised his glass slightly, though his lips did not curve into a smile.

“The evening is delightful, madame,” he replied with impeccable politeness. “And yet I believe many here are thinking not only of dancing and champagne, but also of France’s future.”

She frowned ever so slightly. His words were too vague for open challenge, yet clear enough to provoke unease.

“How curious… And what do you see in that future?” she asked with a faint, ironic smile.

Théodore inclined his head, letting the candlelight catch his features for a brief moment.

“The king is not eternal, madame,” he said quietly, yet distinctly. “And the Dauphine is young, full of strength—and soon to be queen. The court is on the brink of change—changes, I fear, that are inevitable.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them—imperceptible to the others, yet heavy with meaning. In her eyes, he saw a glimmer of understanding. She knew this man did not speak lightly. He was not merely an observer—he was one who could foresee the shifting of tides.

“The future of France…” she repeated, gripping her glass a little tighter. “Count, your foresight is always impressive. Sometimes it frightens me.”

“To be prudent is the duty of every diplomat, madame,” he replied with a slight bow of his head. “For all that seems eternal is but a fragile moment.”

Du Barry narrowed her eyes slightly, then looked away. A moment later she was laughing again, flirting, dazzling as before. Yet something had shifted. Théodore knew: now she too could hear the soft rustling of cracks spreading through the once-solid monolith of Versailles.

He turned again to look at Marie Antoinette. She had leaned toward a friend, whispering something before laughing once more, unaware of his gaze. Her gestures bore no sign of worry. She did not know that soon her laughter would give way to anxiety—and later, to struggle. For now, she remained the young princess wrapped in the illusion of safety.

Théodore d’Alien took another sip of wine. That evening, Versailles sparkled with lights and laughter, but in the air there lingered a faint whisper of an approaching storm—one no one yet dared to acknowledge. And yet, it was inevitable.

Chapter Text

Vignette: “An Interest in Business”

Moments of peace were a rare luxury in the life of Count Théodore d’Alienne. His mind was always occupied—by diplomatic intrigues, expanding business ventures, tense meetings at court. He lived in a world where the flick of a fan or a lingering glance over a wine glass could signal a shift in alliances, where words were weapons and silence the most powerful stake. He thrived in it—calculated, composed, confident.

But then came a day when concerns of politics and finance were abruptly forced to the background.

Margherita, his wife, had gone to visit an old friend for a few days. As she stood by the carriage in her peach-colored shawl—its scent reminiscent of jasmine and summer evenings in the Rose Conservatory—her eyes gleamed with that subtle mockery Théodore both adored and feared. It was the look that meant she had foreseen everything.

"Don’t forget, my dear—we don’t live by treaties and crests alone. A house is a kingdom too, albeit a smaller one," she said, adjusting her glove as though handing him an invisible scepter.

He gave a reserved nod, holding the carriage door open for her.

"Everything will be in perfect order," he replied with his usual diplomatic restraint.

Yet behind the stone-cold confidence, something shifted uneasily. He already knew: the days ahead would offer no familiar maps or compasses. Only endless little things—things no report could ever account for.

Left alone, the Count quickly discovered just how chaotic his own home could be. He had barely taken his first sip of morning coffee—slightly bitter, just the way he liked it, with a drop of milk—when a knock came at the study door. It was the steward, a grim man whose scarred face resembled a weather map. He held a folder of papers that smelled of ink and dust.

"There’s trouble with the grain shipments, my lord. The merchants from Norfor haven’t arrived as promised. If we don’t sort it this week, it’ll be too late to sign new contracts for the winter..."

Théodore gestured for him to enter. From that moment, the day took on the flavor of chaos.

More followed the steward.

The gardener—a wiry old man with gray-green eyes and hands bristly with soil and smoke from the stoves—stood waiting by the door of the winter garden. His voice was low, as though each word sifted earth.

"My lord, the apple trees are aging. The upper branches are casting too much shade on the raspberries. And they’re drawing all the sap. Nothing good will come of them. A decision must be made, my lord, else we’ll be waiting for nothing in the spring."

He spoke slowly, as if turning the invisible pages of a book of seasons.

Théodore gave a nearly imperceptible nod, feeling a flicker of helplessness. He could tell a minister’s lie from truth in an instant—but he didn’t know when to cut branches without hurting the harvest.

Later, at midday, the housekeeper entered the study with brisk confidence. Tall, erect, bearing the posture of a governess and a stern expression, she snapped her notebook open like a sword.

"My lord, there are discrepancies in the reserves. Flour, grains, oil, and salt especially. Also, the soap and candles are nearly gone. Everything must be recalculated—including bed linens and hops for the kitchen."

Her tone left no room for argument, and it carried the faint triumph of someone who, for the first time in years, had the Count’s full attention.

But the most difficult challenge, he soon learned, was neither supply nor garden. It was the children.

Théodore’s sons were like day and night.

Laurent, ten years old, already wore a short cloak, constantly tried to speak with authority, and reminded everyone at every opportunity that he would one day be heir. He had a habit of furrowing his brows and clasping his hands behind his back, mimicking his father, though his eyes still brimmed with childhood uncertainty.

"Father, when will you show us how to manage the estate? I need to know how things work. Isn’t that more important than fencing?" he asked, standing at the study door with the air of an auditor.

Émile, the younger one, was his opposite—fair-haired, dreamy, prone to inventions and drawings. He would burst into rooms unannounced, scarf fluttering, a stack of parchment under his arm, his face beaming.

"Look, Papa! I drew you standing on the tower! And here—you’re fighting a dragon! And here’s Mama—she’s flying on a bird!" he chattered excitedly, showing colorful blotches on paper where people and castle walls were only vaguely discernible.

Théodore tried to maintain the face of a serious father but couldn’t help smiling.

"Managing an estate isn’t always as exciting as it seems," he said, slowly folding the tenant lists, numbers, and dates—suddenly insignificant in the light of his sons’ sparkling eyes.

"But it is important. Tomorrow I’ll show you how we review reports. Though... I’m sure you’ll both run off before noon."

By evening, the Count was utterly drained. It felt as though he had spent the whole day on a battlefield, only the sword had been replaced by ledgers, children’s questions, and the scent of soup bubbling in the kitchen. His back ached, and his temples pounded like they did after tense negotiations with an irate duke. He longed for silence but could not deny—this house lived, breathed, demanded him, called him forth as he truly was, not as the painted figure in portraits.

Outwardly, all was perfect. The estate glowed with lights, the children laughed, the servants bowed as always. But inside Théodore raged a silence—the kind that burns away exhaustion and only comes after a deep plunge into the present. This role—of father and master of the house—was far more demanding than any political maneuver.

Late at night, after the children were asleep—Laurent with his nose in an open notebook, and Émile clutching a toy lion—Théodore returned to his study. The fireplace glowed softly, shadows danced along the bookshelves, and the air smelled of burning wood, slightly damp paper, and wine. He poured himself a glass of Bordeaux—dark, rich, with notes of blackcurrant and oak—and sank into a chair.

He gazed out the window, where beyond the woods, nightfall was beginning to smolder. A soft wind scattered dry leaves across the garden, and lights flickered in the distance. And for the first time in a long while, Théodore allowed himself to think of nothing. No plans, no dissected conversations, no reports. He simply sat.

He weighed it all in his mind—what was harder: court intrigues or daily concerns? And to his own surprise, he realized—it was the latter. Because here, in this simplicity, everything was real. No masks, no rehearsed phrases. Just life, as it was meant to be. There was weariness, yes, but a warm, profound completeness too.

He raised his glass, watching the red wine catch the firelight, and took a slow sip. Outside, the curtains were being drawn in the garden, the lanterns dimmed. The world wrapped itself in a gentle blanket of sleep.

And there he sat—the master of the house, a father, a man. And that was enough.

And in that quiet evening, among the scents of fire, parchment, and wine, he found the rarest treasure of all—peace.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The King is Dead, Long Live the King”

That day, Versailles was shrouded in a heavy, almost tangible silence. The opulent corridors of the palace, usually alive with the rustle of skirts, the light quarrels of courtiers, and the musical chime of footsteps on marble, seemed deserted. The air was still and thick, like before a storm, and even the scents of incense that filled the halls seemed subdued. Crystal chandeliers hung in twilight, reflecting the pale light of an autumn morning filtering through tall windows and heavy drapes.

There was no jingle of spurs, no silver clink of candelabras, no resonant greetings. Everything was veiled, as if in a mist. Only one piece of news, like a drop of ink in a pitcher of water, spread through all of Versailles, staining every corner:

“The king is dead.”

Louis XV, ruler of France for five decades, had died in his chambers, leaving behind a throne—and a shadow. His death, like an impending storm, had long been felt in the air, in the movements of the courtiers, in the growing number of prayers in the royal chapel. And yet, when it came—truly came—it still shocked. Not with a lightning strike, but with the silence after thunder.

Count Théodore d'Alien, one of the king’s most loyal and seasoned confidants, had spent most of his life at court. He stood by a tall window in his apartments on the second floor of the eastern wing, overlooking the Orangerie, when he heard the first tolls of the mourning bells. Their deep, lingering echo spread over the rooftops, chilling to the bone. As though the earth itself was mourning the monarch.

He slowly drew back the velvet curtains, letting in cold, damp air carrying the scent of wet leaves and aged stone. The gardens below, usually bathed in radiant splendor, seemed shadowed and dull. The fountains had been stilled, and the water within, smooth as glass, mirrored the overcast sky. Courtiers moved along the alleys with restrained steps, almost silently—dressed in black, heads bowed, without the light smiles or polite nods that were typical at that hour. Like a procession of shades.

“The king is dead, long live the king”—words every child knew from the cradle—echoed in Théodore’s mind not as a formula of succession, but as a metaphysical rebirth, a rupture. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His gaze was calm, but in the depths of his eyes a flicker of anxiety burned. His hand trembled for a moment as he adjusted the lace cuffs of his dark blue velvet coat. The silver buttons gleamed faintly, like dew on stone. Everything around him had taken on a new clarity—the kind that comes when one realizes an ordinary day has just become history.

Now, everything would change.

Louis XVI, grandson of the late king, was still young, barely twenty, soft-hearted, and unaccustomed to the harsh realities of rule. He had been raised modestly compared to his predecessors, more devoted to books and hunting than to politics. But now—now he stood at the center of the world. France, vast, diverse, and riddled with contradictions, now rested on his shoulders.

Théodore paused by his writing desk, covered in green baize. Upon it lay a faded letter—a draft response to a request from the Burgundy intendant, which now seemed meaningless. On the wall above the desk hung a portrait of his late wife, and he looked at her with quiet sorrow. She had died ten years ago—as had the era to which he still belonged. And now—another end.

He stepped out the door. The corridor remained silent, and the servants stepped aside, bowing their heads. Théodore saw the fear in their eyes—the fear of change, the fear of losing the stability they had grown used to. He noticed someone discreetly wiping away tears with a sleeve, someone crossing themselves, someone simply standing, leaning against a wall. To them, the king had not just been a sovereign—he had been the anchor of reality.

Walking through the enfilade of rooms, he felt the world beginning to crack—here, in the gilded galleries and mirrored walls. Behind columns, he heard a murmur—courtiers whispering about possible changes, about a new favorite, about Minister Turgot’s fate, about whether the Duke of Orléans might return. Beneath the silence, everything had already begun to stir.

At last, he reached the Hall of Mirrors. It was the heart of Versailles—a space where not only architecture was reflected, but power itself. Endless mirrors on the walls gave everything a surreal depth: they multiplied figures, doubled gestures, turned the hall into a labyrinth of images. This time, they did not reflect dancers or glittering guests, but figures in mourning.

At the center of the hall stood Louis XVI. His coat was plain, without embellishment; his face pale, with gentle features. He clasped his hands behind his back. Beside him—Marie Antoinette, dazzlingly bright in a pale gray dress. Her eyes—large, blue—seemed barely able to hold back tears. She stood as she had been taught in the House of Habsburg, but the trembling of her fingers, twisting the edge of her lace handkerchief, betrayed her inner terror.

The king’s gaze darted across the hall, as if searching for something familiar, something solid—something to hold on to in this mirrored cage. His lips moved faintly, as if he were praying or repeating words of comfort to himself.

“It will be all right,” the queen whispered, gently touching his elbow. Her voice was barely audible in the vast space.

Théodore stood in the shadow of a marble column, observing. And suddenly, he saw it all: a boy robbed of his childhood, a youth suddenly entrusted with the world. This was not a ruler, not a textbook figure—this was a human being.

He stepped forward, unhurried. The tails of his coat glided softly over the floor. The sound of his footsteps echoed, like the ticking of a clock. Louis noticed him and turned, and their eyes met. There was no arrogance in that gaze, not even fear. Only a question—almost childlike: “You’re here? With me?”

“Your Majesty,” Théodore said, bowing low. His voice was steady, clear, like in a courtroom. “France has always known how to stand by her king.”

The king nodded. Almost imperceptibly. But in that nod was everything—acknowledgment, hope, gratitude.

Théodore straightened. He felt the weight not only of the moment, but of all history pressing upon his shoulders. He knew what lay ahead—no ball, no light-hearted courtly games. Political crises, failed harvests, famine, unrest in the provinces, public discontent, the reckless phrases of philosophers that would spark like flames on dry straw. And all of it—already near.

But he also knew: right now, in this moment, something new was being born. And in this new world—there was a place for his duty, and for his voice.

“Long live the king,” he said to himself—not ceremoniously, but with firm, conscious resolve.

And in that moment, among the mirrors, in the silence of Versailles, a new era began.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The Young King and Queen”

The coronation of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette was an event awaited with trembling anticipation not only by the courtiers but by all the people of France. It was a day when history seemed to hold its breath. Versailles, aglow with hundreds of candles flickering in crystal and gold, revealed itself in its highest splendor. The grand mirrors of the Hall of Mirrors reflected not only the lavish garments and jewels but also the faces—expectant, anxious, hungry for the future. The air smelled of incense, perfumes laced with bergamot and jasmine, and in this mixture, there was a sense of solemn inevitability. Footsteps on the marble floors echoed like ritual drumbeats: everything resembled a theatrical performance where costumes, lighting, and facial expressions bore symbolic meaning.

The new king—tall, slightly stooped, with a heavy jaw and shy gaze—stood before the altar. A purple royal cloak edged with ermine draped over his shoulders—more a burden than a symbol. Louis XVI seemed a stranger to his role; his hands trembled as he accepted the scepter from the archbishop. He looked straight ahead, as if through the people, seeing not the hall, but the emptiness of his own thoughts. He was more scholar than sovereign, more master of clocks and maps than master of an empire. And though he tried to stand with dignity, every movement betrayed uncertainty—like a man placed center stage with no lines to speak.

Beside him stood Marie Antoinette. Her gown, made of snow-white satin and embroidered with silver thread, shimmered with a cold light at each turn of her head. A diadem sparkling with sapphires and diamonds emphasized the fragility of her features. She had something of a swan about her—grace, elegance, regal composure. But Théodore d'Alienne, standing in the crowd, noticed: her fingers were tensely clutching the edge of her dress, though others thought she was merely adjusting its folds. He had known her long—knew how her laughter had once lit up Schönbrunn, how she had run barefoot across the grass, laughing, unburdened by protocol. Now she stood here—among gold and ancient relics—hiding behind a smile the anxiety only a few could recognize.

Théodore d’Alienne, a count with a stern gaze and sharp mind, had returned to France after a long diplomatic mission. He was an observant man—reserved, but sensitive to the shadows behind sumptuous drapes. He knew the cost of silence and of speech, and thus preferred to watch, remember, and conclude without fuss. He didn’t just see—he sensed: the tension between the young monarchs, the fleeting glances, the dryness in the voices of those who congratulated them without meeting their eyes.

After the ceremonies, when the organ fell silent, the royal chambers grew quieter—but not calmer. The ceiling, painted with mythological scenes, seemed closer than usual. Candle flames flickered, casting shadows as if spirits of the past descended the walls. The air was thick with unspoken words, tension hanging like a storm not yet broken by rain.

Théodore was one of the few permitted to remain at court in such moments. He stood off to the side, near a column, watching. Marie Antoinette sat in a high-backed chair, her gown flowing across the floor like a flower wilted in the sun. She spoke softly, nearly in a whisper. Louis sat beside her, hands clasped, eyes fixed into space—as if he both heard her and didn’t. He responded only with nods, sometimes delayed, and then it was clear—his thoughts were far away.

The count watched and understood—they were both like children caught in a great mechanism that had never asked their consent. The court—brilliant and soulless—functioned by its own laws. Everything mattered here: the tilt of the head, the hue of a ribbon, the length of a gaze. All of it was a weapon. Madame du Barry, no longer in the spotlight, still had friends. She sipped from a delicate glass, turned her head as if idly—but her eyes slid too precisely across the queen’s form to be accidental.

Marie Antoinette smiled—lightly, gracefully, as though she had been born in marble halls. But Théodore knew—her smile was a mask from a Venetian play. He knew how she clenched her teeth at night, how she read letters from Vienna and hid them under her pillow, how she paced the room, desperate and uncertain.

At one reception, where the harpsichord played and guests spoke with that refined ease masking poisonous thorns, Théodore approached her. His stride was unhurried, his voice low, nearly intimate amidst the dim hum.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing slightly, “from this moment on, you are not just a queen. You are a symbol. France will expect not only beauty, but strength. Every glance upon you will be a judgment.”

Marie Antoinette turned. In her eyes, the chandeliers were reflected, but deeper still lived sorrow. She listened silently, then answered softly, with a faint, almost weary smile:

“Do you think I don’t understand that, Count? But each day I feel like a bird caught in a cage of golden bars. France demands that I sing—but I cannot breathe. I try to be what they expect of me—but even here, I feel like a stranger.”

He leaned closer, his voice now a whisper:

“Even in a golden cage, one can gain power—if she knows who her friends are, and who only waits for her fall. Don’t let the masks deceive you. Those who whisper compliments today will whisper accusations tomorrow.”

She lowered her gaze, and in that brief moment—short as a breath—something in her changed. Not weakness—awareness. A thin crack between youth and maturity, between innocence and understanding. Her breathing slowed, her shoulders straightened slightly.

Théodore stepped back, not expecting gratitude. He felt her path was only beginning. A path where she would have to become stronger than she ever imagined. Their union—hers and Louis’s—was not only political but fateful, and it would be a trial by fire. And though now they were surrounded by luxury, by crimson carpets and the whisper of jewels, he knew: all of it would soon pale before the true storms to come.

For now, all he could do was remain close. Watch. Speak. Warn. Be the one who, perhaps, in the moment of truth, would be the only soul the queen would trust. And then, maybe, she would gain not just a crown—but inner strength—the kind that does not sparkle on diadems, but shines from within.

Chapter Text

Sketch: "The King’s Advisors"

Versailles bustled with life as always, yet something had changed since the young king and queen ascended the throne. The majestic halls, draped in brocade and gold, still gleamed as brightly as before, and the marble columns cast the same long shadows across the mirrored floors — but the mood of the court had shifted. It had become tense, wary, and clung to every word spoken. Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, young and inexperienced, caught in the eye of a political storm, needed wise counselors. Yet each of them was surrounded by their own circle — courtiers, ministers, palace intriguers, and foreign diplomats — all eager not only to help but also to further their own ambitions, cloaking them behind courteous bows, smiles, and deferential tones.

Count Théodore d'Alienne, a man of sharp intellect, impeccable reputation, and a voice rarely raised yet always heard, had earned the trust of both sovereigns. His tall, slender figure, always clad in austere yet refined attire, revealed a man disciplined and cultivated. His grey, observant eyes caught details that others missed. Years of service at the Austrian and French courts, particularly in Vienna — where every word and gesture bore weight — had made him an indispensable strategist: both an observer and advisor. He was like a shadow: ever-present, yet barely noticeable. And he knew very well that he was not the only one seeking the road to the monarchs' hearts. That road was paved not with bluntness, but with the art of slipping unseen between gazes, always remaining close yet invisible.

In the council chamber, upholstered in dark green velvet with gilded moldings, where tapestries depicting allegories of peace and justice adorned the walls, Louis XVI was often surrounded by a babble of voices. Tall windows admitted the cold light reflected by the white clouds over Versailles. Some spoke of taxes, others of military reform, while another raised issues of foreign policy, waving pointers before maps mounted on easels. The marble floor barely muffled the nervous steps of the advisors, and the shuffling of papers, coughing, and murmurs merged into a cacophony. Everyone sought to insert their word, their opinion, their vision. Théodore, standing slightly apart with his hands calmly clasped behind his back, did not interrupt. He listened like an experienced conductor, refusing to engage until he discerned the true melody within the noise. He understood the cost of premature speech — and of silence. Too active an intervention could breed suspicion or, worse, envy.

One day, after an especially exhausting session that went in circles and led nowhere, Théodore noticed Louis XVI approaching him. The king’s face bore the marks of fatigue; his brow was furrowed, and there was a nervous tension in his movements.

— Count, I ask you to stay. I need to talk, — he said softly, almost in a whisper.

It was unexpected. The king rarely trusted anyone enough to remain alone, especially in recent months, when rumors reaching him sowed fear and doubt. Théodore bowed and, showing neither surprise nor eagerness, followed the king into a small side room hidden behind an ornate wooden panel. Inside, silence reigned, broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire in the hearth. The walls were covered in dark blue silk; the armchairs were deep, comfortable, in the style of Louis XV. The air was filled with the scent of burning wood and lavender.

Louis closed the door behind him, sighed, and, as if shedding his royal mask for a moment, sank into a chair, folding his hands on his knees.

