Chapter II: The Favoured Son of Providence

"No, no more, I beg you!" cried Monsieur de Lagrange, his fingers tightening upon the shoulders of the young prince, his face aglow with astonishment. "This derivation—it is unprecedented! Your mastery is beyond all doubt. I shall return to the university this very day and petition that your degree be conferred without delay!"

"Truly?" Joseph's face lit with youthful triumph. He bowed swiftly, slipped free of the old man's grasp, and made haste for the door, his silk shoes clapping lightly upon the polished floor.

Lagrange opened his mouth to speak further, but found his star pupil had vanished into the corridor. He hesitated but a moment before gathering his robes and hurrying after him.

"Your Highness!" he called, nearly breathless. "That proof—of differentiable functions—how did it come to you? Tell me your thoughts!"

The young noblemen still seated in the examination room looked at one another in mute confusion. At length, one ventured a question in a low voice: "Has… the Crown Prince just graduated?"

"It would seem so."

"But he only arrived this morning…"

At the back of the room, the youth with the sardonic smile and eyes like storm clouds narrowed his gaze at the retreating figure of the prince. His voice was bitter as wormwood.

"No. He must have cheated."

Andrei, Lagrange's solemn assistant, said nothing. Instead, he laid down the examination the prince had just completed, and with a cool expression, offered his response:

"The question was composed on the spot by the professor himself. His Highness's solution introduces an entirely new mathematical concept. Duke of Chartres—if you believe such a thing may be forged, you are welcome to attempt it."

The Duke of Chartres—formerly so proud of his rank among Versailles' most brilliant youths—stared in speechless dismay at the incomprehensible equations before him. It was as though a thunderbolt had struck him square in the chest. Could it be? Had the prince feigned ineptitude all along—merely to make fools of them?

His fists clenched at his sides. Joseph, just you wait… one day, you shall bow before me.

But Joseph, by now, was far down the corridor and utterly unaware of the mutterings he left in his wake. Even had he heard them, he would have paid them no mind. The idle jeers of pampered boys mattered little. What consumed his thoughts now was one thing: politics. France's fate trembled on the edge of a blade, and he—reborn and armed with the wisdom of the future—could delay no longer in reshaping her course.

Lagrange at last caught up to him, breathless and questioning. His mind, ever in motion, seized upon a fragment from the prince's earlier proof.

"But… if f(a) is not equal to f(b)…" he murmured, as though to himself, and repeated it with increasing urgency. "If f(a) ≠ f(b)… yes, yes!"

His eyes widened with sudden clarity.

"Excuse me, Your Highness—I must return to my papers at once!"

And with that, the great mathematician turned on his heel and vanished down the corridor, muttering excitedly about a new proposition that would one day bear his name.

Joseph chuckled softly, watching him go.

"That's Lagrange's Mean Value Theorem you're groping toward, old friend. I wish you success—just a few years ahead of schedule."

Once the professor was out of sight, Joseph turned to his ever-attentive valet.

"Eman," he said, "where might I find the Queen?"

The tall young man bowed crisply. "Her Majesty is in her tea room, sire."

Joseph nodded and quickened his steps, his footsteps echoing in the vaulted corridor. The exercise drew forth a fit of coughing—sharp, persistent. The original heir's body was frail, still recovering from a stubborn bout of pneumonia that had plagued him for more than a month.

He waved off Eman's concern and pressed forward, navigating the long gallery until, at last, he reached the doors of the Queen's salon.

Today marked the beginning of his true purpose: to remake the fate of France. He drew a steadying breath and entered.

Within, the chamber was as refined as a jewel box—walls dressed in soft rose and gold, the furnishings exquisite, the scent of bergamot and tea faint upon the air. Queen Marie Antoinette, her towering coiffure adorned with silk flowers and pearls, reclined upon a chair carved in the Oriental style. One hand held a steaming porcelain cup, the other a folio of reports. A court minister bent beside her, whispering counsel.

Joseph paused. His heart stirred with conflicted admiration.

The Queen governed more than her consort, who spent his days locked away—quite literally—with tumblers and gears. King Louis XVI, though kind, was tragically ill-suited to rule in such turbulent times. Had he been born into peace, he might have been a beloved monarch. As it was… the tide of history rushed toward him with no mercy.

The chamberlain's voice rang out:

"Le Dauphin est arrivé."

With courtly precision, Joseph stepped half a pace back with his right foot, touched hand to chest, and bowed deeply. Rising, he greeted each minister present before turning his eyes toward the Queen.

"Mother," he said, voice tinged with excitement, "I have completed my final examination in mathematics. I am now, officially, a graduate of the University of Paris."

The Queen's blue eyes widened with astonishment and delight.

"My brilliant son," she said warmly. "You bring honour to your father and me."

She had, in fact, already received word. Discreet inquiries had confirmed that not only had the prince passed mathematics, but had excelled in every subject undertaken—physics, chemistry, geometry, even the English tongue.

"But why did you conceal your studies from us?" she asked gently. "We could have provided you with every tutor you desired."

Joseph offered a modest smile and a carefully rehearsed lie.

"I wished to surprise you both."

Marie Antoinette laughed, delighted. She plucked a strawberry pudding from the tray beside her and popped it into his mouth, then tousled his hair fondly.

"What a marvel you are. How ever did you fit all that learning into such a small head?"

In the corner of the room, a tall gentleman in a sapphire-crusted collar leaned toward a colleague.

"Did he just say mathematics?" he whispered. "At his age?"

Bishop Brienne nodded slowly. "Indeed."

"Surely not…"

But the Queen's secretary quietly interjected. "Your Grace, he has completed not only mathematics, but also courses in physics, chemistry, languages, and more. Over a dozen subjects in all."

A stunned silence fell.

"He is but thirteen!" a minister exclaimed.

"Impossible…" murmured another.

And then, the secretary added softly, "The professors have begun calling him L'enfant favori du ciel—the Favoured Son of Heaven."

"Well then!" exclaimed a third. "With such a genius upon the throne to come, France shall rise to glory!"

"Heaven has blessed us indeed!"

Joseph paid the flattery no mind. He turned back to the Queen with purpose in his eyes.

"Your Majesty—by our agreement, now that I have completed my education, I may assist in state affairs?"

Marie Antoinette smiled and nodded. "Indeed, my gifted son. I suggest you begin at the Hôtel de Ville, to gain a taste of public service."

Joseph's heart sank.

City Hall? They want me managing road repairs and refuse collection?

He had studied the causes of revolution in grim detail—documentaries, essays, firsthand accounts. He knew the truth: France's doom stemmed from its broken finances. Administration, famine relief, noble unrest—all of it began with money, or the lack thereof.

He took a breath. "Your Majesty… I believe the Ministry of Finance would be more suitable for my interests."

The Queen's smile faltered. Finance?

For years, France's brightest minds had laboured in vain to cure its monetary sickness. Even the most seasoned ministers had failed. Could a boy, no matter how clever, succeed where all others had not?

She tempered her reply. "If finance intrigues you, my son, perhaps you might begin at the Paris Tax Bureau."

He bowed his head, knowing she did not believe him ready. And who could blame her? His face bore only thirteen years.

"Then, may I serve as assistant to the Finance Minister?" he asked gently.

A pause.

This request was no trifle. The assistant to the Finance Minister was, in essence, the ministry's second-in-command.

The Queen's eyes studied him carefully.