— My friend, — he began, gazing into the fire, — these people... they talk a great deal. Too much. But who among them truly understands what must be done? I need decisions, not endless discussion. They are clever, but their minds are labyrinths. And I — I need to find the way into the light.

Théodore stepped closer, maintaining a respectful distance. His face remained calm, but his eyes studied the king more carefully than ever.

— Your Majesty, — he said quietly, deliberately, — decisions are not always born in the midst of noise. Sometimes the truth becomes clear only when you allow yourself to step back and see it from afar. A forest is easier to understand when viewed from a hill, not from among the roots.

The king turned to him. His gaze was tired, but within it flickered a spark of interest, like a student glimpsing a simple yet vital truth for the first time.

— You mean I should trust their advice less? — he asked.

Théodore shook his head slowly, his voice almost meditative:

— Not exactly. Advice is a tool, not the truth itself. Use it as a craftsman uses a chisel. But follow your own instinct, Your Majesty. Only you bear the responsibility for France. And only you will be remembered for these choices in history. Not them.

Silence fell between them. Far off, the sound of a violin drifted — perhaps someone rehearsing for the evening reception. The king was silent, seeming younger, almost a boy again, momentarily crushed under the heavy crown entrusted to him. The fire’s glow reflected in his eyes, casting his face in anxious gold.

Finally, he spoke, his voice softer:

— You are always so cautious, Count. But I see that even you have enemies among the advisors.

Théodore paused by the door, smiling faintly, as if it were a question he had heard a hundred times before.

— Your Majesty, everyone who matters at court has enemies. Especially those who know when to hold their tongue.

He bowed and departed, but his thoughts lingered in that room, where not just the king’s fate — but Théodore’s own — was being shaped.

In the corridor, the emptiness swiftly closed behind him — as always, Versailles devoured everything quickly, leaving only shadows on the floor and suspicions in hearts. Advisors like Count de Maurepas and Jacques Necker were not idle.

Maurepas, the sly fox with the face of an aged actor, knew how to manipulate the king, playing on his doubts, planting suggestions as if by accident. He was old and clever, and needed no throne to feel power. His words were like hooks, lodging themselves in Louis’s mind.

Necker — the pragmatic financier of Protestant roots — irritated the old aristocracy with his bluntness, his outward coldness, and his puzzling popular sympathies. He spoke of economy, figures, and debts with such passion it seemed that behind the graphs lay the fates of thousands. His speech was impeccable, yet often alien to the courtly tastes. His pen was more dangerous than any sword.

Théodore was different. He sought no fame. He sought influence — quiet but constant. He knew: if you are seen too often, you become a target. Better to be a voice behind a curtain than a face on a balcony. He played the long game, betting not on victories, but on survival.

Late in the evening, returning home, he entered the dimly lit drawing room. Lamps under bronze shades cast a warm light across the walls, and the upholstery shimmered with deep wine hues. Marguerite, his wife, sat by the window with a book in her hand. Her chestnut hair was neatly gathered, and her slender fingers held a teacup with the grace of a heroine from an 18th-century portrait. She set aside the book and looked up.

— How did it go, my dear? — she asked, handing him a porcelain cup adorned with Viennese roses.

— As always, — Théodore replied, with a slight, almost weary smile, taking a seat. — The king doubts; the others rush to offer their solutions. And I... I simply observe.

— You are cautious, — she said, with that mischievous warmth only she could permit herself. — And that is your strength. But remember: even the most cautious can fall into a trap. Especially one built of patience.

He looked at her — at her calmness, her perceptive gaze. She knew too much. He took her hand, paused for a moment in thought, and finally said:

— We will continue this game, Marguerite. But remember: victory belongs not to the one who speaks the loudest, nor to the one who makes the first move. It belongs to the one who knows how to wait. How to listen. And how to disappear — before they start looking for someone to blame.

She did not answer — only gently squeezed his hand.

Versailles slept. But its shadows continued to move.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The Gift of a Title”

The magnificent halls of Versailles sparkled like a gemstone, with facets of carved gold, reflected light, and shimmering ladies’ gowns. The silk-covered walls, adorned with gilded ornaments, looked like living frescoes, where light played with forms and shadows, transforming everything into a theatrical scene. Crystal chandeliers, suspended from ceilings rich with stucco and paintings, scattered thousands of sparks onto the polished parquet floors, where heels glided with a gentle rustle and the glossy shoes of gentlemen caught the light.

The hall was full of sound: whispers, clinking glasses, rustling fabrics, and light musical chords—played by musicians nearly hidden behind screens. This was not merely a court—it was a stage, where every gesture, glance, and even pause carried weight. Amid this splendor, following strict court protocol, with restraint and solemnity, Louis XVI received his courtiers. The King sat beneath a high canopy draped in crimson velvet, embroidered with the Bourbon emblem in gold thread, his posture exuding a regal fatigue.

Beside him sat Marie Antoinette, dressed in a gown the color of moonlit pearls, embroidered with silver thread and diamonds that danced in the candlelight. Her towering hairstyle, adorned with feathers, gemstones, and a miniature figurine of a shepherdess, was a masterpiece of art, the result of many hours of labor by court dressmakers. Her eyes sparkled with a vivacity she rarely concealed, and that evening, her gaze bore a special pride, like that of a hostess unveiling a surprise at her own ball.

Count Théodore d’Alien stood among the courtiers, dressed in a restrained yet elegant ensemble—a black coat with gold embroidery, tall boots of soft leather, and on his chest, a medal awarded for prior service. His dark hair was slicked back, his face calm and composed, free from overt expression. He had long understood: in Versailles, sincerity was rarely a virtue. Here, every smile could be a trap, and an innocent phrase, an invitation to a deadly game. But he was used to these rules. He had learned to be a stone in the water: silent, deep, concealing strength.

“His Majesty, the King of France,” proclaimed the herald, stepping to the center of the hall with a silver staff adorned with lilies, “by special decree and at the personal request of the Queen, grants Count Théodore d’Alien the title of Marquis and the appropriate pension, in recognition of his loyal service to the Crown and the State!”

A moment froze. As if the air itself held its breath. Gazes, half-hidden by fans and courtly pretense, turned toward Théodore. Some in surprise, others with suspicion, still others with cold envy, as if the title were a ruby torn from their own dreams. Théodore stepped forward, bowed—deeply, but without servility, with dignity, as if affirming that he had earned every carat of that honor.

The King nodded slightly—barely perceptibly, yet it was a sign of respect, not mere formality. His eyes—tired, burdened with care—sparked with life for a brief moment. Marie Antoinette, however, gleamed. In her smile was a glint of mischief, challenge, and delight, like a child gifting herself a toy disguised as a present to another. She watched Théodore with a shade of proprietary pride.

“My dear Marquis,” she said, her voice soft and melodic, resonating through the hall like a harp’s touch, “you have earned this recognition. The King and I both know how much you have achieved, and we hope this is only the beginning of your ascent.”

Théodore bowed again. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, like the waters of an alpine lake.

“Your Highness, Your Majesty,” he said, “it is a great honor to serve you and France. I could never express the full extent of my gratitude for this elevation.”

Each word was precise, honed like a blade. The crowd stirred, but the King made a slight gesture with his hand—the ceremony was over. The music resumed, glasses refilled, but many eyes remained on Théodore. This title was not merely recognition—it was a mark of royal attention, and thus a cause for suspicion, gossip, and new dangers.

Later, in the soft shadows of one of Versailles’ smaller salons, among columns, draperies, and the intimate glow of candelabra—where the scents of jasmine and patchouli mingled with musk—Marie Antoinette approached Théodore more closely. She moved like an actress aware of being watched—even if the room was nearly empty.

“Are you pleased, Marquis?” she asked, a hint of mischief in her gaze—a gaze that was both challenge and invitation.

“More than pleased, Your Highness,” he replied, sensing something in her tone that could not be put into words. “Although, I admit, it was unexpected.”

“Ah, Théodore,” she continued playfully—but with a note of authority she no longer concealed, “you’ve earned it. The King and I want those around us to be not only loyal but intelligent. And you are both.”

She hardly smiled, but her eyes said everything. Théodore inclined his head. He understood that this moment was not only recognition, but a bargain. He had become part of her political circle, a pillar in a battle she still fought subtly, but ever more confidently.

“And of course,” she added, stepping back slightly, “we hope your new status brings you even more respect at court. You’ll need it.”

Théodore bowed. Behind that phrase lay a warning. And he heard it.

That same night, in his chambers, he sat with Marguerite. The room was filled with the scents of lavender and fireplace smoke; shadows danced on the wallpaper. She sat in an armchair by the window, wine gleaming like blood in the crystal glass.

“The title of Marquis, Théodore,” she said, not taking her eyes off him, “you know it’s not just a gift.”

He sighed, ran a hand over the back of his head, where the hair was beginning to silver.

“I know,” he said. “It’s a signal. Join—or disappear.”

“Of course,” she replied calmly, though there was unease in her voice. “But maybe… maybe it’s our chance?”

He looked at her, and in his gaze was a deep certainty forged not by decades—but by centuries. He was an elf who had lived among humans, watching them build empires and destroy them, watching kings rise and fall, while passions remained unchanged.

“We’ll manage, Marguerite,” he said quietly, with a faint smile. “As always.”

She reached for his hand, and their fingers intertwined. Together, they stepped out onto the balcony. The night was warm yet fresh, stars shone above the palace as if someone had scattered diamonds across the velvet of the sky. The moon hung high, casting silver light over the marble and columns. Over Versailles, silence reigned—not stillness, but expectation, like the calm before the storm.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “A Meeting at the Opera”

The Paris Opera House gleamed under the glow of candelabras, bathed in the golden shimmer of candlelight and crystal chandeliers that looked like frozen waterfalls. Delicate stucco on the vaults, carved columns, and crimson velvet chairs all spoke of splendor and taste, of a desire to forget, if only briefly, the troubles of the outside world. The sound of the orchestra spread like wine over glass, seeping into every crevice, every corner of the hall, saturating the audience’s breath. The slow melodies, graceful as lace, filled the air with a special heaviness of beauty—oppressive and uplifting all at once.

Arias rose to the dome, reflected in the gilded balconies, and it seemed as if even the night beyond the theatre had paused, listening to this triumph of sound. Ladies in voluminous crinolines and gentlemen with elegant canes sat breathless, hiding their faces behind fans and opera glasses.

Marquis Théodore d’Alien was seated deep in the shadows of his box, leaning slightly against the carved velvet-upholstered backrest. He was impeccably dressed—a dark blue coat with silver embroidery, a fine lace cravat, a signet ring on his right pinky. But his face showed no hint of interest in the performance. His dark eyes were not focused on the singer, but rather gazing into a void woven with thoughts.

His mind wandered far from this golden chamber. It roamed palace halls filled with the scent of amber and the silk whisper of intrigue. Beyond these walls, life continued—far tenser than here, amidst the music. He recalled fireside conversations, letters sealed with scarlet wax, nuances in dukes’ voices, and smiles laced with threat. At the center of it all was the face of Marie Antoinette—cold and beautiful as porcelain, and just as fragile.

He hadn’t seen her in weeks, and that began to trouble him. The queen’s disappearance from her inner circle could not be mere chance. At Versailles, nothing vanishes without a trace—every step is watched, every silence dissected.

And then, as if in answer to the unspoken, something shifted in the air. He felt it not with his mind, but with his skin. A subtle movement in the half-light of the box, a barely perceptible ripple of shadow near the entrance. Théodore tensed. His hand involuntarily moved to the hilt of his decorative sword, his eyes narrowing. He turned—and his heart skipped a beat.

At the edge of the light stood a figure, wrapped in a long cloak with the hood drawn low, concealing the face. But the gesture, the tilt of the shoulders, the slight turn of the head... it could not be a trick of the imagination.

He slowly rose, not trusting his eyes, and stepped forward, as if afraid the vision would vanish.

“Your Majesty?” he whispered almost inaudibly. His voice was restrained, but uncertainty trembled in it like a taut string.

The hooded figure laughed softly, low and melodious, like raindrops on glass. It was a living, unguarded laugh—not a queen’s. The woman stepped closer and, unhurriedly, removed her mask. The light from the candelabra touched her face.

It was her. The face known from every portrait, yet now different—without the weight of the throne, without the armor of her role. Her eyes sparkled not with the cold gleam of power, but with a living light, full of ease and mystery.

“Theodore, please,” she said quietly, her voice soft as a velvet glove. “Don’t call me that here. Tonight I’m simply Marie. Not the queen. Just a woman, yearning for music and peace.”

He looked at her in confusion, and something stirred in his chest—something hard to name: a blend of anxiety, relief, and sudden tenderness.

“You ran away from the palace?” he asked after a long pause. It was a whisper, more of wonder than reproach.

“‘Ran away’—what a harsh word,” she said with a faint smile, her gaze drifting toward the stage. “I left. Left to breathe. To listen to the singer’s voice not as a ritual, not as etiquette, but as a human being. As a woman. To be in the shadow of the hall, not the throne. Have you never dreamed of such a thing?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. In his mind’s eye surfaced the familiar Norman shore, his grandmother’s garden, the scent of roses and salt, the hush in which only the bees could be heard.

“I understand…” he said. “But you’re not just a woman. You’re the queen. Every move you make is a statement. Your absence is already being discussed. Tonight, at the Duke d'Orléans' dinner…”

She raised a hand, silencing him.

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I’m tired. Tired of the endless gazes, of the crown’s weight that cannot be removed, day or night. Tonight, I allowed myself a small breath of life. I don’t need ovations—only the singer’s voice and a little quiet inside myself.”

“What if someone recognizes you here?” he asked, worried, his eyes darting toward the box’s exit.

“They won’t approach. My servants are over there,” she nodded subtly. “Three of them. Loyal as stone. No one will touch me.”

Théodore pressed his lips together, but stepped back, letting her pass to the chair. She sat down lightly and gracefully, as if spreading invisible wings.

“This evening is mine,” she said, gazing at the stage. “My ball without dancing. My song without words.”

He didn’t argue. He sat beside her. And in the silence filled with music, they remained without exchanging a word. But in that silence, there was everything: fear and understanding, the past and the unspoken.

When the aria ended and the hall erupted in applause, Marie turned to him. Her gaze held a strange calmness—as if this one hour had given her something Versailles and all of France never could.

“Thank you, Théodore. For being you. For not betraying me with your eyes.”

He bowed silently.

“Will you return to the palace?” he asked, searching her eyes as if hoping to glimpse the depth of her decision.

“I promise,” she said, and put on her mask.

Then she stood and walked toward the exit. Her step was light, but carried the weight of resolve.

He watched her until she disappeared behind the curtains, and in his chest remained the feeling that not just a woman had left—but something more: a memory worth keeping, and a pain that words could not express.

The lights in the hall dimmed, the music faded, but in the air lingered a trace of her presence—a faint scent of jasmine and freedom.

Chapter Text

"Sketch: Fashion and Fears":

Sketch: “Fashion and Fears”

Marquis Théodore d’Alien stood at the window of his study in Versailles, hands clasped behind his back, silently watching the courtiers scurrying along the gravel paths below. The sun gilded the treetops softly, casting long shadows from the neatly trimmed lindens, but the autumn gold of the garden did little to warm his troubled thoughts. The sky was clear yet fragile—like crystal, ready to shatter at the first blow. The day was unusually quiet, but within that silence, and in the serenity of the smiling faces beyond the glass, Théodore sensed unease. As if within this beauty lay a threat—soft, refined, deadly.

In recent months, voices had grown louder in the halls of Versailles and the salons of Paris about the queen’s latest fascinations. Marie Antoinette seemed to sink deeper into a world of fashion and refined pleasures, as though trying to drown in them to escape the outside world. Tales of wigs crowned with miniature ships, dresses draped in pure silver, and floral corsets embroidered with gemstones reached Théodore not just as gossip, but as signals: like fireworks before a blaze.

He had heard how the queen ordered new garments from the finest Parisian modistes each day—entire collections that changed with every ball. And with every new dress, with each livery for her little farm in the Trianon, he felt the tension among the people thicken, like a storm cloud before the thunder. First came silent resentment. Then whispers. Then reproaches. And finally, open rage.

Théodore took a deep breath. His chest, hidden beneath a dark justaucorps, rose faintly, like that of a man who knew the value of time. He understood: the French people, despite their love for elegance and spectacle, would not forgive the queen’s blindness and unchecked extravagance in times of need. Shops in the cities were closing—even the bakers grumbled. Rumors of uprisings, of secret meetings in taverns and attics, flowed into his awareness like water into a single vessel.

As a diplomat, Théodore saw how precarious the balance was. State debts grew like weeds, and the political bonds once thought unbreakable had begun to fray. He knew: sometimes it took only a feather on the scales for the storm to begin.

The door to his study creaked, and against the dusty gilt of the wall appeared the figure of his wife. Marguerite entered soundlessly, as always composed and restrained, as if she carried fragile peace with her. She wore a morning gown the color of lavender smoke, and her chestnut hair was tied back with a simple ribbon. Her steps were light, nearly silent, but there was strength in her presence that Théodore had always trusted.

“You're worrying about the queen again,” she said with a faint trace of a smile, gazing into his face.

He turned, lifting his eyes from the garden, and nodded. The corners of his eyes were lined with wrinkles—born of strain, sleepless nights, hours spent in negotiations and reading grim reports.

“It’s more than worry, Marguerite,” he said slowly, walking to the desk and sinking into the chair. The old leather armrest creaked beneath his hand. “It’s nearly fear now. The queen’s obsession with fashion has become more than a personal whim—it’s a political mistake. Paris is buzzing. The journalists, like wasps, search for new reasons to strike. And they don’t need to invent anything—it’s all real.”

He gestured toward the stack of letters, an open newspaper with a caricature: the queen in a dress seemingly sewn from grain sacks, and beneath her the caption: “Le pain est pour les poupées?” — “Is bread for dolls?”

Marguerite quietly sat down across from him, folding her graceful hands on her lap. The light from the window softened her features, making her look calmer, more serene.

“You’ve always been close to Marie Antoinette,” she said gently, without judgment. “And you still try to understand her.”

He looked at her with a long, grateful gaze.

“To understand doesn’t mean to approve,” he replied. “She is the queen. Not just a woman, not merely young and alone in a foreign land. She is a symbol. And now she decorates that symbol with lace, forgetting that outside these palace walls, it inspires anger, not reverence.”

He fell silent. His memories returned to their last encounters: a musical evening at the Petit Trianon, where she had played the harpsichord with such passion, as if trying to banish all her fears through sound. In her eyes had been that same gleam—freedom, a thirst for life, a sharp mind. But now that gleam was dulled. Like a lamp behind a veil. She had laughed—brightly, but as if in a hurry, as if fleeing.

“I’m afraid,” he said, lowering his gaze again, “that her blindness will lead not to shame, but to ruin. For her, for us, for the entire order.”

Marguerite placed her hand on his. The warmth of her fingers reached through the fabric. In that touch was not just comfort, but a reminder: beyond these discussions of the queen, there was another world—their own, fragile, human.

“You won’t be able to change her, Théodore,” she said. “She’s not a doll, not a machine. She’s seeking salvation, even if it’s in silk and pink gloves. She’s an Austrian, raised from childhood to be a wife, not a ruler. And now she’s trying to bear a world that has fallen on her all at once.”

“Perhaps,” he whispered, “but understand me too. I’m not judging her as a woman. I fear for the country. That the next time she appears in a new gown, the crowd at the gates won’t applaud. They’ll shout. Or worse—stay silent. And that is more terrifying.”

He rose and returned to the window. A shadow of a cloud slipped past the glass, distorting the light. At the foot of the stairs, a pair of ladies in feathered hats were laughing coarsely. A page darted across the path, dropping a folded handkerchief. Everything looked ordinary—and that made it all the more frightening.

“I will speak to her,” he said firmly. “Perhaps for the last time. If she doesn’t realize that fashionable ruffles can become a noose, it will be too late. Because this is no longer just her affair. It’s the affair of the whole kingdom.”

The sun was sinking. Its last rays touched the back of the chair, Marguerite’s hand, the ink bottles. Théodore looked out at the alleys, at the glass that now seemed not a barrier, but a mirror. He saw—and he knew: storms do not always arrive with thunder. Sometimes, they come in the rustle of a dress. And in silence.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “A Fashionable Choice”

Marquis Théodore d’Alien entered the spacious, candlelit room with a reserved smile. Queen Marie Antoinette and her ladies had gathered once more to select gowns. The walls, hidden behind mirrored panels and silk draperies, reflected hundreds of golden glimmers. The air was heavy with fragrance: rose oil, frankincense, orange blossom, amber—blended into a rich, heady perfume, as if the room itself breathed through the pores of refined luxury. The floor was carpeted with eastern rugs in hues of ruby and saffron, muffling the gliding steps of maids in shoes with silver buckles.

Along the walls stood screen after screen—each concealing dresses, fabrics, and boxes of jewelry. It was a true exhibition of vanity and serene abundance: pale ribbons, Bruges lace, embroidery like frost on glass. On low tables and stands—cascades of pearl strands, scattered brooches, rings, diadems, buttons inlaid with cameos. Everything shimmered and chimed in the half-light like raindrops against a windowpane.

"Marquis, how lovely that you could come," said the Queen, not turning, yet catching his reflection in a mirror. She stood before a mannequin draped in a gown of pale blue muslin, so airy it looked as if it might vanish with a sigh. Nearby lay another—deep crimson, with the finest embroidery in fiery peonies that shimmered with every fold.

"What do you think suits the ball better? This one or that?" She turned to Théodore, her voice light, but with a spark of impatience in her eyes—the kind a girl has when allowed to choose her first grown-up dress.

He bowed gracefully, observing court etiquette with precision to the millimeter, and studied the garments with interest. His dark eyes lingered on the embroidery, traced the bodice’s lines, assessed the fabric’s weight and color harmony. Yet soon, his gaze, as if drawn, drifted farther—to the table of ornaments. There lay, like the treasures of an eastern khan, diamond necklaces, emerald tiaras, earrings with rare tourmalines, carved rings, and fans inlaid with jewels. The candlelight danced across their surfaces like sunbeams on water.

"Your Majesty," he said at last, his voice a shade softer than the setting called for, but with that fragile warmth that captivates, "the gowns are undoubtedly exquisite. As always. But, if I may, I’d dare draw your attention elsewhere: to the jewels. There is voice in them. Line. Chord. They can turn a dress into a song. And a song—that is what is remembered. Especially at a ball, where no one looks for fabric, but for what it expresses."

Marie Antoinette smirked, crookedly, but sincerely. She stepped closer to the table, her skirt brushing a gilt-carved piano. Her gaze paused on a ruby necklace, its stones sparkling like blood on snow.

"You’re right, Marquis. But… how to choose, when everything calls out to you? Each day—more, and more refined. Sometimes it feels as though all of Paris whispers, ‘Choose me.’ And I keep searching, and searching…” She let her hands fall, her voice touched by that golden-wrapped weariness that stills hearts.

Théodore approached the table like a priest to an altar. His long, precise fingers did not touch the jewels—they hovered, sensing the aura of the stones, their temperaments. He stopped at a necklace of blue topazes, cold as dawn’s dewdrops. Their perfection held something empty, voiceless, like an ideal that needed no one.

He gently set it aside and reached toward a diadem dusted with emeralds like spring leaves. The emeralds weren’t bright, but deep—like forest shadows after rain.

"Emeralds," he said, "do not clamor. They do not shout—they simply are. Their strength lies in silence. In nobility that needs no proof. If Your Majesty seeks a symbol—here it is."

The Queen picked up the diadem and held it to the light, peering through its stones as through a garden’s foliage. A faint smile touched her lips.

Just then, tailors entered with a new bolt of fabric. A maid, with practiced elegance, unfurled it before the Queen—heavy silk of a rich turquoise hue, like the feather of a paradise bird.

"And this?" Marie Antoinette asked, caught by the color. "Do you think it refined enough for receiving the Austrian ambassador?"

The Marquis looked at the fabric, then at her face. That look returned—familiar to him—delight, anticipation, the thrill of play. Yet beneath the mask, he noticed something else: a fine, nearly invisible fracture.

"The fabric is certainly worthy of the ambassador’s eye—and all Vienna’s," he said, brushing it with his fingertips. "But perhaps a meeting with someone who has known you since youth might call for restraint. Gray satin with pearl embroidery would speak volumes. Of dignity. Of balance. Of remembrance."

She stilled, as though hearing a music that wasn’t there. Then gave the slightest nod.

"Perhaps you’re right, Marquis. And yet… sometimes one longs for boldness. Something to touch the soul. To make the world blink and pause."

Théodore smiled—not as a courtier, but as a man who had seen her reading Voltaire by the light of a single candle in the library at night. He knew: for her, choosing a dress was not mere play. It was defense. A mask. A theater. The only way not to dissolve in the rituals where even breathing followed court protocol.

He looked at the treasures—scattered, arranged, carefully brought from the finest workshops in Europe—and felt how they formed a shield. Not from enemies, but from emptiness.

How much longer will this game last? crossed his mind. Not with contempt—no. With concern. Because he loved her—not as a woman, not as a queen, but as a living soul, drowning in the mirrored surface of her own grandeur.

"Marquis," she said suddenly, looking into his eyes, "you, more than anyone, understand what lies beneath. Tell me: what would you choose—for yourself?"

He tilted his head slightly, as if pondering. His voice came like a confession:

"I would choose a simple ring. With a small stone. But one that remembers… why it was given."

She fell silent. And only the light, dancing across the diadem in her hands, kept flickering—like fire on the edge of ash.

Chapter Text

Sketch: "The Marquis' Attire"

Marquis Théodore d’Alien stood before a tall mirror in his Parisian residence — in a room where gilded frames reflected the flicker of candlelight, and the carved branches of plaster molding played like pale shadows on the walls. Outside, behind lace-draped windows, the day was dying, and Paris was wrapped in a gentle haze — a blend of street dust, horse sweat, and the early evening jasmine blooming in the garden.

It was early summer. Warm air drifted in through a half-open window, bringing with it echoes of the street’s murmur, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the scent of fresh bread, and the distant tinkling notes of a street organ. Yet within the Marquis’ room reigned silence — noble and deliberate, like Théodore’s own life.

Tonight was not just important — it was decisive. The palace would gather the political elite of France and Europe. New agreements were forming; unseen boundaries of influence were shifting. And Théodore — diplomat and master of subtle maneuver — was to enter the evening as a musician begins an overture: with precision, grace, and flawless intonation.

At the heart of it all — the choice of attire. Not a trifle, but a gesture; not an ornament, but a message. For Théodore, clothing was a language, and every element of it a word. From the fabric’s hue to the type of fastener — everything carried a code only the initiated could read.

Laid out on a bed draped in a heavy tapestry depicting a stag hunt were several options. The valet, old Pierre, had prepared everything that morning — hanging, pressing, laying out accessories, checking buttons, even ensuring the scent of the cloth was just right. Théodore personally chose the perfume for each coat: musk for the purple, myrrh for the dark green, vetiver for the evening black. Tonight, however, it came down to two ensembles.

The first — a deep, rich blue, like the sea off the coast of Brittany. Dense velvet with a subtle sheen shimmered in the dim light, while the hand-woven golden buttons caught the candlelight like drops of sunlight on waves. Along the sleeves and shoulders ran nearly invisible embroidery — laurel wreaths, anchors, and stars evoking victory, courage, and glory. This attire commanded respect and created distance. It said: “I stand above circumstance.”

The second — refined, light, silvery-gray, with soft silk insets that seemed to reflect moonlight. Its surface shimmered with delicate patterns, like frost on glass. The embroidery was almost invisible, but if one looked closer, one could discern intricate vines — symbols of fertility, elegance, and seasoned wisdom. The silver trim along the coat’s edge did not demand attention, but at the right angle, it resembled a fine chain encircling the figure — a suggestion of restrained strength.

Théodore stood before them in thought. His fingers slowly brushed the fabrics, feeling the smoothness of silk and the dense nap of velvet. It was as if he were conversing with the garments — asking, consulting, weighing: Who does he want to be tonight? A stern guardian or a cunning fox? A shadow or a light?

“Silver… or blue?” he murmured, as if to himself.

The valet stepped a little closer. Pierre had been with him for over thirty years, knew him better than many ministers. He knew when to speak and when to remain silent. But today required an opinion.

“Monsieur,” he began gently, almost in a whisper, “the blue will lend you more severity — especially if Monsieur Churchill truly attends. In it, you are a fortress. But silver… it draws the eye. It provokes thought. And in Versailles, as you well know, they listen more with their eyes than their ears.”

Théodore gave a brief nod. Pierre had captured the essence precisely. The reception was a trap. The game was unequal — and so he had to look like the one setting the rules.

“Silver,” he said, without smiling, but with firmness. “Tonight we speak in subtle strokes.”

He stepped toward the wardrobe where a fine batiste shirt awaited. Hand-embroidered cuffs, delicate lace edging the collar, soft silk flowing like water. He donned it slowly, as if performing a ritual. His body remembered the sequence instinctively — how to draw on the sleeves, tuck the hem, deftly fasten the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons.

Next came the trousers — gray, nearly white, with slender silver piping. They hugged his frame perfectly, creating a silhouette that was light, almost ethereal. Over them — the silver-embroidered coat, like dew on a web. Every movement of Théodore’s was deliberate yet fluid. He did not rush. To hurry was beneath the great. He already knew: the first victory was his.

On a small inlaid rosewood table lay his accessories. Not mere trinkets, but relics — memory, the language of power. A signet ring engraved with his family crest — a shield entwined with a serpent and laurel branch. Cufflinks of blackened silver, a gift from the Archbishop of Vienna. An emerald pin — from an Archduke — a hidden symbol of connection to the Austrian court. The stone — understated, restrained, deep as a forest pool.

“Emerald,” said Théodore, affixing the pin, “modest enough not to offend, but striking enough to remind.”

He stepped back from the mirror, regarding himself with a faint smile. Everything was in place: his posture — that of a general on parade, his gaze — calm but piercing, the attire — a perfect balance between light and shadow. He was like a musical composition — harmonious, intricate, but never excessive. All that needed to be said had already been spoken — without words.

Pierre approached and handed him his hat — wide-brimmed, with a white plume and silver clasp.

“All ready, Marquis?” he asked with a slight bow.

“Ready,” Théodore replied, taking the hat. He looked once more into the mirror and nodded to his reflection, like an actor approving his makeup before stepping onstage.

Outside, the city was quieting, and in the heart of Versailles, chandeliers were being lit. Tonight, France would witness not only a seasoned diplomat, but a master of image. A man who owned every gesture, every seam, every shadow beneath his collar. And all who encountered him this evening would feel it: Théodore d’Alien was not merely a guest at the reception. He was the conductor of a great political symphony, playing in the rustle of his coat, in the gleam of his pin, in the calm of his silence.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The Marquis and the Bourgeoisie”

Marquis Théodore d'Alen sat at a massive oak desk in his study, paneled in dark wood. The air was steeped in the scent of wax, old paper, and the faint bitterness of wine. Beyond a wide stained-glass window veiled in evening mist, night slowly descended, and the fire in the hearth cast flickering reflections on the carved pilasters, sketching flashes of living gold across the walls.

In a graceful yet sinewy hand, he held a thin-walled crystal glass filled with rich burgundy wine, its surface catching the firelight. The drink was aged, with a sharpness found not only in fine vineyards but in Théodore himself — a man of the old order, taught restraint and calculation.

Across from him, seated in leather-upholstered chairs, were three men. They belonged to the emerging bourgeoisie — practical, businesslike, devoid of sentimentality or velvet manners. Their suits were impeccably tailored yet unadorned: dark colors, straight lines, smooth fabrics. No spurs, no lace, no golden thread. Only the weight of the cloth, the austere cufflinks, and the walking stick by the door hinted at a restrained power that had no need of splendor.

Théodore knew: these men played by different rules. Rules where nobility yielded to efficiency, and honor was measured not by heraldry, but by income. If once kingdoms were ruled by kings and aristocrats, power now coursed through the channels of capital — and it was men like these who carved those channels.

He set his glass on a wooden coaster and folded his arms atop the table. His movements were precise, almost theatrical, like an actor long accustomed to his role.

"Gentlemen," he began softly, with that clear intonation no one dares interrupt, "I am confident our cooperation will prove beneficial to all parties. The time of the old noble houses is fading — beautifully, yes, but inevitably, like an autumn leaf. And you — you are not merely the winds of change. You are its direction. It is you, representatives of the bourgeoisie, who now shape the economic future of France."

He spoke without pomp, yet each word landed precisely, like stones in the foundation of a rising tower. His interlocutors nodded silently, not rushing to respond — as was proper for men used to weighing every word. Their nods carried no submission, only recognition of the moment’s gravity.

The men were distinct from one another. Monsieur Léonard — wiry, slightly stooped, with sharp eyes behind round spectacles and neatly trimmed mustache. His hands were nervous, thin, but quick — like those of a violinist or a jeweler. Gautier — broad, heavyset, with a thick neck slightly flushed from wine, his fingers more accustomed to holding a plow or hammer than a quill. The third, Monsieur Rémy, silent and pensive, looked like a man who thought ten moves ahead before laying down a card.

This was an alliance woven not from trust, but from mutual interest — and for that reason, perhaps, it seemed all the stronger. Interest bound tighter than blood.

“Monsieur Léonard,” Théodore said, leaning slightly forward, “your ships carry wine to England and Holland. The wine of my vineyards, grown in the foothills of Saint-Honoré, on lands where each vine knows the name of its master. But surely, we can expand this market — can we not?”

Léonard nodded, smiling faintly. He adjusted his glasses, as if preparing to better examine the prospect.

“Of course, Marquis. But it will require new investments and, more importantly, new connections. That is precisely why we are here. Your position at court is rare — and valuable. With your help, we can do more than trade with neighbors. We can open doors to the colonies. Coffee, sugar, spices — all seek new intermediaries. We intend to become them. And you could be the key.”

The Marquis leaned back into his chair, letting his back sink into the soft leather. The firelight flickered in his dark eyes. He didn’t respond immediately, letting the pause fill with meaning. His father, Count d’Alen, would have considered this an alliance with commoners. But Théodore saw further: he was not a simple nobleman living by the dictates of the past. He sought real power — not inherited, but made.

“I agree,” he said at last, with the quiet confidence even enemies respect. “We will expand the connections. I am ready to become your partner and invest in ventures where honor meets profit. In return, you will support my projects at court. Sometimes one needn’t press — only know when to say the right word.”

Monsieur Gautier, until now silent, leaned forward. The fire cast a crimson sheen on his face.

“Marquis,” he said with firm directness, “your name at court weighs more than our purses. We are not asking for favors. We offer an alliance. If you help us gain access to royal contracts — for cloth, arms, provisions — we guarantee our support. At the right hour, in the right hall, among the right people. We will provide you a power that no coat of arms can buy.”

He spoke forcefully but without rudeness. His accent revealed a southerner, perhaps from a merchant family in Marseille. Every word carried energy, confidence, and a hint of challenge.

Théodore didn’t take his eyes off him. He felt like a cartographer discovering a new continent — the bourgeoisie. It was young, a bit rough, but promised immense resources. And if handled wisely, it could be more than a means to survive the new world — it could make one of its architects.

He slowly raised his glass, the wine catching the fire like a spark in a hardened heart. A faint ripple trembled on the surface — a flicker of uncertainty, swiftly concealed.

“Well then,” he said, “I believe we’ve reached an understanding. We needn’t be friends — allies will suffice. Sometimes that is stronger than blood.”

The men raised their glasses in return. Crystal rang softly in the air, like a herald of new times.

“To our cooperation,” said Théodore.

He smiled — politely, with a touch of irony, calibrated to just the right degree. But inwardly, he smiled differently — wide, predatory, with the satisfaction of a chess player seeing the winning move.

He knew these men saw him as a nobleman trying to stay afloat. Let them. He saw them as tools — not crudely, not insultingly, but clearly. They were levers capable of lifting him to a new summit. The aristocracy was dying — but its death could become a stage.

While they bought contracts, he bought influence. While they built warehouses, he built a network. The bourgeoisie and the old world were entwining in a subtle, dense web — and Marquis Théodore d'Alen had no intention of becoming its prey.

He would be its spider.

Chapter Text

Sketch: "The Marquis's Extravagance"

Marquis Théodore d’Alien, a man of reserved manners and refined taste, had long guarded his image as carefully as his treasury. His reputation as a prudent aristocrat, one who shunned excess, was well known both at court and among the bourgeoisie, with whom he conducted business with notable success. Among Paris's influential elite, he was regarded as a rational figure — almost old-fashioned in his measured approach to life, as though the memory of past storms still lingered in the folds of his impeccable frock coat. But now, with profits flowing steadily from the fabric trade and farsighted investments bearing fruit, the marquis had decided it was time — briefly, at least — to allow himself and his family a taste of luxury. Not as a whim, but as a carefully crafted message to the world.

In the days of Louis XVI, when fashion dictated both image and lifestyle, even the most modest noblemen succumbed to the allure of gold, silk, and Parisian refinement. The graceful curve of a chair, brocade drapes, the weight of silver tableware — all spoke of taste, prestige, and power. Théodore knew: if one must yield to the influence of the times, it should be without losing one’s head. His indulgence would be elegant, intelligent — not ostentatious, but undoubtedly worthy of the name d’Alien.

The townhouse on Rue Saint-Florentin, where the marquis’s family resided, no longer matched contemporary tastes. Its walls, still bearing traces of time and faded glory, had begun to dull. The curtains were faded, the floorboards creaked, the tapestries were worn, and the once-gilded frames had lost their luster. The sunlight streaming through old stained-glass windows lit up dust that seemed to settle not only on furniture, but on the very memory of the home. Théodore summoned the finest decorators, architects, and craftsmen in Paris.

The measured tapping of hammers, the screech of saws, and the scent of fresh wood mixed with varnish, lemon oil, and the spicy incense used to prepare rooms for the artisans, filled the spacious halls. It was the music of transformation — both joyous and unsettling. Workers moved carefully, respectfully, as though the walls themselves had heard much and could tell even more.

Marguerite von Wilsdorf, Théodore’s wife, eagerly took part in the home's transformation. Her silver-blond hair was styled in the latest Parisian fashion, and her eyes sparkled with the energy of a mistress of the house awakened from a long slumber. She did not merely supervise the renovation — she conducted it like a symphony. She argued passionately with decorators, sifted through fabric samples, and discussed every detail — from the shade of silk to the pattern of the molding.

"Darling, this blue velvet is simply magnificent!" she exclaimed, holding up a thick, soft swatch that caught the Versailles sky in its folds — shifting between sapphire and indigo.

Théodore, standing by the window, stroked his neatly trimmed beard in thought. His dark wool frock coat was impeccably tailored, with lace cuffs peeking just slightly from beneath his sleeves. A shadow of doubt crossed his eyes — was this all too grand, too much of a statement? Was he becoming someone he had no wish to be? Calculations flickered in his mind — numbers, names of potential rivals and cautious allies. But then he looked at his wife, her glowing face, her genuine joy, and his heart softened.

"If you like it, let it be blue velvet," he said with a gentle smile that conveyed both concession and inner peace.

The marquis’s children received their share of attention as well. The eldest son, twelve-year-old Étienne — solemn beyond his years — held his first hunting rifle with reverent care. He admired it for hours, as if it were a treasure, studying the inlay and engravings on the stock. The traits of a future heir were already evident in him: he spoke little, observed much, and remembered everything. His step was firm but measured, his voice low and polite.

The youngest daughter, eight-year-old Julie — a dreamer with eyes the color of a forest lake — was never seen without the delicate gold-and-pearl pendant her father had given her. She often turned it on her neck as though searching within it for answers to her childish questions. Her new room was adorned with pastel wallpaper patterned with slender lilies and ivory-painted furniture. Books with cloth covers, porcelain dolls, airy lace curtains, and the scent of lavender sachets filled the space.

New toys, dresses from Lyon, and illustrated books worthy of their lineage were acquired for the children. The rooms rang with laughter, smelled of fresh paper and candle wax, and gleamed with polished surfaces. Even the walls seemed to come alive, absorbing this new vitality.

But the true triumph of the renovation was the marquis’s new carriage. A gleaming black coach adorned with exquisite gold filigree and the d’Alien family crest — two heraldic lilies entwined with a laurel branch — became a sensation on the streets of Paris. In the evening light, it shimmered like a mirror, reflecting lanterns, shopfronts, and the curious faces of passersby.

Every outing became an event: the children in embroidered velvet cloaks, Marguerite in a gown the color of antique wine with pearl trim, Théodore in an impeccable tailcoat with a jade-headed cane. The horses, harnessed in silver trappings, stepped proudly — as if they knew they carried more than just a family; they bore the image of an era.

Crowds fell silent as they passed, street vendors bowed, and liveried footmen opened the doors of theaters and opera houses with heightened reverence. Théodore held himself upright, offering a reserved smile — yet deep down, he felt the tension of walking a fine line. This luxury — like the chime of crystal — could turn to a crack if pressed too hard.

Despite the external splendor, the marquis never lost his innate caution. He remained a diplomat and strategist — one who was not seduced by illusions. He knew: in a jealous man’s eyes, brilliance becomes brazenness; generosity becomes provocation. The times were shifting, and Théodore could sense the undercurrents invisible to most. He heard silence behind his back, noted the eyes tracking him in the Council chamber, and read between the lines of letters bearing ancient seals.

Sometimes, in the quiet of his study, after a lavish reception, he would light a candle, open an old leather-bound book, and whisper to himself:

"There must be balance in life..."

And in that moment — amidst the luxurious draperies, the soft glow of candelabra, the warm scent of wax and vetiver-tinged perfumes — he would recall the nature of his own soul: restrained, yearning for order, for the eternal, for the simple.

He knew he was playing a complex and dangerous game — between modesty and extravagance, between politics and personal happiness, between the present and the future. But he believed: if elegance did not become a mask, if wealth did not replace dignity, then he was leading his family on the right path.

And let the guests’ eyes glitter with the reflections of crystal tonight, let toasts and laughter fill the rooms, let velvet and gold speak on his behalf. Tomorrow, he would don the gloves of a diplomat once again, cautious in speech. But now, in this fleeting brilliance, he allowed himself to live — gracefully, beautifully, but without losing himself.

Chapter Text

Sketch: "Turgot’s Reforms and the Views of Marquis d’Alienne"

1774. Over Versailles, something new was stirring — light, uneasy, elusive, like the foreboding of a storm after a long heat. Amid the rich aroma of the Orangerie’s orange trees and the powdered perfume of the corridors, there already lingered the scent of change. Young Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had ascended the throne of France, and with them, a fresh wind entered the sunlit halls of the Hall of Mirrors — not yet revolutionary, but sharp already, like the first autumn draft replacing the warm air of summer.

The court did not yet know what lay ahead. Courtiers chattered, entertained themselves, fenced, composed madrigals — but beneath the rustle of silk and the porcelain laughter of young ladies pulsed a new, anxious rhythm. It came not from a courtly trumpet, but from the world beyond the palace: the stalls of Paris streets, the taverns of Reims, the salons of philosophers, and — in a rare case — the office of the finance minister.

That minister was Anne-Robert-Jacques Turgot — a dry, modest man with eyes that seemed carved from flint. He wore an uncurled wig, carried no gilded cane, and spoke in terse sentences. His arrival in Versailles was like a bell toll amid a ballet: too loud, too abrupt, too honest.

His ideas troubled those accustomed to the comfortable geometry of the social order. Abolish privileges? Introduce a unified tax? Reduce court expenses? These words sounded like rebellion cloaked in bookkeeping jargon. Yet they could not be ignored. They eroded familiar assumptions like raindrops wearing away a marble façade.

Marquis Théodore d’Alienne, a man of lineage and intellect, watched the events with interest. Descended from an ancient family, he wore velvet and lace with the same elegance as he carried his reflections on human nature and the structure of power. His family crest adorned fireplaces in two châteaux, but his mind was increasingly in the salons of the city, where the voices of Montesquieu and Voltaire were heard. He sensed that an era was coming in which titles would give way to talent, and birthright to knowledge.

That evening, as the shadows lengthened and candlelight cast wavering reflections on mirrored panels, Théodore entered one of the private gatherings. The room was paneled with carved wood, a heavy chandelier shedding amber light from above. Here, among gentlemen with diamonds on their rings and ribbons of orders, the talk was not of love affairs and ballet premieres — but, grandiose as it sounded, of the fate of France.

Turgot stood by a window, his back to the room, as though preferring to speak to the stars beyond the glass rather than the men behind him. When he turned around, his face resembled that of a doctor delivering a diagnosis: restrained, serious, almost calm.

“France stands at the edge,” he said in an even, quiet voice. “Debt is rising. Revenues are shrinking like shagreen. If we do not change something now — it will be too late. We are not kings forever, gentlemen. Even monarchy has a limit to its debts.”

The room remained motionless. Only the flutter of a plume on someone’s hat, the faint creak of a chair, the soft clink of a glass set on marble. Then — a wave of discontent, low and rustling like wind in leaves.

One of the men, the Marquis de Broglie, straightened. He was of the kind whose mustache was carefully curled, voice honed by parliamentary speeches, and soul tightly bound to the order where nobles were shepherds and others the flock.

“You want to take from us all that makes us nobility!” he said, his voice slightly raised. “Privileges are not whims but the foundation of hierarchy. Without them, power melts like butter left in the sun. Does the King even support this?”

Silence fell. Candlelight flickered in the glasses, and it seemed even the walls were listening.

Turgot did not raise his voice or make a sharp gesture. He only looked straight into the marquis’s eyes — not with defiance, but with implacable resolve.

“I serve the King. But above all — I serve France. And France is dying not from a lack of titles, but from an empty treasury and barren customs. I speak not of the honor of an estate, but of the salvation of the state.”

Despite their soft delivery, these words sounded like a challenge. Some guests leaned back in their chairs. Some looked away. Others stared intently, like hunters narrowing their gaze. Turgot’s speech was no diplomatic game — it was a verdict on the old order.

Then Théodore d’Alienne stepped forward. His coat was modest but impeccably tailored. He had lingered in the shadow, as if preferring to observe from the edge. But now he came forth — not forcefully, but with quiet firmness.

“Gentlemen,” he said with a light, almost coaxing tone, “I fear we are speaking the wrong language. We defend our comforts like a bastion, yet forget that beyond these walls lives an entire nation. Monsieur Turgot’s reforms are not a blow, but a warning. And perhaps the last.”

His voice was gentle, almost friendly, but beneath its polished surface lay intense thought. He offered no sermons, no accusations. He spoke like a man accustomed to seeing the future through the dust of the present.

“Look at the bourgeoisie,” he continued, passing by the tables. “They learn, they trade, they write, they master crafts and sciences. While we feast, they build bridges, calculate, invent. And if we want to preserve our influence, we’d best learn to see beyond the edge of our wigs.”

Some smiled. A few with mockery, others with interest. Turgot stood motionless, but his face showed keen attention. He gave a slight nod, without interrupting.

D’Alienne’s words hung in the air like spilled wine — thick, lingering. Even the carved walls seemed to pause in reflection. Some of the gathered — old foxes and rising favorites — for the first time felt something like doubt.

As the evening drew to a close, candles flickered out one by one, and shadows grew longer, Turgot and the marquis remained alone in a small drawing room. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting ancient virtues, but in the dimness they resembled ghosts of the past more than ideals.

“You said more than I could have,” said Turgot, stepping toward the fireplace. His face, weary and reserved, was lit only by the glow of embers. “Sometimes, a voice from within is more powerful than one from without.”

“I only said what’s been in the air for some time,” Théodore replied quietly. “But air is a fickle thing. It can carry life — or a storm. You won’t be forgiven. Not here, not below.”

“I’m not seeking forgiveness,” said Turgot. “I seek a way out. And maybe, a chance.”

Théodore nodded silently. He stepped into the corridor, his footsteps echoing softly on marble. Outside, the spring wind stirred the crowns of the Versailles trees. Somewhere beyond the palace, the air smelled of bread, leather, sweat — the life of a country still unaware of what awaited it.

The marquis paused at a window. Below, a groundskeeper was sweeping the gravel. Somewhere in the west, distant thunder rolled. He knew: the night would be quiet. But the morning — would not.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The Marquis d'Alien and the Church Opposition”

Marquis Théodore d'Alien walked through the quiet, cool corridors of his estate, inherited from his great-grandfather, where every stone in the walls preserved the memory of his family’s former glory. The spacious arcaded galleries, draped in ivy from the outside, cast intricate patterns of light and shadow on the floor. The air held a faint scent of wax and dried herbs from the herbariums, carefully preserved by generations past. Tapestries depicting faded scenes of hunts and crusades adorned the walls. Between them stood marble busts—ancestors of the marquis, stern-faced men gazing into eternity with silent reproach or pride.

Yet Théodore felt no reverence for these ancestral relics. His thoughts were dark, like the sky before a summer storm. The past weeks had felt like a drawn-out agony: France trembled under the weight of debt, looming revolution, and inevitable change. The people were restless, ministers flailed between the king and his creditors, and behind it all—like a hidden underground river—flowed an ancient resistance. A resistance to change, rising from the deepest foundations of ecclesiastical and aristocratic power.

Théodore had always approached the clergy with cautious wariness, which over the years had grown into distrust. He had seen them—haughtily pious, robed in gold-embroidered vestments, preaching humility and obedience—while behind closed doors they bartered for promises, land, and exemptions. Their prayers resembled theatrical recitations, devoid of passion or sincerity. They did not serve God—they negotiated with Him. Their piety was an elegant mask hiding greed, fear, and an insatiable lust for power.

Now, as Turgot’s reforms—moderate but persistent—threatened the Church’s time-honored privileges, it no longer concealed itself. It lay in wait, tense, like a beast backed against a wall, ready for a desperate strike. Théodore could feel it almost physically: each day brought new letters, rumors, and warnings. Wine still flowed at the balls, but behind the smiles lurked questions: “Whose side are you on?”, “Where do you stand?”, “Can you be trusted?” And the more he remained silent, the louder this unspoken pressure became.

One foggy morning, just as the sun began piercing the veil of silvery clouds, he received a letter. A heavy envelope of cream-colored paper, sealed with the wax crest of Bishop de Maurienne, and bearing a precise, too-deliberate handwriting. He was invited—politely, with a touch of deference—for a conversation. But the marquis understood at once: this was no invitation, but a summons. Not a request, but a demand. It wasn’t about opinion—it was about loyalty.

He did not delay. That very day, his carriage rolled slowly over the cobblestones toward the bishop’s residence, which loomed over the city like a ship above a stormy sea. The building’s façade, adorned with reliefs and columns, gleamed in the midday sun, but within, it was dim and damp, like an ancient basilica. A tall footman in a silver frock coat, with a face chiseled from gray stone, led him into the reception room.

There, among crystal chandeliers, oak panels, and the scent of incense, stood the bishop himself—tall, gaunt, robed with meticulous care, his fingers thin and his eyes cold. His face looked carved from marble, but behind that stillness lay a mind long accustomed to intrigue and backroom maneuvering.

“Marquis,” he said softly, invitingly, “disturbing rumors have reached us. It is said you support Monsieur Turgot and his, shall we say… dangerous innovations.”

Théodore nodded, his gaze unwavering. He felt the tension beneath his skin, like a taut string.

“I support not so much Monsieur Turgot as the very idea of change. France has long teetered on the edge. Now she is falling—and we will either guide that fall, or be buried beneath the rubble.”

The bishop smiled, an old man’s smile tinged with pity. He stepped closer and rested his hands on the armrests of a chair, as though ascending a throne.

“You are too young to understand—France has weathered many crises. But each time, she survived thanks to order. And order begins with hierarchy. With the recognition of authority. Especially the authority of the Church of God. Turgot’s reforms are misguided. They sever the king from his foundation. From us. And if the throne tilts—the crown will fall.”

His voice bore the conviction forged by centuries of tradition. But Théodore did not yield.

“A hierarchy built on the suffering of peasants is not divine order—it is human cruelty. Can you not see the ever-widening chasm between heaven and earth?”

The bishop’s face grew taut. He sat down, arms crossed. His gaze was no longer just cold—it was a warning.

“You overestimate the power of popular unrest. The people are wind. They make noise, they disturb, but they can be guided. We have guided them for centuries. But you, Marquis, are playing with fire. You risk not only your reputation—but the very concept of order. The Church will not forget those who turn their backs in times of trial.”

The words were spoken calmly, without raised voice. But beneath that calm lay an authority honed over decades of influence. Théodore paused before replying, his voice almost icily polite:

“Perhaps it is because you’ve grown so used to power that you fail to feel the ground trembling beneath your feet. The people no longer listen to your sermons. They listen to hunger. And pain. And justice. And those are stronger than the fear of hell.”

The room fell silent. Outside, crows cawed. A bell tolled somewhere in the distance. In that moment, they understood each other completely: enemies not by choice, but by nature.

When Théodore left the residence, the air felt heavier than before. The streets of Paris drifted past like a mist. People went about their business, unaware that their fates were being shaped in halls lined with red velvet and gilding. But the marquis knew. And he felt a shadow trailing behind him. He understood: after this conversation, there would be no turning back. The bishop would not forget. The Church would not forgive.

He returned to his estate by evening, and ascending to the library, stood long at the window, gazing at the crimson sunset reflected in the glass. Neither books, nor music, nor birdsong brought relief. Within him, a clear, focused resolve was building.

He understood: it would be hard. They would try to buy him, blackmail him, break him. Perhaps even eliminate him. But he had made his choice. And now, standing on the threshold of a great storm, he felt himself part of something greater—not a family line, not a political faction, but of history itself, which at last was coming to demand reckoning.

France was awakening. And those who failed to hear her voice—would be erased.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The Marquis’ Gambits”

Marquis Théodore d’Alien, known at court not only for his prudence but also for his mastery of subtle maneuvering, sat in the dim glow of his study, lit only by the flickering light of a candelabrum. The candle flames cast shifting shadows on the walls, as if reflecting the many roles he was forced to play. The spacious room held the scent of old leather, wax, and faded ink — the aroma of power and contemplation. Tall oak bookcases groaned under the weight of books, treatises, and scrolls, while leather-bound folders on the shelves held reports, dispatches, and secret correspondence — every line of which could alter someone's fate.

Spread across the desk before him lay a collection of letters — official, crested, sealed, written in tidy script — seemingly unremarkable diplomatic documents at first glance. But to Théodore, they were patterns woven into a fabric he had been crafting since early spring. The threads of these patterns led to various corners of France — from Versailles to provincial assemblies, from the Viennese court to the commercial clubs of Lyon. Every word between the lines meant more than the paper itself.

He ran his fingers along the edge of one letter, pausing on the embossed crest, gazing into it as though he could read the future within. These papers concealed a strategy — intricate, multi-layered, nearly mathematical. He was not merely surviving at court — he was building his influence like an architect of invisible structures, where every favor, every rumor, every smile carried weight.

Beyond the wide window framed in heavy burgundy curtains, the autumn wind rustled. It carried the scent of dampness and decaying chestnuts from the garden. Branches tapped gently against the glass as if seeking permission to enter. But Théodore did not hear them — his thoughts were caught in another storm. Not the one racing across the gray sky, but a political one — far more ruthless and unpredictable.

Turgot’s reforms, seemingly rational and even progressive, had sparked unrest. Conservative nobles whispered in the corridors, and clerics had begun to openly express concern from their pulpits. The young King Louis XVI — meek, hesitant, overly reliant on others' opinions — seemed incapable of making decisions without the queen’s support, her whims shifting with Versailles’ fashion trends. Théodore did not judge him — he simply understood: the field was perfect for maneuvering.

His lips pressed into a thin line. To survive in this era of change, one needed more than foresight — one had to feel the currents beneath the surface of events, like an engineer senses current before touching a wire.

He rose and approached the fireplace, where logs crackled softly. The flames illuminated a tapestry depicting a hunting scene — a reminder that court was also a hunt. Only here, the prey was influence, position, life itself. Théodore glanced at the clock with bronze hands: Jacques Ner was due to arrive within minutes.

The marquis closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the hum inside his head — a flood of thoughts drowning out the world. He felt the weight of every day, every misstep, every choice. At times, in the deepest hours, doubt would visit him. To be a bridge between worlds — that was not a hero’s path. It was the path of a piece everyone sought to use. But he pushed those thoughts away. They served no purpose.

He could not afford to doubt.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A servant stood at the threshold, bowing low.

“Monsieur Jacques Ner has arrived, monseigneur.”

Théodore stepped away from the fireplace and moved forward. His face lit with a light, exquisitely restrained smile — one that offered no promises, no threats, only cold politeness.

In the reception room, Jacques Ner was already waiting. Tall, in a parchment-beige frock coat, with a blue cravat and a ring on his finger, he carried himself like a man confident in his capital — and in how that capital influenced others. His eyes, however, were sharp — like a jeweler inspecting a ruby for flaws.

“Marquis,” he began, settling into a chair by the fire. “You were precise as always. The information you provided… not only was it confirmed, it has begun to bear fruit. Your predictions are astonishing. Are you truly certain of their accuracy?”

Théodore sat opposite him, leaning slightly forward.

“Certainty is a luxury I don’t indulge in. I prefer patterns. People repeat themselves. Even kings. Especially kings.”

The banker smirked, though his lips twitched more from caution than amusement.

“You want us to… wait?”

“We can’t confront them head-on. Not yet,” Théodore said slowly. “Preparation is more important now. The board is ideal: the bourgeoisie is gaining strength, the church is vulnerable, and royal power is soft. We will support Turgot’s reforms — not as their disciples, but as the architects of a new structure. Influence is not built on slogans. It is built on promissory notes and the fear of losing influence.”

“So we wait for them to slip?”

“Not only wait — but help create the conditions. Sow doubt, gently shake the foundations. One misstep by the queen, and the people will start to whisper. One misguided law, and the aristocracy will begin to fracture. Then we offer a shoulder — and earn a place beside the new throne.”

Jacques stood and walked to the window. For several seconds, he said nothing, watching the black trees sway in the wind.

“You are incredibly precise, Marquis. But still... don’t you fear the castle might collapse on your head?”

Théodore looked into the fire, as if seeking the answer in its flames.

“I do. Every day. But I fear even more becoming a pawn in someone else’s game. Better to be the architect of a crumbling system than its victim.”

Jacques returned to his chair, slowly pulling on his gloves.

“I’m with you. But be warned: bankers, like wolves, smell blood. Don’t let them catch your scent.”

“I know how to smell like money, not blood,” Théodore replied with a faint smile.

When Ner departed, Théodore was left alone with the silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. He walked to the table where a carved chessboard of black and white marble awaited. A few pieces were already arranged. He made a move — the white rook slid forward.

New meetings lay ahead. With Lafayette and other young nobles who still believed in honor and change. Théodore chose them not for blood, but for intellect — and for desperation. He knew what they desired. He gave those young idealists more than promises. He gave them direction.

And his wife, Marguerite — reserved and cold as a statue — wrote elegant letters to Vienna. Her style was light, almost naïve, but beneath it hid questions sharp as needles. She did not interfere, but every word she penned became part of the picture. She knew who to frighten with a whisper from the past, and who to charm.

Marquis Théodore d’Alien knew: his power lay not in his crest. Not in his birth. And not in overt authority.

His strength was in alliances, in knowledge, in patience. And in knowing when to stay silent while others spoke.

He looked again at the chessboard. All the pieces were in place. But the players — not yet.

While they were still entering the game, he already knew on which move he would sacrifice the queen.

The key was knowing who wouldn’t notice.

Chapter Text

Sketch: "Pamphlets Against the Church"

Marquis Théodore d'Alienne sat in his study, surrounded by a luxury that would have been hard to associate with his own childhood, spent in the cool dormitories of monastic boarding schools and the dark corners of a provincial château in Limousin. Now before him stretched a carefully constructed stage set of success: walls draped in green silk, an inlaid writing desk crowded with paperweights, inkwells, and stacks of documents, bronze candelabras with fragrant beeswax candles. Through the tall window streamed the evening light, tinting the gilded portrait frames in a warm, almost biblical hue of aged honey.

The air was filled with a mingled scent of hot sealing wax, expensive tobacco, and parchment. As if the very spirit of the Enlightenment had gathered here, clothed in a smoky form made of words and intrigue. On the desk lay a fresh stack of pamphlets, carelessly tied with a black ribbon. Each one was a thinly veiled attack on the Church—not hysterical or insulting, but icy, precise, cold as a surgical instrument.

Théodore removed the glove from his right hand, ran his fingers along the edge of one of the sheets, feeling the roughness of cheap paper. He picked up the first pamphlet and unfolded it. The yellowing edges trembled, as if the paper itself understood the danger of its words. He skimmed the headlines, pausing briefly at the phrasing: "Gold by the Weight of the Altar: An Abbey’s Income Report," "Hands Folded in Prayer, Clenched in Fists," "The Flesh of Spirit: Gluttony, Lust, and Power in Robes." The words were vivid, caustic, and yet elegant—almost like Voltaire’s epigrams, only without his mocking lightness. These texts weren’t joking. They were preparing for war.

The marquis had never been a man of faith. In childhood, he had listened with unease to the monks' footsteps echoing in corridors; in youth, he despised sermons on sin, preferring philosophical treatises; and now, he regarded the Church with a cold, almost scientific interest. He saw it not as a tool of salvation, but as a meticulously constructed system of control, where every metaphor had a price and every vow a tax implication. Yet he was no fool. The Church’s influence ran deep, almost into the soil. It hid not just in pulpits, but in lullabies, in death chambers, in every superstition, in the glint of every stained-glass window.

Now, as the situation in France rapidly intensified, Théodore saw ever more clearly: the Church was not a neutral entity, not a cultural artifact. It was a fortress wrapped in ivy—picturesque on the outside, but inside full of rust and mold. It resisted reform not out of ignorance, but deliberately. Progress threatened its foundations, for in a world where reason prevails over fear, miracles appear as parlor tricks, and dogmas as ancient deceits.

He took the next pamphlet. The paper was thicker, better printed. The text began almost poetically: "All that is veiled by the chasuble rots beneath it." The author spoke with outrage, but also with clarity as sharp as glass. This was no mere criticism of the clergy—it was a dissection. It reduced them to sets of numbers, income charts, facts about indulgence sales, monastic luxury, endless correspondence with Versailles. The signature was a pseudonym—“Pilgrim of Reason.” Théodore knew who was behind the name: a Sorbonne lecturer stripped of his chair for “anti-hierarchical views”—now a dangerous ally in his network.

He leaned back in his chair, feeling the leather creak beneath him. His gaze drifted across the ceiling adorned with gilded stucco rosettes, then returned to the desk. These texts were already circulating—first among lawyers and students, then through liberal printing houses, and now even reaching the hands of weary bureaucrats buried in paper. He knew: the process had begun. And it was by no means reversible.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, feeling the stubble under his fingers. A recent conversation with Jacques Ner surfaced in his memory. They had been sitting by the fire with glasses of dark rum, arguing as always. Ner, with his unruly mane of hair, passionate and impatient, had tapped his fingers on the table: “You’re still playing, Theo. But the game is ending. The Church is a rusted lock on the gate of reason. We either break it—or rot at the threshold.” Théodore had replied quietly, staring into the flames: “Don’t break it. Loosen it. Let it fall on its own.” But now even he felt—the lock wasn’t falling. It held fast. And the rust, it seemed, was already in the veins.

"Must I intervene personally?" Théodore wondered, placing the pamphlet on the far edge of the desk—where he usually left letters destined for burning.

A servant knocked—twice, sharply. Théodore recognized the rhythm. Not mere politeness, but a coded signal. He set aside his spectacles and nodded. The young man entered—a footman in a dark blue frock coat with silver embroidery—and silently handed him a letter. The sealing wax was dark red, almost brown, marked with a distinct exclamation point. A private symbol used only for his confidential contacts—a sign known only to those involved in covert operations.

Théodore broke the seal carefully, not tearing the edges. The paper was thin, almost translucent, written in a calligraphic, slightly slanted hand:

“The new prints are ready, Marquis. Distribution begins tomorrow. Everything will reach the right people. Baudin and Argent have already received their copies. Leave the window open at midnight—as before.”

He didn’t smile. The letter didn’t promise victory; it announced another step—like an ant carrying a grain, building an underground world. And yet, something warm stirred in his chest. He knew the new batch of pamphlets would soon scatter across Paris and beyond—into the hands of bourgeois, shopkeepers, students, apothecaries who sold tinctures by day and read Rousseau by night. Some of the texts would even make their way into noble salons, where pearl-draped ladies whispered of taxes and justice.

Despite all caution, he felt the tension rising. In Paris, disappearances were increasing. Raids. Informants. Some couriers had gone silent. Some were seen in the company of men in gray cloaks—church agents. The marquis knew: sooner or later, the fanatics and bishops would strike back. But to strike—they had to emerge from the shadows. And as long as they hid behind pulpits, they were losing.

He rose and went to the window. Beyond the glass, the evening Parisian light spread out—dim, pinkish-gold. Far off, he could hear the cries of market vendors, the neighing of horses, the clatter of wheels on cobblestones. Smoke hung over the rooftops of the Latin Quarter. From bonfires? From print shops? Or from something less innocent?

He closed his eyes. Once, in childhood, the sound of bells had seemed a call to order. Now—it sounded like the herald of a storm. Not today, not tomorrow. But soon.

Returning to the desk, he summoned his secretary. The young man appeared instantly—no more than twenty, with neatly cropped dark hair, glasses, and a nervous right hand he kept clenching into a fist. Théodore instructed him to prepare his files: a list of names, a diagram of distribution, the rosters of loyal printing houses, potential allies in Brittany and Lyon. Ahead was a meeting—unofficial, in the back room of a pharmacy on Rue Servandoni—with several key bourgeois figures: a banker with revolutionary leanings, a bookseller from Marseille, and a once-powerful abbot turned agnostic.

He intended to discuss how to steer public opinion. How to turn outrage into movement. How to turn fatigue into hope. The conflict with the Church was only beginning. And Marquis d’Alienne, as always, intended to play the long game. But now he knew: the stakes were not just for the future.

The stakes were for whether France would have one at all.

Chapter Text

Sketch: "A Walk in Paris"

Marquis Théodore d'Alène stood by the carriage, his gloved hand gripping the knob of his cane, his gaze fixed on the dull gray sky where early evening clouds were churning. The air smelled of rain, and there was nothing reassuring in these dense Parisian twilight hours. He knew that a walk in Paris would bring nothing ordinary—not because he mistrusted the city, but because he knew his queen.
When Marie Antoinette suddenly invited you on an evening trip incognito, it never meant a dull visit to the opera or an innocent social outing. Behind her smiles always lurked caprice, behind her innocence—danger, behind her games—a stubborn craving for freedom.

He still could not understand why she had chosen him. Over the years of serving at court, he had become something more to her than just an advisor, but not close enough to permit himself interference. The gulf between monarchy and the individual was vast—yet she seemed intent on bridging it.

Soon, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones reached his ears, and the carriage emerged from the darkness, its lamps casting flickering light. The servant deftly opened the door, and in a moment, there she was—Marie Antoinette.
No usual escort, no ceremony, no pearl diadems, and no discreet lady-in-waiting ready with a fan and a mirror. She wore a simple gray dress with a thin ribbon trim, like a penniless provincial marquise. Her hair was tied in a low bun, lightly powdered, and she wore no jewelry—only defiance and audacity in her gaze.

"Your Majesty," Théodore began, inclining his head, but she laughed carelessly, stepped closer, and playfully patted him on the shoulder—a gesture scandalously informal, almost mocking.

"Oh, Théodore! You are always so grim. This is merely... a little adventure. As you like to say: 'Fresh air and questionable company cleanse the soul better than confession.'"

"I don’t recall ever saying anything of the sort," he replied coolly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. His face remained impassive, but inside, a knot of anxiety tightened. She did not understand how dangerous this game was.

"Well, now you will," she cut him off cheerfully, as if they were exchanging pleasantries, not debating.

The carriage rattled over the cobblestones. Outside the windows, Paris bustled with life: noisy markets, tavern lights, laughter and shouts, the mingling scents of roasted meat, cheap tobacco, and fresh pastries blended into an unbearable yet vividly alive cacophony. None of this touched Versailles. Here, in these streets, the court's detachment became a mask that could easily be cast aside.

Finally, they stopped near an unremarkable building. It looked as though it was deliberately hiding among the stone walls and dirty alleys. The windows were covered with thick, faded ochre curtains. Above the door hung a sign with barely legible letters that spelled Le Petit Chardon. A man in livery stood at the entrance, but everything about his stance—from his broad shoulders to his narrowed eyes—betrayed that he guarded not noble guests, but someone’s well-protected lawlessness.

Théodore tensed. His palm tightened around the handle of his cane.
"Your Majesty... are you sure this is... the right place?"

"My dear Théodore," Antoinette leaned forward, playful mockery sparkling in her eyes. "You look as if we’ve come to a den of murderers. And yet, Paris—this is life. Real life. Here, they breathe freedom. Not like in Versailles."

He wanted to object but didn’t. It was too late. She was already ascending the dark, barely lit steps, lightly, as if entering a fashionable salon. He followed her.

Inside, they were enveloped by a dimness, thick and viscous, like wine in an old goblet. The room was spacious but shabby: peeling walls, worn-out furniture, cloudy mirrors that distorted reflections. The air was heavy and stifling, dense with the smoke and breath of many bodies. Faint candelabras cast a golden light over the bustling crowd—faces appearing from the darkness only to vanish again.
At the gambling tables sat all sorts of characters: young rakes in unbuttoned coats, bloated patriarchs clutching dice with trembling hands, aristocrats lurking beneath hoods, merchants, soldiers, and even one monk—or perhaps a cunning fraudster in a monk’s robe.

Antoinette seemed to blossom. Within these walls, among the tobacco smoke and conspiratorial glances, she was in her element. There was no fear in her—only thrill. She glided effortlessly between the tables like the spirit of scandal, invisible and untouchable.

"We cannot stay here," Théodore whispered as he approached, his voice tight. His eyes flicked from face to face. He noticed a man in a green coat—a former lawyer now known to have ties with the republicans. People like him were far more dangerous than mere gamblers.

But the queen wasn’t listening. She was already seated at one of the tables, chatting animatedly with a stranger wearing a copper earring. She laughed, placed bets, tossed dice. Everyone around her believed she was an eccentric bourgeois lady, and she clearly enjoyed the deception.

Time passed slowly, like honey dripping from a spoon. The atmosphere began to thicken. From somewhere to the left came a muffled cry. At one of the tables, a man leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair, his face flushed with rage.
"You cheat, you scoundrel!" he shouted.

In response—a snap, a flash of steel.
"Goddamn it," Théodore muttered.

He rushed to Antoinette. She was still smiling, but there was a flicker of caution in her eyes now. He leaned close, speaking quietly but sharply:
"Your Majesty. Now. No arguments."

She froze for a moment, then, as if snapping out of a spell, nodded. He firmly took her arm, and they quickly made their way to the exit, weaving through the agitated crowd. One of the gamblers cast them a suspicious glance, but thankfully, no one interfered.

Outside, the cool wind struck their faces, as if to remind them of reality. The carriage waited at the corner, the harnessed horses snorting and shifting restlessly. They climbed inside. The door slammed shut. The street noise remained behind them.

Inside the carriage, it was dark. Marie Antoinette was silent, gazing out the window. Opposite her, Théodore sat with his hands clenched on his knees, unable to shake the feeling that this night would leave a scar on him. He felt anger—not at her, but at his own helplessness. He was her advisor, her protector, her shadow, and yet he could not stop her.

"You must despise me for this, don’t you?" her voice broke the silence, quiet, almost weary.

He looked at her. There was no remorse in her eyes, but something else had appeared—a faint note, not of regret, but of vulnerability.

"I don’t despise you, Your Majesty," he said slowly. "I am merely afraid. For you. For the throne. For France. Such entertainments may carry consequences far graver than you imagine. Paris is not Versailles. The laws are different here. And memories here—they don’t forget."

She turned back to the window. In the reflection, her eyes shimmered, as if she were looking into a mirror, hoping to see a different, impossible version of herself.

"And what if I cannot live otherwise?" she whispered. "What if otherwise—I disappear?"

He did not answer. Because he did not know whether she was lying—or finally telling the only truth in this long and dangerous game.

Chapter Text

Sketch: "Visiting London"

Marquis Théodore d’Alienne stood on the deck of the ship, breathing in the damp, salt-laden air, his gaze fixed on the misty silhouette of London slowly rising from the gray, restless waters of the Thames. The waves lazily lapped against the ship’s wooden sides, their rhythmic sound seeming to accompany his thoughts. The cold wind from the river whipped through his hair, slipped under the collar of his cloak, and stung his skin, but he did not avert his gaze.
He had visited many of Europe’s capitals — majestic Madrid, sunny Vienna, stern Berlin — but London always left a particular, heavy impression on him. This city did not strive to be beautiful. It exuded a hidden, restrained, almost soulless power, as though before him stood not just a city, but a giant, noisy machine, its invisible gears turning with persistent, cold determination. The city did not live for glory, nor for royal splendor, but for profit, for conquering space day by day.

Théodore had arrived in London on an official mission entrusted to him by Louis XVI, but this time — without excessive pomp, without a lavish retinue. He was accompanied only by a handful of trusted people: a few silent servants, a secretary with an excellent memory and a steady hand, and no one else. His wife and children remained in France, in their family estate surrounded by autumn gardens buried in yellow leaves. Théodore recalled them with a slight pang of guilt, but also with relief: here in London, he did not need to play the role of caring husband and father. Here he was a politician, a strategist, and perhaps even an adventurer.
This trip held special significance for him. His goal was not diplomacy for the sake of royal courtesies, nor an exchange of empty pleasantries. This time, he was pursuing his own interests — complex, risky, requiring a delicate game. He knew that the London bourgeoisie — the invisible army of merchants, bankers, and shipowners — was becoming the new driving force of Europe, capable not only of influencing the economy but of reshaping the political map itself. Théodore understood: to remain in the game, he needed to be closer to them, to understand their language and their rules.

When the ship docked at the wooden pier, soaked with dampness and the lingering smell of old fish, Théodore stepped ashore unhurriedly. The wind chased scraps of paper across the wharf while fishermen bustled about, unloading nets and barrels of salted cod. His carriage was already waiting — a black coach bearing the golden crest of his house, gleaming on the door like a thin thread still tying him to Versailles. The horses pawed nervously at the ground, their hot breath coiling in the cold air, the steam slowly dissipating, mixing with the moist haze over the river.

The carriage rolled slowly over the cobbled streets, each turn of the wheel resonating through his body in a dull thud. Life surged around him. Narrow alleys were crammed with shops, noisy markets, and dense crowds. Hoarse-voiced traders shouted over each other, offering bundles of fish, bunches of herbs, exotic fabrics, and coarse boots. The air was thick with a mixture of scents: spicy spices, smoked meat, wet wood, cheap tobacco, and the faintly sweet aroma of pastries wafting from confectionery stalls.
The colorful flags of ships — Portuguese, Dutch, Spanish, even Russian — fluttered over the harbor like signs of countless roads converging in this bustling anthill. London lived — vibrantly, heavily, almost indifferent to strangers. Titles meant nothing here. What mattered was the sound of coins, the reliability of a man’s word, and the profit to be gained by tomorrow.

Théodore felt as though this city was drawing him in, like the spinning wheel of some vast mechanism, and he neither could — nor wanted to — resist. If Versailles was refined porcelain, beautiful but fragile, then London seemed to him a heavy copper machine, full of creaks, steam, and soot, but reliable and alive.

His first destination was the house of one of London’s leading merchants, with whom he had been corresponding for several months. The house welcomed him with restrained luxury: dark oak panels, heavy carpets with oriental patterns, silver candelabras with tall candles, and the soft scent of fine tobacco and parchment. They spent several hours discussing possible joint ventures, investments, and cross-Channel shipments. The merchant was direct, spoke little but to the point, offered no lavish courtesies, no fine wines. Théodore quickly realized: here his noble title was worth far less than the reliability of a delivery, the speed of execution, and the size of the profit. Politics and diplomacy interested these people only insofar as they could affect their bank accounts.

Théodore listened carefully, watching the merchant's gestures, the way he played with a silver quill between his fingers, the way he furrowed his brow when potential risks were mentioned. For the marquis, this was an instructive observation: in France, he was used to games built on subtle hints, grandiloquent speeches, and verbal finesse. Here, they played with coarse cards, and each player kept gold-weighted trumps up his sleeve.

After the business meeting, Théodore allowed himself a short walk through the city. Evening was approaching, and London at dusk became even more mysterious, almost ghostly. Street lamps, lit by young boys, flared as yellow patches amid the gray fog. The stone pavements glistened, polished by rain and thousands of feet. Figures darted through the alleys — beggars, vendors, sailors, belated merchants. The city seemed to exhale warmth through the narrow windows of taverns, where the hum of voices, the clink of mugs, and the distant echoes of violin melodies could be heard.

Théodore walked slowly, breathing the thick air that smelled of wet wool, coal, rotten fish, and the faint trace of cheap perfume. He stopped in front of Westminster Abbey. The enormous stone giant towered above him, stern and majestic. This building did not seek to enchant with splendor like Versailles. It oppressed with its weight, its centuries. In its walls, one felt not luxury but endurance. Théodore gazed at the heavy Gothic arches, at the stained-glass windows faintly glimmering in the evening light, and suddenly felt time slowing down. Here, in these stones, the memory of centuries lived. The monarchy was strong, of course, but even here, on this shore, the breath of change could be felt. The power of the bourgeoisie, like water, was slowly eroding the roots of the old order.

Théodore stood for a long time, thoughtfully watching the rare passersby. In that moment, he understood: the order he had long considered unshakable was beginning to crack. But if the old world was crumbling, then in the new one he intended to claim his place. Not in the past — in the future.

Later that evening, he had a meeting with the French ambassador. In the ambassador’s house, rich but not ostentatious, with fireplaces crackling with fragrant logs, several members of the British aristocracy had gathered. The hall was bathed in the soft light of candles, and the air was filled with the subtle aromas of wine, fresh greenery, and expensive perfumes. Théodore entered with his habitual light smile, his gait unhurried, though every movement was precisely measured. Inside, he was tense: he felt that here he was being weighed, assessed, like an expensive commodity on the London exchange.

The British were cautious, secretive, and, most importantly, perceptive. They asked questions with polite courtesy, but their words contained subtle traps. They did not speak directly but radiated wariness. Théodore felt their glances sliding over him, catching every turn of phrase, searching for contradictions, tricks, hints of weakness. London thrived on rumors — about France, about the queen’s extravagances, about popular unrest, about looming reforms.

One of the lords, tall, with an aquiline nose and piercing eyes, addressed him, raising a thin glass of ruby wine.
"Sir," he said, "London watches your efforts with curiosity. We hear that Paris is wavering. What are your thoughts on France’s future?"

Silence fell in the room, only the candle flames trembling in the still air. Théodore felt the stares grow sharper, as if time had compressed in that moment. He allowed himself a brief pause, lowering his gaze to the glass of wine in his hand as if genuinely pondering, though in those few seconds, dozens of possible responses had already flashed through his mind.

"France," he said slowly, "has always been known for its ability to restore balance. Our reforms are just beginning to bear fruit. And with the support of our allies, whether in London or elsewhere, we will be able to strengthen this fragile balance."

He said this with a slight smile, confidently, with an almost careless grace. But he saw in their eyes: they listened, but they did not believe. They sensed the storm was near. Perhaps they already knew that something was brewing in France that could not be contained by diplomatic games.

When Théodore returned to his temporary London residence, he stood for a long time by the window, watching the evening fog settle along the narrow street. His thoughts raced: about the negotiations, about the cold hands of the merchant, about the scrutinizing gazes of the British, about the unspoken but palpable expectation, as if all of London was holding its breath in anticipation of something great and dangerous.

London had changed. Europe had changed. Even the sky above this city seemed lower, the streets tighter. It was no longer the world in which he had begun his path.

And yet, in this new, unfamiliar world, he still had a chance to secure his position — if he could make the right move in time. In the silence of the night, when the streets had emptied and only the occasional footstep disturbed the dead ripple of fog, Théodore suddenly heard — or perhaps only imagined — a muffled, slowly rising hum. It resembled the distant rumble of an approaching machine — heavy, unstoppable, sweeping everything in its path.
The storm was already rising. And the only question was whether he would have time to meet it fully armed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch: “Encounters in London”

Marquis Théodore d'Alienne was a man well-versed in diplomatic receptions and refined conversation. In France, his word carried enough weight to open doors forever closed to others. He knew how to navigate between intrigue and insinuation, played upon the delicate strings of human weakness, and understood the value of silence. At Versailles, everything had form, ritual, and order: a gesture, a glance, a pause — all were part of an ancient game whose rules were known only to the initiated. But the encounters in London were unlike those he had at court. Here, the game was different. Lineage and titles mattered less than money and influence. Behind the delicate porcelain teacups and seemingly casual phrases stood a different kind of power — a financial and political elite who, though uncrowned, at times wielded more power than the mightiest aristocrats of Europe.

The first meeting was with Sir George Cavendish, a representative of one of the oldest and wealthiest trading companies. The dinner took place in his mansion on the Thames embankment. Tall, floor-to-ceiling windows framed by heavy burgundy drapes looked out onto the river, where barges loaded with goods drifted slowly in the mist. Lanterns flickered behind the glass, reflecting in the black water. Logs crackled in the fireplace, filling the room with the subtle scent of dry oak and a faint smokiness that mingled with the smell of beeswax and aged wood. Sir George himself was a lean, upright man with an almost ascetic face and precise, measured movements. His eyes held a restrained shrewdness; he disliked empty words and had no patience for excessive politeness. Beneath his reserve lay the habit of calculation and dispassionate judgment: how much it costs, how much it yields, what you lose if you're too slow.

Footmen in dark livery moved so silently they seemed like shadows. They placed silver dishes and refilled glasses without making a single unnecessary sound. The thick velvet upholstery, heavy carpets, and tall chairs with carved backs absorbed noise, creating the impression that the conversation was taking place in a capsule, sealed off from the outside world.

“Your Excellency,” Cavendish began, studying the marquis over the rim of his thin wineglass, the crimson liquid casting bloody reflections on the white tablecloth. “They say change is coming to France. Reforms, they say, hang in the air like thunderclouds before a storm.” He turned the glass slightly, and the fragile stem creaked under his fingers. “Someone will no doubt profit handsomely. Tell me — should we be expecting new opportunities?”

Théodore d'Alienne didn’t rush to reply. He felt how the tense silence in the room nudged him toward words, but the marquis knew: in London, every word was like a gunshot. Here, people remembered — and listened.

“Opportunities come to those who know how to wait,” he said gently, slowly swirling his glass as if admiring the wine, though in truth he was carefully weighing his next phrase. “Reforms are just the first step. France needs stability, reliable partners, and… mutual trust. These matters cannot be held in one hand alone.”

Cavendish inclined his head slightly, and for an instant, the faintest smile — cold, dry, professional — flickered across his lips.

“Partnership,” he said, as if tasting the word. “Curious how often that term resurfaces when the old order starts to crack.”

He took another slow sip, and in that pause, the marquis sensed his words were not only being analyzed but already weighed. Cavendish was a man who only backed winners. He listened to decide whether now was the moment to align with France — or to wait for the wind to shift completely.

They spoke of trade routes, tariffs, goods — but behind these cold numbers, the marquis clearly felt: Cavendish wasn’t interested in gold or contracts. He wanted to know how much time France had left. Would she endure? Or would she falter — leaving her place open for England to claim?

Théodore felt as though he were under a magnifying glass. In this house, every word could be evidence. Here, diplomacy wasn’t a game of gestures — people spoke plainly, but listened between the lines.

The next encounter, by contrast, was bathed in light and motion. Lady Hamilton’s house was lively, merry, and nearly frivolous — as her soirées always were. Tall mirrors framed in gold reflected candlelight, the sparkle of jewels, and the velvet gowns of the ladies. Lighthearted music played beneath the murmur of laughter and the rustle of silk skirts. Lady Hamilton was renowned for her hospitality and for gathering under one roof everyone who mattered in London’s social scene. Her evenings were like a net — catching gossip, news, those who were desirable to see, and those whose presence was politically profitable.

Unlike the cold precision of Cavendish’s reception, here the marquis allowed himself to appear more relaxed. He sipped light wine, listened to whispers, observed the card games, the elegant flutter of fans in feminine hands, the men leaning over tables, placing bets as if gambling not with gold chips but with fates.

“The French ambassador in London — and you as well, Marquis — often speak of a great reform,” remarked one guest, lazily twirling a chip between slender fingers. “But who seriously believes that kings give up power of their own free will?”

“Power is rarely given,” Théodore replied with a faint smile, lazily sliding a card across the green felt. “But time is a strange ally. Sometimes it demands what once seemed unthinkable.”

The guest chuckled, apparently satisfied with the ambiguity. In London, they appreciated the art of speaking without saying anything.

“They say the bourgeoisie in Paris is ready to play its hand,” murmured a young woman with dark curls, tilting her head playfully. “All it takes is a sign — and everything could change.”

The marquis shrugged slightly, as if the topic bored him.

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice calm, almost distracted. “But as long as France has a king, power rests with those who know how to keep it.”

He knew: every word spoken here at the card table, every casual remark tossed between a glass of wine and a game, would be circulating in London tomorrow — and in Paris the day after. Everything spoken had consequences. He had realized this within the first week of his stay. In England, even gossip outlived kings — and sometimes ruled them.

The marquis listened closely, collecting fragments of others’ conversations, studying half-smiles and fleeting glances. More and more, he felt: in London, what mattered was not what you said — but how you were heard. In Paris, intrigue was art, nearly theater. In London — it was a weapon.

When the evening drew to a close, Théodore d'Alienne stepped out of Lady Hamilton’s mansion. London greeted him with its damp, heavy fog, lit by sparse lanterns. The damp air smelled of coal and wet cobblestones. Footsteps echoed in the empty alleys, and the few passersby, cloaked and hurried, disappeared into the depths of the streets.

The marquis pulled on his gloves, raised his collar, and walked forward unhurriedly, allowing himself a brief stroll. He cherished such moments — alone, unobserved, not bound to watch every glance and gesture.

London demanded constant alertness. In this city, no one forgave those who revealed their hand too quickly. Here, gold flowed like a river, but remained in the hands of those who knew when to let go.

He felt it clearly: the old rules were dying. The world was changing. The bourgeoisie was no longer content to be a shadow — it was stepping into the spotlight, demanding voice, influence, power. In the new world, gold outweighed coats of arms. And very soon, France might feel that shift — painfully, irreversibly.

Théodore walked down the wet pavement and suddenly realized: he was leaving not just Lady Hamilton’s house — he was leaving the past. The familiar rituals, the languid balls, the royal decrees penned in ornate script. Ahead lay a different world, and in that world, the winners were not those born in silk cradles — but those who knew when to bet on change.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch: "An Audience with the British Monarch"

The majestic halls of St. James’s Palace gleamed like gemstones under a magnifying glass. Hundreds of candles in curved bronze candelabra, symmetrically arranged beside mirrors and columns, cast a warm, flickering light in which the outlines of silk wallpaper, plaster rosettes, and gilded cornices seemed to melt. Crystal chandeliers above the guests’ heads refracted the light countless times, as if transforming the air into liquid gold. Beneath their feet, the old oak parquet — polished to a mirror shine — reflected the trains of dresses, lacquered shoes, and the curve of sword hilts like water.

Guests moved leisurely through the hall — a pearlescent scattering of the imperial elite. Uniforms with orders, sweeping gowns, gloves, fans, pearl necklaces, and gold-topped canes. Every step, every gesture was a mixture of grace and restrained tension. Conversations floated in the air, muffled — like an orchestra rehearsing in the next room: a soft murmur, hints of laughter, the muted clink of glasses.

Amid this kaleidoscope of aristocratic splendor, one figure stood out — a tall man moving with the composed deliberateness acquired only by those accustomed to attention and covert power. His gaze was cold and perceptive, as though he saw more than the evening’s décor allowed. This was Marquis Théodore d’Alène.

He wore a deep blue tailcoat of the finest cloth, with delicate gold embroidery along the lapels and cuffs — the embroidery depicted laurel branches and stylized heraldic motifs in exquisite detail. His cravat, folded with mathematical precision, was fastened with a diamond pin that caught the candlelight as if the flames were trapped within the stone. In his ear — a small, glittering earring: a sign of eccentricity bordering on audacity, which he could afford. But even this impeccable exterior could not mask the essential thing — the inner taut composure, the motionless strength that emanated from him like a marble statue teeming with hidden life.

He made no abrupt movements, spoke little and softly. But in a hall where everyone was accustomed to displaying themselves, his restraint felt like a form of authority. He did not seek attention — it found him.

The marquis had come to London on diplomatic business — a delicate, almost invisible mission. Rumors of his visit had been circulating in select circles long before his arrival. This evening at St. James’s Palace was not merely the climax of his trip — it was an arena, a stage where the true face of the empire could be glimpsed: informal, hidden behind masks of courtesy.

Lords and ladies, scions of the oldest families, approached him with polite greetings, as to an equal — or perhaps even slightly more. Respect for him stemmed not from his title but from his reputation. In private, it was said that he had defused the most recent crises between France and England, preventing open conflict. He was admired for the refinement with which he conducted affairs — and feared for the very same refinement.

“Marquis, how do you find our London?” one of the influential lords asked, approaching with a glass of wine. His voice was smooth, like the fabric of his coat, but something like hunting interest gleamed in his eyes. “You must miss Versailles?”

“London is beautiful in its own way, sir,” Théodore replied, tilting his head slightly. His voice was soft, but with an edge of steel. “If Versailles is an exquisite symphony dancing on sunlit fountains, then London is a fugue for organ — deep, restrained, and stubborn. It does not caress, but commands respect.”

The lord smiled faintly, leaning back, but before he could respond, the marquis had already looked away, shifting the conversation from the polite to the philosophical.

“One senses here the weight of centuries. Not the whim of a court, but the gravity of a dynasty inscribed in stone.”

In that phrase was not just a compliment — but an encoded message. Théodore never spoke directly, but everyone who listened to him felt: the words were just a façade. The real meaning lay between the lines.

Around them spun the delicate web of courtly intrigue. Glances, fleeting smiles, barely perceptible nods, and accidental touches of fans — this choreography of subtle games had a life of its own. Théodore felt it on his skin, the way a predator senses movement in the grass.

“His Majesty will be pleased to see you shortly, Marquis,” the lord continued, sipping from his glass. “It is not often we have such refined guests from the Continent. And how are matters progressing with… our mutual partners?”

“Like a decent game of chess,” Théodore replied, raising an eyebrow slightly. “Many calculated pauses, rare but precise moves. The rest — a feint.”

The lord chuckled, though there was a hint of caution in the sound. Meanwhile, Théodore continued to survey the hall. He wasn’t just looking — he was reading. Who kept their distance from whom. Who positioned themselves opposite whom. Who looked away too often.

Then — a stir, a ripple, like the tide. All eyes turned toward the entrance. His Majesty, the King of Great Britain, entered the hall, surrounded by his closest advisors and lords of the court. His step was deliberate, his gestures refined. He wore full ceremonial regalia: a snow-white order sash, his mantle held by a page and a chamberlain, his face serene. He moved as if through viscous water — unhurried, but inexorable.

All present bowed their heads. Théodore, too, inclined his head slightly — without breaking eye contact. When the king drew near, the room seemed to exhale.

“France may be proud of you, Marquis,” said the king. His voice was gracious, but Théodore detected a note of caution — the kind a dog shows when watching a stranger: not hostility, but readiness.

“I sincerely hope so, Your Majesty,” Théodore replied with a courteous bow. “And I shall do all I can to deserve it.”

The king held his gaze for a moment — sharp as a blade — then moved on, leaving behind a wake of political silence. And Théodore remained standing, like an anchor in a stormy sea of hypocrisy, ambition, and half-smiles.

To others, this reception was just an evening. To him — a chessboard laid out between chandeliers. He was assessing allies, weighing opponents, noting the neutral. Seeking opportunities to consolidate influence — not for personal vanity, but for greater designs yet to begin.

His gaze fell on a young lady standing by a column. She was too young to belong to the old families, and too tense to feel at ease in this society. Her dress was fashionable, but lacked heirloom jewelry — a sign of the new bourgeoisie, those who climbed by coin, not by blood.

But Théodore knew: behind her stood investment houses, fleets, and new alliances. She was a key — though she might not yet realize it herself.

He nodded to her — almost imperceptibly. Her eyes lit with a flicker of fear, but she did not look away.

He approached.

“My lady,” he said gently, “permit me to take shelter in your company — from the draft of too many intentions.”

She smiled, shyly but with gratitude. He offered his hand, and they moved toward one of the windows.

And in Théodore’s mind, the moves were already aligning — cautious, delicate, like lace.

The game had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The Proposal to Visit the Colonies”

In a luxurious study, steeped in the scent of fine cigars, aged wood, and melting wax, Marquis Théodore d’Alienne sat across from one of the influential lords of the British Parliament — a man with whom he had already established a web of intricate, delicately structured relations. The high ceilings dissolved into shadow. The candle flames, set in heavy bronze candelabras, cast flickering reflections on the dark walnut-paneled walls. Silence hung in the air — a silence in which every sound seemed to gain weight: the snap of a snuffbox lid, the murmur of wine, the creak of a chair.

A soft, almost intimate light slid across the polished surface of the writing desk, catching first the inlaid legs of the furniture, then the pale gleam of silver on the glass coasters. A clock in the corner, slender and austere, ticked away the seconds with a soft, barely perceptible rhythm, underlining the tension in the room.

Their conversation balanced on a fine line between diplomacy and strategy — that delicate space where every word weighs more than it seems, and silence becomes part of the negotiation.

“Marquis,” the lord began, setting his teacup gently onto the saucer. The fine porcelain clinked, the sound like a drop of water falling into a still pond. He leaned forward slightly, fingers interlaced before him, his cold blue eyes studying his companion’s face with quiet intensity. “Your reputation as a man of action — not merely a refined courtier — precedes you. You are, if I’m not mistaken... inclined toward adventure?”

Théodore raised an eyebrow — only slightly, just enough to acknowledge the note of challenge in the lord’s voice. He allowed himself a restrained, almost polite smile, and inclined his head slightly, as if conceding that there was some truth in the claim, though not all.

“Adventure, my lord,” he replied softly, choosing his words with care, “is often an inseparable part of diplomacy. Sometimes even its most elegant instrument. And, frankly, not always the least effective.”

His tone was calm, but his gaze remained alert. Behind the broad veil of courtesy lay a sharp, focused mind — like a cat watching the movement of a hand before it strikes.

“Then allow me to propose something... intriguing,” the lord said, narrowing his eyes slightly. There was a new note in his voice — almost playful, but with a metallic undertone. “Our colonies in the East — particularly India — represent untapped horizons. Lands not only rich, but alive, seething — full of people, ambitions, and unsteady systems. France has lost her position there, yes, but who’s to say history doesn’t enjoy repetition? Or at least... revised editions.”

He paused, as if deliberately allowing the words to settle in his companion’s mind. Then he continued, in a lower voice:

“For a man of your intellect, your connections, and your instinct, even an unofficial presence there could prove invaluable. Observation. Analysis. Possibly... intervention, if you deem it appropriate.”

Théodore slowly picked up his glass, allowing himself a moment of deliberate hesitation — not outwardly visible, but revealed in the elongated movement. The wine flared crimson in the crystal. He sipped it slowly, unhurriedly, as though letting its taste help him process what he’d just heard. It was rich and astringent, but with a soft, almost velvety finish. Like the proposal itself — tempting, but with uncertain foundations.

India. The name rang out like a challenge, a splinter beneath the skin. A land where France had lost not only influence but face, yielding to the British navy and Anglo-Indian companies. And yet — an uncharted continent, a living chessboard where a single move might still change the game.

Théodore knew: this was not a gesture of friendship. This was an instrument. The only question was whose hand it would serve.

“India...” he murmured thoughtfully. “An intriguing proposal, my lord. But if I may, let me ask a direct question: what is it exactly that you expect of me in this region?”

The lord straightened slightly, his movements composed, almost indifferent — but Théodore caught the subtle tension that touched his shoulders.

“Oh, nothing official, of course,” the lord replied with a smile that came close to being tender. “We’re not looking for spies or agents. We prefer observers. A familiarity with the situation, perhaps connections with local elites, merchants, officials. Your independence makes you an ideal intermediary. We know you’re not bound by the narrow confines of Paris — your mind operates on a broader scale. And in a world where conflicts are becoming subtler, it is no longer armies that matter most, but words.”

The marquis closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling the scent of wine and smoke. It all sounded too smooth. Too polite. As if behind every word of the lord there stood something — or someone — else. An opportunity, yes. But also a test. Perhaps even a trap.

“I must confess,” he said gently, leaning forward just a little, “it’s hard to believe such a refined proposal stems purely from a desire for cultural exchange — especially given how carefully you choose your words. I need to know: are you asking me to be a witness... or a participant?”

The lord laughed — softly, but with a touch of genuine amusement.

“Perhaps both, marquis. We are not seeking infantry. We are seeking players. And you, I believe, have been playing the game for a long time — perhaps even better than you allow yourself to believe.”

Théodore leaned back, settling into a more relaxed posture. He liked this game, even if he knew that behind the pleasant mask there might lurk a steel hook.

“Well, your offer is... inspiring,” he said with a faint smile, in which a flicker of intrigue was already forming. “But before venturing to the ends of the earth, I would prefer to study the map and set my bearings. India is not just exotic. It’s a place where one may easily vanish — and where too many would wish you did.”

“Dangerous? Certainly,” the lord agreed, rising from his chair. “But it is in such places that future titles, fortunes, and legends are born. I have always believed challenges are not for soldiers — they are for those who know how to turn them into leverage.”

They exchanged a look. Beneath the masks of civility and diplomacy lay a silent recognition: both knew what they were doing. Each saw the other as a tool — but also as a reflection.

“Consider it,” the lord added, already by the door. “I am confident your journey will bring not only France — but you personally — invaluable dividends.”

He departed without further ceremony, leaving behind a trace of leather, lavender, and faintly faded tobacco. The door closed softly, and the room sank once more into silence.

Théodore remained alone. The candle flames glinted in the polished surface of the desk. Somewhere in the corner, the old clock creaked again. He did not move — only his gaze grew more focused, more intense, like that of a hunter frozen before the leap. In his eyes burned a slender, searing light — a mix of curiosity and hunger.
India. The colonies. The British game. Opportunity. Betrayal. Power.

He poured himself more wine, his movements unhurried and precise. The glass gleamed in the candlelight. He gazed into the dark liquid as if he saw in it a map of the future — one full of traps, but also of treasure.

He drank slowly. Thoughts swarmed, twisted into threads — plans, contingencies.
The game had begun.
And if played well, he might not end it as a pawn.

But a king.
Or at least the one who calls check.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The Reply from Versailles and New Commissions”

Several weeks later, Marquis Théodore d’Alène received the long-awaited letter from Versailles. The servant brought it on a tray covered with a thin linen napkin, as though it were not merely a document but something fragile and precious, worthy of ceremony. Théodore, without uttering a word, nodded, waited until the door was shut tightly behind him, and only then took the letter into his hands. Recognizing the familiar seal — sunrays surrounding the Bourbon coat of arms — he carefully broke the royal wax. The dry snap beneath his fingernail seemed to echo somewhere in his chest — as though he were breaking something greater than a mere formality.

The scroll had been rolled tightly, restrainedly, as if the courier himself feared to damage its meaning. The heavy paper crackled in the marquis’s hands, making a sound barely audible — like the rustle of an antique map. The letter carried the scent of ink, musk, and — faintly — the smoke from the fireplace in that very royal chancery where it had likely been written.

His eyes ran over the clear, austere lines, penned in the measured, faintly dry hand of a court secretary. The reply was brief — as was proper in such matters. Yet the lines, drawn with cold precision, held within them the possibility of a turning fate.

“Your proposal has been received with due attention,” the letter read. “The King deems that a journey to India presents a most interesting opportunity — both for observing the British administration and for establishing discreet channels of diplomacy in the eastern lands. However, do not hasten with your answer. There are other important commissions for you within France. Your presence is required at court in the immediate future. The King and Queen place new hopes upon you.”

Théodore’s fingers trembled slightly, crumpling the edge of the paper — almost unconsciously, like a man touched to the quick. He frowned and reread the first paragraph, then the second — slowly, as if hoping to fish out between the lines something not dared be said outright. Other important commissions… — the phrase was far too vague not to disturb him. It could mean everything and nothing. And given the nature of the court — and of Louis in particular — it was more likely everything than nothing.

He set the letter down upon the massive writing desk, masterfully inlaid with hunting scenes and mythological motifs. The hall around him was spacious, yet half-dark — the curtains muted the daylight, turning it into a warm, soft glow. The clock in the corner ticked quietly, its hands seeming to hasten their course.

Through the open window came the fragrance of blossoming lindens, and the faintly tart scent of freshly laundered linen from a neighboring balcony. Far off, a harness jingled — a carriage with silver trim was passing by. All these sounds, scents, and movements of life only seemed to emphasize his own stillness and inner concentration.

Marie Antoinette, without doubt, had also had a hand in this decision. For all her outward splendor — the bustles, lace, powder, rouge, perfumes touched with jasmine and myrrh — he knew that behind it lay a well-trained caution. She could listen, remember, and, if need be, forget. She had her own diplomacy, delicate, almost invisible, yet highly effective. At times, during receptions, she would seek his gaze through the crowd of courtiers, as though searching for confirmation of her own thoughts. With some people she flirted; with Théodore, she consulted.

Now her position as Queen demanded not only lightness and charm, but judgment. Especially in her dealings with Austria, the land of her childhood, and with the British Empire, whose ships were increasingly dropping anchor dangerously close to French interests.

The new commissions could mean anything. Perhaps negotiations with Austrian envoys arriving in secret and requiring special treatment. Or stewardship over reforms sponsored by the Freemasons but approved by the King — those concerning taxation and the redistribution of lands. Perhaps even matters involving financiers and procurements — for the marquis possessed the rare talent of reading tedious reports and extracting the essence. But all this was speculation.

And India? India remained in the penumbra of possibility. It called, beckoned, opened an entirely different horizon — misty colonies, exotic ports, diplomatic intrigues amid sugar, tea, and gunpowder.

“Well, for now, I remain in France,” he said aloud, though his voice sounded softer than he had expected. The tone of the letter would not leave his mind. There was something deliberately neutral in it, sterile in its politeness. No hint of warmth, no shadow of threat — and that, perhaps, was most disquieting of all. Louis knew how to assign dirty work in clean words. He was no master of intrigue, but he had intuition — and the skill to keep people at arm’s length, yet in the game.

And Théodore… Théodore was one of those who understood that true power lay not in orders, but in hints. He sensed that this letter was not merely an invitation, not merely an instruction. It was a test. Perhaps even a trap. Or — an invitation to play a dangerous game, with higher stakes than before, and living pieces.

He rose and slowly approached the desk. His palm slid over its polished surface, tracing the dark veins of the wood. On the wall hung a portrait of his grandfather — likewise in an ambassador’s uniform, with a weary yet proud gaze. Théodore paused, meeting that gaze, and for a moment felt as though the invisible floor beneath him had shifted ever so slightly.

He sat, took up his pen, and dipped it into the inkwell of cut crystal. The ink spread upon the paper with a soft whisper — like water over marble. His hand moved steadily, each phrase forming like a military maneuver. Nothing superfluous, nothing obscure. Only facts, and a light shadow of irony — just enough for a man who knew his own worth. He wrote his reply, relying on his insight, his finely tuned instinct, and his old habit of never saying more than was necessary.

Outside, evening was beginning. The sun’s golden rays fell across the edge of his uniformed shoulder.

Change was coming. And he felt — perhaps it was he who was meant to be its architect.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “An Unexpected Surprise Before Returning to France”

Marquis Théodore d’Alène stood on the London quay, gazing at the slow movement of the ship cranes, which, with creaks and clatters, descended into the holds. His silhouette, impeccably poised despite his traveling attire, seemed alien to this place: too refined, too polished for the smells of fish, coal, and wet timber that filled the air. The dockworkers—tall, rough, in oil-stained jackets—hurried across the planks, paying him no heed, as though the marquis were a ghost, a shadow, a fleeting illusion. Yet Théodore felt alive—more alive than he had in a long time.

The sea, veiled in a light mist, was breathing: gentle waves licked the pier, and the wind, drawn from the Thames, carried with it fragments of conversations from the ships, or the thin singing of rigging strained by taut ropes. Heavy skies hung over London, and a haze, as though silvered, lay stretched between the rooftops. In that morning, scented with salt and with beginnings, there was something ominously tranquil. Soon his path would take him to Versailles—there, where light reflects from gold, and words weigh less than glances. But for now, he remained here, between the shores, in an interval that suddenly felt more significant than arrival itself.

It was that very morning, when the servants had only just begun to light the fireplaces, while in his hearth the remnants of yesterday’s coal still crackled, that a letter was brought to him. It lay upon a silver tray, amid the usual correspondence: clear resolutions, polite reminders, empty invitations. But this letter drew attention at once. Heavy parchment, a golden seal with a crest in which eastern traits could be discerned—not French, nor German, nor Austrian. The heraldry belonged to none of the known European courts, and this intrigued Théodore far more than if he had recognized it instantly.

He slowly traced the seal with his finger, studying its lines and curves. The emblem resembled a crescent, crossed by a lightning bolt, encircled with laurel. Its style was foreign, yet it conveyed a sense of antiquity, stubbornness, and a claim to power. Inherent, unquestionable. Théodore lifted the letter to the light, as if to discover another hidden layer within. Then, gently, as one might open an old scroll in a library, he broke the seal.

“My dear Marquis d’Alène,” the letter read, written in a steady, disciplined hand, “you may already have been informed of my arrival in London, but I wished to make it known personally. If your schedule permits, I beg you to honor me with a visit. Your long-standing friend and ally.”

Nothing more. No signature, no date, no specifics. Only a phrase, as if cut out from an old diplomatic diary. Yet within it—a tone Théodore could not mistake. The style, the phrasing, the choice of words—all bore the familiar chill. This was no mere ally. This was a man bound to him by a past—complex, layered, filled with unspoken words and impossible decisions.

He reread the message, and then again. Outside, dawn was breaking—sluggish, damp, as though the city itself doubted whether it should awaken. Théodore cast aside the plaid from his chair, called for his valet, and ordered the carriage. His coach, adorned with the d’Alène family crest, rolled smoothly through the half-empty city, where puddles mirrored the gray sky, and the few passersby hid their faces in their collars.

The address led to a quarter of London where fashion and propriety yielded to anonymity and whispers. The houses here stood close, like pages in an ancient book, and just as silent. Shaded windows, black doors, no signs—all declared that within these walls lived those who knew how to hide secrets. Or who themselves were the secret.

The façade of the house where the carriage stopped was devoid of pomp. Narrow, elongated, with tall shutters, it could have passed for a notary’s office or a shop of rare goods. But Théodore had enough experience to understand: true power has no need for display.

He entered. The air greeted him with a blend of incense smoke, old wax, and wood dust. The room was spacious but dim: only one fireplace, framed in carved marble, burned with a faint, steady flame. By the window stood a man. His figure, dressed in a gold-embroidered caftan and holding a glass of red wine, resembled an engraving—motionless, deliberate, made for contemplation.

“At last, Théodore,” the voice carried through the air like music long forgotten, yet painfully familiar.

The marquis recognized it before he had time to think. His heart seemed to stumble. He froze, letting the memories pour in—heavy, like the wine in the glass. Their paths had diverged many years ago. He had not expected this meeting. Not here. Not now.

“Prince,” he said quietly. “Your mask has changed, but your tone remains the same.”

The prince turned. His face was unchanged—sharp, haughty, as though carved from stone, but with eyes in which centuries trembled. He stepped closer, slowly, as though each step had been measured in advance.

“You are surprised?” he asked, studying Théodore. “I do not blame you. You never liked surprises. But I have always appeared precisely when surprises became inevitable.”

Théodore answered with a gaze in which acknowledgment mingled with reproach.

“If you are here, then indeed something momentous is happening.”

The prince smiled—not joyfully, but sincerely.

“France is ready to collapse, Théodore. Silently, like a sick man to whom no more medicine is given, only the symptoms masked. You know this. You have always known. Your letters from Versailles smell of gunpowder between the lines.”

The marquis slowly approached the fireplace, stretching his hands to the fire. Hundreds of phrases spun in his mind, but he chose one.

“You offer me a choice. But you do not say what it is.”

The prince stepped closer, not averting his gaze.

“To stand on the other side of the mirror. To no longer be a shadow of the royal court, but the force that turns the gears when the old machine breaks. I have come to tell you: your knowledge, your mind, your connections—these are no longer luxuries, but weapons. And I know how to wield them.”

“And you yourself will remain in the shadows?” Théodore asked.

“I am the shadow. But you—you can speak in my name. Or in your own. What is at stake is not titles. What is at stake is the very notion of power.”

A seagull cried outside. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. The marquis glanced toward the street: below, a newspaper vendor walked, shouting headlines. His voice carried agitation. The words blurred together, but he caught “new tax,” “famine in Normandy,” “unrest in Lyon.” It all converged.

“And still you do not name names. You give no maps. Only wind and thunder.”

The prince nodded.

“Because maps only draw borders. And I give you the wind. With it—you can sail anywhere. Without it—you do not sail at all.”

From his pocket he drew a ring—massive, set with a dark stone. He placed it on the mantel.

“This is the sign. If you decide you want to know more—simply show it. Anyone who knows who you are will understand. And will open the right door.”

Théodore gave no reply. He felt everything within him sway: duty, fear, desire for power, and something else—vague, elusive. Perhaps hope.

The prince inclined his head, as though fulfilling the last of his promises, and withdrew into the adjoining room. The marquis remained alone, surrounded by the scent of wax, ash, and the quiet, heavy breathing of fate.

He stood, gazing into the fire, feeling the prince’s words etch themselves into his mind, feeling the weight of the ring even at a distance. This was the kind of unexpected surprise that does not merely interrupt a morning—it changes the course of an entire life.

France indeed stood at the threshold of upheaval. And now he knew: to return to Versailles did not mean to return home. It meant to step onto an arena where the stakes were higher than even he had ever imagined.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “Return to France”

Marquis Théodore d’Alène stood on the deck of the ship, his fingers clutching the cool, slightly damp railing, gazing at the hazy strip of shore slowly emerging from the morning mist. The soft, still-chill light of dawn lay upon the mirror-like surface of the water, where silver ripples sometimes ran from lazy gusts of wind. The salty air tickled his nostrils, reminding him of the sea voyage spent in alternating calm and storm. Now and then a seagull flew past, uttering a sharp, piercing cry, and that sound seemed to him a harbinger of change.

He drew the scent of the sea deep into his lungs, as if hoping to clear his head with it, and tried to imagine Versailles—not the one he had left behind several months ago, but the one he would return to now, after London. All that he had learned there—especially the unexpected visit of an old ally—had changed his perception of France. To him, she now seemed less a homeland in the familiar sense than a complicated, worn-out mechanism, about to creak and jam under its own weight. He knew: he was returning to a world where the art of smiling outweighed truth, where cold maneuvers were prized above honor, and victories left no trace save for new debts and new enemies.

The masts creaked softly, and each fold of the sails caught the faint morning wind, filling and driving the ship forward. On the horizon, the towers of coastal forts and the scattered roofs of fishermen’s cottages clinging to the rocky shore were already coming into view. And yet his thought, like a torn sail, kept stubbornly returning to the same point: what if he had accepted the proposal of his English colleagues? To go to the colonies… to India. The image was absurd, almost ridiculous—he, accustomed to the glitter of salons and the steady light of crystal chandeliers, walking dusty streets where the air was thick with spice, with smoke from fires and acrid fumes from street kitchens. Where the sun scorched the skin, and the horizons opened into infinity. There, he might have become someone else—a man without court intrigues, without the cold corridors of power where every word was weighed and poisoned with hidden meaning. A new life, alien and therefore almost alluring. But reality had already pushed him toward the harbor—and toward duty. France awaited him, and he could not refuse.

Versailles did not greet him with triumph, but with a strange, viscous silence. Carriages and footmen stood in their places on the square, yet the faces were too motionless, the voices subdued. Even the wind seemed cautious. Before he even crossed the palace threshold, a whisper reached him, and something inside him broke: Turgot, the chief reformer, dismissed. At once, the air seemed heavier, stickier, like in a stifling room whose windows had long remained shut. The corridors, once humming with talk of reforms, were now mute, dropping only occasional scraps of guarded phrases into the half-dark. On the courtiers’ faces he saw a forced cordiality, behind which lurked the old venom—the satisfied smiles of those who had awaited their enemy’s fall.

And all my efforts were in vain, the thought flashed through him—not as dry reasoning, but as an awareness bitter as sea salt. Everything he had tried to support, everything Turgot had built, was beginning to fray at the seams. His own thoughts felt too narrow, as if he were walking down a corridor whose walls pressed against his shoulders.

As he passed through the gallery, the gold of frames and tapestries seemed faded, and each step echoed in his skull with a dull clang. On the marble floor the reflections from the tall windows shimmered, but the light was cold, like that of a church before a funeral. Behind him he heard the rustle of silk, the faint jingle of spurs, muffled laughter that made an irritated shiver run through him. At the door of the ministers’ hall he paused, drew in a breath, and entered. There, in their sumptuous coats, they discussed new taxes and loans as though nothing had happened, with such liveliness as if they were deciding which wines to serve at tomorrow’s dinner. One senior minister, noticing him, gave a stiff nod of courtesy, then instantly turned back to his neighbor, as though the marquis did not exist. Théodore understood—no one here would listen to him anymore.

That evening he sat at his desk, his hands lying motionless on the papers for a long while. The embers in the fireplace were dying, casting a dull reddish glow on the edges of maps and scrolls. Outside, dusk thickened; in the garden, the wind worried the leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth. Suddenly words he had heard in London rose in his memory: “You will be able to choose a side when the storm begins.” Then they had seemed a metaphor, an empty warning like those tossed off in the corridors over a glass of wine. But now he saw before him a horizon where that storm was indeed gathering—heavy clouds already massing over the country, the first drops falling against the windows of his study.

Abruptly he seized a pen and called for a servant.
— Prepare the papers. I will write a report for the king.

But the hand holding the pen froze over the blank page. A report—too little. His thoughts, like seabirds driven off course, darted between two visions: bitter, almost hopeless France—and distant, sunlit India. To run would be easy, even tempting, but that was not his way. He had never run.

He recalled how in the ministers’ hall someone had openly smirked at the mention of reforms. How in the corridor an aristocrat, flaunting a new ring, had murmured: “We are back to normal life.” These words, like stones, became the foundation of a new thought. If the old methods no longer worked—new ones were needed.

He went to the window. The wind brought the chill, sharp scent of night moisture and the quiet murmur of the gardens. The leaves trembled as if in foreboding of a storm, and in their rustle there was something ominous, almost prophetic.

— Perhaps it truly would have been better to go to India? — he muttered with a crooked smile, gazing at the dark crowns of trees swaying lightly in the wind.

But the smile vanished. No. He would stay. And if France was rotting from within, he would be the one to push that rotten frame, so that something new might grow in its place—or so that it would all collapse more swiftly. For perhaps only in ruins could the real be built. And as he looked into the dark sky, he was already beginning to piece together that plan—bit by bit, word by word, step by step—that no one yet suspected.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “Hans Axel von Fersen. 1778”

Hans Axel von Fersen awaited his arrival in France with impatience. His carriage, lined inside with dark velvet, moved slowly along dusty roads, and every jolt of the wheels echoed in his chest with a faint thrill. Through the half-open window he glimpsed at times small villages with low stone houses, at times endless fields shimmering in the shades of August gold. The air was heavy with the scent of hot earth, musty hay, and the sweat of horses, and it seemed a strange prelude to the grandeur awaiting him ahead. Sometimes, when stopping at roadside inns, he overheard animated conversations about Paris: some cursed the taxes, others argued about the crown’s debts, while still others excitedly repeated rumors of balls and the queen’s gowns. All of it sounded like fragments of a play, lines he would soon hear again upon the main stage.

Paris, and then Versailles — a place wrapped in legends, rumors, and mysteries. Europe spoke of it endlessly: of splendor and extravagance, of music that never ceased through the night, of games of cards and intrigues where the wagers were not gold, but destinies. Yet words were only shadows. Only by being there could one understand what breathed in the heart of France.

Fersen, young but already a well-known Swedish aristocrat and officer, sat straight and motionless in the carriage, though his thoughts wandered far. He was twenty-three, and he had already taken part in military campaigns, been acquainted with European courts, seen the cold restraint of the North and the simplicity of English salons. But what awaited him in France promised to be altogether different. His goal was clear, burning fiercer than the summer sun: to find himself at the very center of power, to break through to those who shaped the fates of nations. He imagined how a smile, or a word spoken at the right moment, might become a weapon; how one dance with the right lady could achieve more than a battle of regiments. It was a game for which he was ready to risk much.

When the carriage at last entered the grounds of Versailles, Fersen caught himself holding his breath. The road to the palace was lined with neatly trimmed trees, and on either side stretched endless lawns where noblemen in wigs and ladies with small dogs strolled. A light breeze carried the fragrance of roses from the gardens and the spicy aroma of tobacco smoked by officers near the wings. But all this paled when the massive golden gates appeared ahead. They shone so brightly it seemed not metal but the sun itself had frozen in patterns. The gates opened slowly, as if revealing a road into another world.

What he saw beyond exceeded every expectation. Rumors that had sounded like exaggerations proved to be but a modest shadow of reality. The palace was not merely vast — it breathed majesty, as though every stone preserved the memory of triumphs and downfalls. Dazzling light reflected in hundreds of windows, and the whole building resembled a giant crystal risen from the earth. The road behind lay in dust; ahead began a spectacle where there were no accidental roles. Even those who had come here dozens of times admitted: the brilliance of Versailles never faded. Life at the palace was an endless masquerade, and now every step he took became part of the play.

Fersen knew: France stood on the threshold of change. Already on the road he had heard talk of the war in America — some passionately supporting the idea of freedom, others speaking with dread of mounting debts. Young officers dreamed of battles and glory, but in the voices of their elders he heard unease. He felt the country lived in tension, as though the scent of a storm hovered in the air. At Versailles that anxiety was hidden beneath lace, diamonds, and music — but it did not vanish. Listen closely enough, and it whispered in undertones, in gestures, in careless words.

The first thing that struck him inside the palace was the luxury — so excessive it almost oppressed. Endless galleries stretched away, their walls hung with paintings where ancient heroes fought, loved, and died, as though to remind courtiers of their own role in history. Marble gleamed with cold light, gilded columns reflected the flames of hundreds of candles, until it seemed that light itself multiplied tenfold. Courtiers glided through the halls in silk and satin, in lace and jewels, every step rehearsed to perfection. It was all like a carefully staged performance. Yet in a whisper behind a fan, in a glance held a moment too long, in a hastily hidden smirk, Fersen sensed shadows — envy, disappointment, secret calculations.

At one of the first balls given in his honor, he met the queen. Marie Antoinette entered the hall as though the music itself had fallen silent for her appearance. She was graceful, her walk like smooth gliding, and her smile lit the courtiers’ faces so brightly that even the crystal chandeliers seemed to lose their sparkle. Her laughter was light and ringing, like the murmur of a brook in a spring forest, and it seemed that near her there could be no worry, no cold politics. Yet Fersen’s attentive eye noticed what others missed: the slightly tense gesture as her fingers gripped the fan too tightly; the quick, weary glance she cast across the crowd. She was beautiful, but her beauty veiled fragility. Too many eyes followed her every step, too often the word Austria was spoken behind her back. She lived imprisoned in a cage of gold and silk, where everyone was ready to be a judge.

Fersen listened to her words, hearing in them not only lightness but caution. Her laughter could deceive, but behind it lay sorrow. That evening, however, most saw only the dazzling façade. Courtiers were skilled in loving statues and admiring masks.

Strolling through the halls, he realized ever more clearly: he had stepped into the very heart of a maelstrom. Everything here shone, but beneath the brilliance lay steel. Smiles were weapons, bows were traps, compliments were tests. One wrong step, and you became an outsider. Majestic Versailles was like a vast labyrinth: once inside, you could never be sure of finding your way out again.

“How do you like France?” — he heard behind him a calm, faintly mocking voice. Fersen turned and saw a man who stood out among the others. The Marquis Théodore d’Alène stood with an easy grace, leaning carelessly on a cane. In his figure was a cold elegance; in his eyes, a wary attentiveness, as if he was used to seeing more than he ever said.

“Magnificent… and unexpected,” Fersen replied cautiously, choosing his words.

The Marquis smiled with the corner of his lips.
“Here everything is like that, my friend. Magnificence always walks hand in hand with the unexpected. But remember: a smile may wound more deeply than a sword.” He lifted his wine glass slightly, as if making a toast. “Not all that glitters is gold. Versailles is a labyrinth. Once you find the entrance, you cannot be sure you will ever find the way out.”

His words did not sound like advice but rather like a test, as if the marquis wished to see how the young Swede would respond to the warning.

Fersen caught the hidden challenge. His heart beat faster: he understood that his arrival in France was only the prologue. Ahead lay the game, where the line between friendship and betrayal could vanish in an instant. And though caution whispered to keep his distance, it was the danger itself that lured him. For here, at the very center of events, the fate of empires and kingdoms was decided — and he longed to be part of that history.

Chapter Text

Sketch: The American War of Independence. The King’s Commission

Marquis Théodore d’Alène stood at the window, watching the heavy rain trace blurred rivulets down the glass, as if cracks were spreading across its surface. Beyond lay a world drowned in gray: the palace garden, the statues, the shrubs—even the lanterns blurred into wavering shadows. The silence of the chamber, thick with the scent of wax and damp wood, only deepened the desolation. From the adjoining hall came, at intervals, a low hum of voices—measured, restrained, yet taut with unease. Courtiers and generals debated the news from America. Each rumor, each report fell like the toll of a bell, measuring the steady march toward something inevitable.

It seemed as though the very heavens echoed Versailles’ unrest. The rain battered the walls with relentless fury, mingling with the sense of a gathering storm—not of weather, but of politics. Théodore listened and felt how the war was drawing in all alike: dandified aristocrats, weary soldiers, men who might never glimpse the faraway shores for which they fought. His own fate, too, was bound to the storm. His influence at court stood at its zenith, and now, with France openly committed to the conflict, the king had entrusted him with a mission whose full gravity he could scarcely fathom.

In the study of Louis XVI reigned a solemn hush. Tapestries muffled each footfall, as if the chamber itself strained to catch every word. A great table was buried beneath maps, parchments, and wax-sealed dispatches; in the candlelight, the etched rivers and mountain ranges seemed to waver and stir. The king sat hunched and motionless, save for his fingers, which traced the edges of paper with restless precision.

“Marquis d’Alène,” he said at last, without raising his gaze, “you understand that this struggle is not merely for another nation’s liberty. It is a blow struck at the very heart of England. If we fail to seize this chance, France may forfeit her greatness forever.”

Théodore bowed low, concealing the mingled pride and disquiet that rose within him.
“Your Majesty, your word is law. What charge do you lay upon me?”

Louis rose. His tall figure cast a long shadow across the maps, as if eclipsing continents. In his hands he held a scroll bound with crimson ribbon.
“You will go to America,” he said, extending it. “Win the trust of the colonial leaders. Guard the discipline of our officers. Be a steadfast ally to the colonists, yet unseen when discretion demands it. England must not learn too soon of the hand we play.”

The scroll burned cold against Théodore’s palm. He knew it was no mere order, but a confession of trust—and a trial.

America met him with another breath entirely. Mud-churned roads, wind-whipped tents, soldiers in threadbare uniforms—everything stood in stark contrast to Versailles’ gilded halls. The air was pungent with smoke, damp earth, and sweat; the sounds were raw and unrefined—the clang of hammers at the forge, the creak of wagons, the bark of commands. No glitter, no ceremony—only the bare necessity of survival.

Théodore sat among the councils of American generals. In place of gold and marble—rough-hewn wooden tables. In place of velvet chairs—simple benches. Maps weighted with stones against the wind, inkwells fashioned from broken bottles. Yet in the eyes of these men gleamed something absent from Versailles: a fierce hunger for the future. They argued loudly, sometimes to the point of fury, but each quarrel sprang from the same fire—the will to endure and to prevail.

He watched barefoot soldiers tramp through the mire, splashing mud to their knees, officers masking fatigue behind fervent speeches, women carrying bread and bandages into camp, children gazing at muskets with awe, as though they were toys. All this carved itself into his memory more deeply than mirrors and chandeliers ever had.

His letters to Versailles grew longer with each passing week. No longer did he speak only of troop movements, but of the spirit of these colonies: stubborn, unbending, even in despair filled with faith in their destiny. Washington received him without ceremony, yet with a gravity that commanded respect. His speech was plain, yet every word seemed hewn from stone.

And still the marquis saw the fissures. Soldiers deserting under the weight of hardship; Congress hesitant, divided; colonies quarreling among themselves. At times it seemed America stood on the brink of tearing itself apart. Without France’s decisive hand, the republic might remain a dream, no more than a mirage.

One storm-ridden evening, rain leaking through the seams of his tent, Théodore bent over a letter to the king. Ink bled where the drops struck, but his hand moved with care, shaping words that were urgent, yet measured: clear enough to show the need, not so stark as to alarm. “France must be ready to stand with them at the hour of decision,” he wrote, “for this war is not theirs alone, but ours as well.”

A young officer entered—drenched, exhausted, yet with eyes alight.
“Marquis, General Washington awaits you. He wishes to speak of a new plan.”

Théodore rose. He knew: his words now bore greater weight than ever he had imagined.

The fire in camp lit the faces gathered round. Washington, tall and stern, extended his hand in a soldier’s clasp.
“Marquis,” he said, “your counsel, and the aid of your men, have been beyond price. But now we stand upon the threshold of a decisive campaign. We must know: will France remain with us to the end?”

Théodore faltered. He had no right to pledge a king’s word—yet silence would shatter trust. He met Washington’s gaze: weary, yet burning with resolve.
“I can promise you, General, France will not abandon you,” he said. “But remember this: your victories must remain your own. Therein lies the strength of our alliance.”

Washington held his gaze a long while, then inclined his head. In the hush, the fire crackled, casting sparks into the night, and Théodore felt he was witness to the birth of a new world.

Later, back in his tent, he lay sleepless. In his mind rang the contradiction: he was a son of monarchy, yet fought in service of a republic. Each triumph here was another fissure in the walls of Versailles. The words of the late Louis XV haunted him still: “The monarchy will last as long as we live.” Now they tolled like a prophecy of doom.

Théodore understood: when he returned to France, the brilliance of the palaces would seem more fragile than these rain-battered tents. For the new world was already stirring to life—here, amid the mud and fire of war.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “Return from America. Reunion with the Family”

Marquis Théodore d’Alène stood on the ship’s deck, the salty sea wind blowing across his face, carrying with it the scent of the ocean—thick, damp, sharp, as if the very element itself breathed upon him. The sails strained, and the vessel slid swiftly over the waves of the Atlantic, leaving behind a long foaming trail. The masts hummed, the rigging creaked, and in this familiar noise, so wearisome to the ear, he found a strange comfort. Behind him, one could still make out the distant shouts of sailors and the heavy steps of the captain across the wooden planks, but Théodore paid no heed—he was gazing ahead, where in the wavering haze the first faint outlines of the French coast emerged. His homeland, which, he felt with certainty, had changed during his absence no less than he himself had.

Most of all, his thoughts dwelled on his family, whom he had not seen for two full years. Two years filled with the cries of the wounded, the acrid smoke of gunpowder, and endless negotiations with the colonists. Time and again he had imagined this meeting, but his mind unfailingly offered him two opposing visions: a joyous reunion and a cold estrangement, as though he, his wife, and children had become strangers to one another.

When Théodore received word of the mission’s completion, his first thought had been to proceed to Versailles, report to the King, and seal all diplomatic affairs. Yet reason yielded to the heart. What were titles and honors compared with what he had lost in those years—the tenderness of his wife, his son’s first laughter, his daughter’s first steps into womanhood? These thoughts burned him no less than the American sun.

Upon landing, he ordered a carriage prepared and hastened home. The wheels clattered loudly against the uneven cobblestones, each blow echoing in his chest. The landscapes of France unfolded one after another: vineyards where laborers gathered the last clusters, groves rustling with golden leaves, green fields dotted with cows and sheep. Yet this time he saw them differently. All of it had existed without him—the laughter of women on riverbanks, the joyful cries of shepherds, children running barefoot behind carts. Life had gone on, and Théodore felt a strange envy of this simplicity.

As he approached the estate, a wave of emotion nearly suffocated him. The stone gates, adorned with the family crest, opened with a heavy creak, and the carriage rolled down the familiar alley. The house stood as before among blooming gardens. Yet Théodore’s attentive eye at once noticed changes: freshly painted shutters, a new bench by the entrance, young saplings along the path. Someone had planted them in his absence, and it struck him painfully—time flowed, the world changed, even here, where he had hoped to find eternity. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves after recent rain stirred memories of childhood, when he had raced along these paths in muddied boots.

The servants met him at the house—some smiling, others wiping tears, though all maintained proper composure. Yet nothing compared with the moment he saw his wife. She stood on the porch in a simple yet elegant dress. Her hair was arranged as carefully as always, but a few loose strands at her temples betrayed the haste with which she had prepared for this meeting. Her eyes shone with joy, and yet in their depths lingered a guardedness, as if she dared not fully believe he had truly returned.

“You have come back,” she said softly. Her voice trembled, and her hands, hidden in the folds of her dress, quivered slightly.

“Yes, I am home,” Théodore whispered, holding her tightly, desperately, as though he sought to make up for all the years of absence in a single embrace. He felt her heart racing, felt her lean into him, caring no longer for outward restraint.

The children rushed out of the house, stumbling on the steps. The younger son flung himself at him, nearly hanging from his neck. Théodore barely caught him, laughing as the boy’s small arms gripped his shoulders with surprising strength. But the daughter paused at a distance. In those years she had grown: her gaze had become serious, her bearing straight, her movements cautious. She stood torn between childish joy and adult reserve. Only when her father stepped toward her did she allow herself a smile and embrace him, though not as fervently as her brother.

“Papa, did you bring us something from America?” the boy asked hopefully, still clinging to him.

Théodore laughed, stroking his hair. In his laughter rang both joy and a touch of sorrow.
“Of course I did. But most of all, I brought myself.”

They entered the house. The scent of fresh bread and stewed meat, the crackle of the fireplace, the muffled voices of servants trying not to intrude—all this instantly filled Théodore with a sense of warmth. He sat at the table and, for the first time in long months, felt simple happiness: hot wine warming him from within, dishes tastier than any foreign meal, the laughter of children and overlapping voices creating a music he had not heard in two years. For a moment, all the cares of Versailles, the court intrigues, and the thunder of war across the ocean seemed to dissolve, as if they had never been.

And yet he saw shadows. His daughter listened to his tales of storms at sea and meetings with colonists, but in her eyes shone not only joy—there lingered a subtle reproach, a memory of long evenings without her father. His wife smiled as she served the food, but her movements betrayed the weariness of a woman who had borne the household’s burdens alone too long. Théodore understood: he had not returned to the same home he had left. They had changed, and so had he.

That evening, after the children had gone to their rooms, the house sank into a cozy quiet. Outside, the wind shook bare branches, and somewhere far off night birds called to one another. His wife, leaning on his shoulder, remained silent for a long while before quietly asking:
“Will you stay long at home?”

He hesitated, gazing into the fire. The flames twined around the logs, crackling, and in their dance he seemed to see the images of Versailles, the King awaiting his report, and fresh intrigues pulling him away from here.

“I do not know. The King is waiting. Versailles does not let go. But I shall remain here as long as I can.”

She did not answer with words, only squeezed his hand a little tighter. In that gesture lay everything: plea, love, weariness. He felt how deeply he needed her—in her simple silence, in her steadfast fidelity.

“But now I am here,” he said softly, touching her cheek. “And that is what matters most.”

She closed her eyes and pressed against him.

The night was quiet. Beyond the walls of the house the wind moaned in the garden, yet within there was peace. And for the first time in a long while, Théodore d’Alène fell asleep calmly, though he knew: this peace was fragile, and Versailles and the war would remind him of themselves yet again. But at his side was his family—the only fortress he trusted unreservedly.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “Putting Things in Order and Meeting Robespierre”

Marquis Théodore d’Alien sat at his writing desk, cluttered not only with neat stacks of financial reports and contracts, but also with scattered papers covered in his sharp yet elegant handwriting. The ink on some lines still glistened, and nearby lay a quill pen with a golden nib, a tiny drop of dried blackness clinging to its tip. A three-branched candlestick cast a soft, uneven light; its flames crackled, and long shadows played across the portraits of ancestors in heavy frames. The air carried the scent of sealing wax, candle tallow, and the faint aroma of old Bordeaux wine left in a glass from the night before.

Outside, the wind howled. Heavy curtains swayed slightly, and to the marquis it seemed not just a draft—rather as though history itself were bursting into his house, bringing with it cold tidings. In the distance, beyond the estate, came the ringing of bells and the murmur of many voices, as though France itself spoke ever louder and more insistent.

Théodore clenched one of the reports in his fingers. He knew that much had changed in recent years: he was no longer merely the keeper of an ancient title and family crest. Now he was an entrepreneur, a man managing workshops, vineyards, and entire enterprises. His businesses fed hundreds of families, brought profits, and won him a name among the bourgeoisie. But the deeper he delved into these affairs, the more clearly he felt: the old order was fragile, and behind outward prosperity unrest was growing. Where once only aristocratic intrigues had sounded, now people spoke of taxes, equality and justice, of the rights of those who had remained in the shadows for centuries.

He leaned forward to set the papers aside when a soft knock came at the door. His secretary entered cautiously, almost soundlessly, as though he knew not to disturb the master’s tense reflection. His voice was quiet, but in it there was respect and a faint wariness:
— Monsieur le Marquis, the man you mentioned has arrived… Robespierre.

Théodore raised his head. He had heard this name with increasing frequency in recent months. A young lawyer, they said, with the face of an ascetic and a mind as sharp as a blade. Théodore felt that meeting him was inevitable.
— Show him in, — he said softly, his voice sounding especially distinct in the silence.

The door opened, and into the study stepped a slender young man in a black frock coat, with a snow-white cravat and slightly worn yet tidy waistcoat cloth. His face was serious, his features fine, as though carved from marble. In his eyes—an attentiveness, and that inner spark born only of faith in an idea.
— Marquis d’Alien, — he said, giving a brief bow. — Thank you for the honor of this meeting.
— Sit down, monsieur, — Théodore replied gently, indicating the chair opposite. He watched closely how the guest moved, how he sat, how he folded his hands. Everything about him spoke of composure, of a man accustomed to controlling even the smallest gesture.

— I have heard much of you, — continued the marquis. — They say you are a man of great ideas.
— Great ideas rarely find understanding in this world, — Robespierre smiled faintly, though without warmth, only with a touch of irony. — But times are changing. People are tired of living with their eyes closed.

The candlelight reflected in his eyes, and Théodore sensed that before him stood not merely a lawyer, but a man who could ignite a crowd with words alone.
— They say you are opening new workshops, caring for workers, creating jobs, — Robespierre went on. — That is worthy. People value those who do not forget them.
— Ordinary people are the foundation of the state, — Théodore replied, inclining his head slightly. — Without their labor there would be neither wealth nor France.
— And yet, — Robespierre’s eyes gleamed, his voice grew firmer, — their labor is degraded, their voices silenced. The people await justice. And if it is not given to them freely… — he broke off sharply, his gaze turning cold, — they will take it themselves.

The room fell silent. Only the candles crackled. Théodore felt something tighten in his chest. There was no threat in these words—only truth, spoken with icy certainty.
— Your passion is admirable, monsieur, — he said after a long pause. — But tell me, how far are you prepared to go for these changes?
Robespierre narrowed his eyes slightly, his thin lips trembled.
— To the end, marquis. The time for half measures is over. If the system does not change, it will fall and bury everyone. — His voice dropped to a whisper: — But I believe you understand this better than most.

Théodore turned his gaze to the window. Outside, the wind whipped the trees, and the branches scratched at the glass as if an invisible hand were knocking. Within him, two voices battled. One spoke of duty to his lineage, to his family, of the necessity of caution. The other whispered that the old world was dying, and one could not close his eyes to it.
— Well, — he said at last, rising, — perhaps our paths will cross again. I shall be watching you.
Robespierre rose and nodded.
— And I shall be watching you, marquis. France needs men who can think of her future.

The door closed behind the young lawyer. Théodore was left alone. He went to the window and stared long into the darkness, where lantern lights swayed in the wind. From the street came a distant din—laughter, cries, the clatter of hooves. It seemed to him that within that din sounded a forewarning of the future.

Later that evening, he again sat at his papers. His pen scratched across the page, but his hand trembled, and the ink spread in dark blots. In the reports, the names of men like Robespierre appeared more and more often—those who raised their voices against the old order.

His enterprises grew, created jobs, strengthened ties. But behind this success loomed a new reality: balancing between aristocracy and bourgeoisie was becoming ever more difficult.

He leaned back in his chair, and his eyes fell upon the portrait of his grandfather in its heavy golden frame. The stern old face looked down at him, as if asking: “Can you preserve what we created?” Théodore looked away, back to the flame of the candle.

And there, in the flickering light, Robespierre’s face appeared to him again. Young, stubborn, full of resolve. He understood: this meeting was no accident. It was a sign, a forewarning.

When at last he extinguished the candles, dawn was already breaking outside. The wind had died down, but in his heart remained the sense that the storm was still ahead—and that he would have to meet it face to face, whoever he became and by whatever name he was known.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “Putting Things in Order and Meeting Robespierre”

Marquis Théodore d’Alien sat at his writing desk, cluttered not only with neat stacks of financial reports and contracts, but also with scattered papers, covered in his sharp yet elegant handwriting. The ink on some lines still gleamed, and beside them lay a quill with a golden nib, at the tip of which a tiny drop of blackness had dried. A candlestick with three candles cast a soft but uneven light; their flames crackled, and long shadows stretched across the walls, playing on the old portraits of ancestors in heavy frames. The air carried the scent of sealing wax, candle grease, and the faint aroma of old Bordeaux wine left in a glass from the night before.

The wind howled outside. The heavy curtains swayed slightly, and the marquis felt it was not just a draft—but as if history itself was breaking into his home, bringing with it cold tidings. In the distance, beyond the estate, the sound of bells and the murmur of human voices carried, as though France itself was speaking louder and more insistently.

Théodore clenched one of the reports in his fingers. He knew that much had changed in recent years: he was no longer simply the guardian of an ancient title and a family crest. He was now an entrepreneur, a man managing workshops, vineyards, and entire enterprises. His businesses fed hundreds of families, brought in income, and made his name respected among the bourgeois. Yet the deeper he immersed himself in these affairs, the more clearly he sensed: the familiar order was fragile, and behind the façade of prosperity, unease was growing. Where once there had been only aristocratic intrigues, now people spoke of taxes, equality and justice, of the rights of those who had remained in the shadows for centuries.

He bent to set the papers aside, when suddenly there was a soft knock at the door. The secretary entered carefully, almost soundlessly, as if he knew better than to disturb his master’s tense reflections. His voice was quiet, but carried respect—and a trace of caution:

— Monsieur le Marquis, the man you mentioned has arrived… Robespierre.

Théodore raised his head. This name he had heard more and more often in recent months. A young lawyer, they said, with the face of an ascetic and a mind sharp as a blade. Théodore felt that meeting him was inevitable.

— Let him in, — he said softly, his voice cutting through the silence with clarity.

The door opened, and into the study stepped a gaunt young man in a black frock coat, with a snow-white cravat and a slightly worn, though neat, waistcoat. His face was serious, his features fine, as though carved from marble. In his eyes shone attentiveness and that inner spark born only of faith in an idea.

— Marquis d’Alien, — he said with a short bow. — I thank you for the honor of this meeting.

— Please, sit down, monsieur, — Théodore replied gently, gesturing to the chair opposite. He observed closely the guest’s movements, how he sat, how he folded his hands. Everything in him spoke of composure, of a man accustomed to controlling even the smallest gesture.

— I have heard much about you, — the marquis continued. — They say you are a man of great ideas.

— Great ideas seldom find understanding in this world, — Robespierre smiled faintly, but in his smile there was no warmth, only a touch of irony. — Yet times are changing. People have grown weary of living with their eyes shut.

The candlelight glimmered in his eyes, and Théodore sensed that before him stood not merely a lawyer, but a man who could ignite a crowd with words alone.

— They say you are opening new workshops, caring for the workers, creating jobs, — Robespierre went on. — That is worthy. People respect those who do not forget them.

— Ordinary people are the foundation of the state, — Théodore replied, tilting his head slightly. — Without their labor, there would be no wealth, no France.

— And yet, — Robespierre’s eyes flashed, his voice grew firmer, — their labor is degraded, their voices silenced. The people wait for justice. And if it is not given willingly… — he broke off sharply, his gaze turning cold, — they will take it themselves.

The room fell silent. Only the candles crackled. Théodore felt something tighten in his chest. These words carried no threat; they were truth spoken with icy certainty.

— Your passion is admirable, monsieur, — he said after a long pause. — But tell me, how far are you prepared to go for these changes?

Robespierre narrowed his eyes slightly, his thin lips twitching.
— To the end, Marquis. The time for half-measures is over. If the system will not change, it will collapse and bury all beneath it. — His voice grew quieter, almost a whisper: — But I believe you understand this better than most.

Théodore turned his gaze to the window. Outside, the wind shook the trees, and their branches scraped the glass, as though an invisible hand knocked on the house. Within him, two voices clashed. One spoke of duty to his lineage, to his family, of the need for caution. The other whispered that the old world was dying, and one could not look away.

— Well, — he said at last, rising to his feet, — perhaps our paths shall cross again. I will be watching you.

Robespierre stood and bowed his head.
— And I will be watching you, Marquis. France needs men who can think of her future.

The door closed behind the young lawyer. Théodore remained alone. He walked to the window and gazed long into the darkness, where lantern lights swayed in the wind. From the street came a vague murmur—laughter, shouts, the clatter of hooves. To him it sounded like the herald of the future.

Later that evening, he returned to his papers. His pen scratched across the page, but his hand trembled, and the ink bled into dark blotches. In the reports, the names of men like Robespierre appeared more and more often—those raising their voices against the old order.

His enterprises were growing, creating jobs, strengthening connections. Yet behind that success lay a new reality: it was becoming harder and harder to balance between aristocracy and bourgeoisie.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes falling on the portrait of his grandfather in its heavy golden frame. The stern face of the old man looked down at him, as if to ask: “Will you be able to preserve what we built?” Théodore averted his gaze, once again fixing it on the candle flame.

And there, in the flickering light, he once more saw Robespierre’s face. Young, stubborn, full of resolve. He understood: this meeting had not been accidental. It was a sign, a portent.

When at last he extinguished the candles, dawn was already breaking outside. The wind had died down, but in his heart remained the sense that the storm was still to come—and that he would have to face it, no matter who he became or by what name he would be called.

Chapter Text

Sketch: “The Gathering of Philosophers, Writers, and Men of Talent”

Marquis Théodore d’Alien entered the richly decorated drawing room with measured caution. Inside, some of the most curious and ambitious minds of the age had gathered. The dark oak doors closed softly behind him, muffling the distant noise of Paris. Within these walls reigned another world — a world of gold, brilliance, and conversation alive with intellect and ambition. The ceiling rose high above, and the gentle light of hundreds of candles, set in crystal candelabra, glimmered in gilded mirror frames. The light broke into a hundred reflections, dancing over silk draperies and marble columns, making the room seem alive — breathing and shifting with every movement.

The air was dense, as if saturated with layers of scent. Sweet tobacco smoke curled lazily upward toward the ceiling; heavy oriental perfumes mingled with the delicate floral notes of the ladies’ fragrances, all touched by the faint aroma of molten wax and fresh wine. Somewhere, glass chimed softly — a servant offering another flute of champagne. The quiet steps of footmen glided across the carpet as they poured drinks and moved among the chairs with the precision of shadows. The rustle of gowns, the whisper of feathers on ladies’ fans, quiet laughter and murmured speech blended into the evening’s music — a hum beneath which ideas and arguments were being born.

Here were gathered philosophers, writers, scientists, artists, and the rising bourgeois elite — that peculiar company which prided itself not on titles but on intellect and eloquence. The ideas debated in these walls had already escaped the confines of the salons: they now belonged to the streets and the public squares. Paris hummed with talk of events across the ocean, of the Americans’ victories, of liberty, equality, and the rights of man. These words seemed to hang tangibly in the air, as though every candle in the room burned with their very essence.

Théodore paused, letting his gaze sweep the room. He recognized familiar faces — men he had encountered at previous gatherings — and new ones, not yet tested in the verbal duels that were sure to follow. Near the fireplace, surrounded by a respectful circle, stood Benjamin Franklin: short, stout, plainly dressed in a dark coat, yet possessing that ineffable charm which drew every glance. His faintly ironic smile gave weight to his words, and his eyes sparkled with quiet wit. Beside him, leaning on a cane with a silver handle, stood Voltaire. The old philosopher seemed almost transparent, yet every remark — brief, caustic — scattered through the room like sparks, and all waited for his next with delighted anticipation.

The murmur of voices gradually faded as a young man stepped forward, his eyes alight and his face taut with emotion. His coat was simple but well kept, and his manner carried a trace of theatricality, as though he stood on a public stage rather than a salon floor.

“America has shown us that tyranny can be overthrown!” he exclaimed. His voice trembled with passion and rang like a tightened string. “Their revolution is a beacon for all the peoples of Europe! France cannot remain idle. We — philosophers, writers, thinkers, and men of action — must become the heralds of liberty!”

A ripple of approval moved through the room. Several young men applauded; others exchanged quick smiles. Yet Franklin remained impassive. He narrowed his eyes slightly, removed his spectacles, polished them with a handkerchief, and only then — calmly, deliberately — replied.

“Freedom, gentlemen, is a noble idea,” he said softly, but his voice carried to every corner. “Yet every idea has its price. America has paid with blood, with cold, and with hunger. We lost much before we gained even the smallest measure of stability. Should France choose the same road, her trials will be no fewer. Believe an old man when he tells you — revolution is not a feast, nor a spectacle, nor a salon debate. It is labor and suffering.”

Théodore caught the subtle undertone: Franklin was warning the French thinkers against the ease of idealization.

“Ah, gentlemen,” Voltaire interjected, tapping his cane lightly against the floor. His voice, hoarse but brilliant, cut through the air. “Liberty, equality, fraternity… fine words indeed — yet the crowd is no creature of reason. Leave the choice to them, and what awaits you is not freedom, but chaos. The people shout loudly, but seldom know what they desire.”

“You are too harsh, maître,” objected a writer — a follower of Rousseau. He rose, holding a glass in his hand, his words ringing like a challenge. “The people are not mad. They are weary — of debt, of hunger, of humiliation. Their cry is the cry of truth. If we do not listen to it, France will drown in her own injustice.”

Laughter rippled through the room; some scoffed, others nodded with fervor. Servants hurried to replace spent candles — the evening was heating with every word. Théodore, seated slightly apart, watched as the sparks of debate flared into open flame. Behind every speech he sensed not only belief in ideas, but the pulse of personal ambition.

Diderot approached him. His gait was soft, but it carried the steadiness of a man sure of himself. His face was lit by a genial smile, and his eyes shone with quick intelligence.

“Marquis, how good to see you,” he said, settling beside him. “Tell me, what do you make of all this? Do you not feel that our conversations are becoming something greater than games of wit?”

Théodore set down his glass and gazed thoughtfully toward the center of the hall, where the argument still raged.

“The times are indeed changing,” he said. “These words, these ideas are no longer confined within the salons. They drift through the streets, the markets, the taverns. But France… France is not yet ready for what follows them.”

Diderot shook his head, though his smile deepened.
“I think she is. The people are exhausted; their patience is spent. The age of privilege is ending. Men demand light — and light will break through, whether kings will it or not.”

The marquis listened with a faint smile. His thoughts were darker. In his mind’s eye he saw the streets of Paris crowded with shouting masses, the glow of fires, the roll of drums. He knew: ideas rarely take form without blood.

Meanwhile, the voices in the room grew livelier. Some declaimed the rights of man; others recited pamphlets and odes. The young radicals gestured so fervently that the candle flames wavered, throwing restless shadows across the walls. The elder philosophers frowned, as if sensing that the game they had begun might turn deadly serious. The atmosphere grew heavy — like the air before a storm, dense, charged, electric with foreboding.

When the clocks struck the late hour, the guests began to depart. Outside, the clatter of carriages and the calls of coachmen mingled with the murmur of footsteps on the staircase. Théodore lingered by the doorway, watching them leave. His thoughts were weighty, yet clear: France truly stood on the edge of change.

Franklin approached him last.
“Marquis, you are a man of reason,” he said, looking him straight in the eyes. “If ever you wish to see our land, know that the doors of my home shall be open to you. America is not so distant as it seems from here.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Franklin,” Théodore replied with a slight bow. “Perhaps one day I shall accept your invitation.”

When the last guest had vanished into the night, Théodore stepped out onto the porch. The Paris night breathed dampness and smoke. The streets, dimly lit by scattered lanterns, lay wrapped in shadow and uncertainty. The stars glimmered above the rooftops, but their light was faint through the misty haze. The marquis looked up into the darkened sky and felt that the city slept on the brink of a precipice. One more step, one more spark — and the storm would break. He understood: these changes would touch his own life more deeply than he wished to admit. And sooner or later, he would have to choose his side.