Chapter III: Bound for Paris

Before Queen Marie Antoinette could offer a reply, a dry cough echoed through the chamber. A tall, angular man with a glint of calculation in his eyes stepped forward a respectful half-pace and addressed her with a voice heavy with gravity:

"Your Majesty, if I may… You mentioned that His Highness would be permitted to take part in matters of state?"

The Queen turned her head slowly to regard him, her tone even. "Indeed, Duke of Orléans. His Highness and I agreed: upon the completion of his studies at the University of Paris, he may begin his formal education in governance."

The Duke bowed slightly, but behind his composed expression, suspicion brewed like a storm. The Crown Prince… a boy long dismissed as average at best, suddenly transformed into a prodigy? Something did not sit well. Was it pretense all along? A ruse, perhaps, to gain sympathy—or to conceal some ambition?

No matter the reason, the reappearance of a promising heir, radiant with youthful brilliance, posed a direct threat. The Duke's influence—cultivated carefully through years of subtle undermining of the royal family's prestige—was no longer unchallenged.

He must act.

"With all due deference to Your Majesty," he said, voice raised for the assembled ministers, "the Crown Prince is but thirteen. Though doubtless intelligent, he lacks practical experience. I urge you, let him be guided first—trained under a seasoned minister before entrusting him with the weight of the realm."

The Queen frowned, clearly torn. The boy had proven himself in academia—but statecraft was a different beast entirely. One error in judgment could cost the monarchy dearly.

She turned her gaze toward her son. "Joseph… perhaps it is wiser to observe and study a while longer."

Joseph glanced toward the Duke of Orléans—Louis Philippe, a name that history had already stained in Joseph's mind. In the future he remembered, this very man had not only betrayed the crown but delivered the final blow: the deciding vote that sent King Louis XVI to the guillotine.

A fox in nobleman's clothing. Treacherous then—and treacherous now.

Without hesitation, Joseph spoke, "Your Majesty, Joan of Arc led troops against the English at my age. She was not granted her place—she earned it. Permit me to do the same. Give me the opportunity, and I shall prove myself by deed, not merely by blood."

The Duke offered a solemn bow and spoke with the condescension of the seasoned statesman, "Your Highness, the affairs of the nation are no battlefield for youthful fervour. One does not govern with passion alone."

But Joseph, now fully embracing the posture of royalty, lifted a hand in interruption.

"Duke of Orléans, with due respect, this is a matter between the Queen and myself. Please, do not interpose yourself in an agreement to which you are not party."

The room fell still.

Several Cabinet Ministers exchanged looks of surprise. Even the Chief Minister often deferred to the Duke of Orléans—yet here stood the Crown Prince, challenging him without flinching.

Joseph turned again to his mother. "Majesty, if not Finance, may I at least serve as assistant to Bishop Brienne? To learn directly from the Minister of Finance would be far more effective than studying from afar."

The Queen hesitated.

Orléans' brows twitched in fury, but Joseph had left him no space to retort before Queen Marie's voice, now edged with finality, cut across the room.

"Joseph, you shall begin at Paris City Hall. Gain some experience there first. If you demonstrate prudence and aptitude, we shall revisit the matter of finance."

Joseph looked about the chamber—seven or eight ministers stood present, and he saw in their eyes the restraint, the caution. The Queen could not grant him more, not here, not now.

He inclined his head. "As you command, Your Majesty."

But Orléans was not yet finished. He stepped forward again. "Your Majesty, might I suggest—"

"It has been decided," Queen Marie said coolly, lifting her hand with quiet finality. She turned to Bishop Brienne. "Let us continue with the matter of tax reform."

Joseph took his seat quietly. He listened as the conversation once more turned—overwhelmingly—to finance.

But it was not finance in the sense of how to spend—it was, as always, the lament of a court with no funds to spend. France's coffers were empty, its debts mountainous, its people starving, and its bureaucracy crumbling under its own weight.

By the end of the session, Queen Marie insisted on celebrating her son's academic triumph with a small indulgence. Joseph found himself swept away into a miniature banquet of sweets—cakes piled high with sugared violets, puddings dyed with fruit glazes, and delicate macarons in pale pastels.

He barely escaped with his dignity and his appetite intact.

Leaving the tea salon with a weary sigh, Joseph decided to seek out his father. Perhaps the King might—however unlikely—show a spark of interest in the realm he ruled.

But upon reaching the King's apartments, a servant informed him that His Majesty had taken up residence for the past three days in his lock-making workshop. He had not emerged to eat or sleep.

Joseph closed his eyes, hand to his brow.

A kingdom in ruins. A King obsessed with tumblers and keys. A Crown Prince with no authority. And a revolution that nears with every grain in the hourglass…

He turned away from the heavy oak doors and sighed. "Prepare the carriage," he instructed Eman. "We depart for Paris City Hall."

"As you wish, Your Highness."

When Joseph emerged into the great Marble Courtyard of Versailles, he was met with an astonishing sight: no fewer than ten carriages had been arrayed for his journey, with sixty or more attendants waiting nearby—perfumers, tailors, pastry chefs, scribes, and assorted courtiers.

He nearly groaned aloud. A procession fit for coronation, he thought grimly. Not for a bureaucratic post in City Hall.

"Send them back," he said to Eman firmly. "All of them."

Within minutes, the crowd dispersed. Joseph approached the royal carriage—a silver, jewel-trimmed affair with gilded accents that glimmered in the noon sun—but turned away. Its luxury would only draw attention.

He instead stepped into a modest carriage reserved for stewards.

Three carriages departed from Versailles shortly after, heading east toward Paris. Inside, Joseph settled in, weary but focused.

A stack of bound folios sat on the wooden shelf before him—documents concerning Paris City Hall. Curious, he reached for them. Across from him, Eman gave a slight bow, his eyes gleaming with readiness.

Joseph smiled faintly. A true steward. Quick, discreet, and always prepared.

He turned his attention to the papers.

The dossiers detailed the internal departments of the Hôtel de Ville: its magistrates, its clerks, its engineers. When he reached the third page, his eyes lingered on one line:

"Direction Générale de la Police de Paris."

He read further.

The police force of Paris fell entirely under the City Hall's jurisdiction. His eyes lit up.

So this is where I shall begin.

For the common people of France, the greatest fear—after starvation—was lawlessness. Theft, assault, and worse plagued the streets. The nobility lived in guarded estates, but the poor lived at the mercy of criminal gangs, unchecked violence, and a city with no organized police force.

In this era, no nation in Europe had developed a modern policing system. Justice was meted out, if at all, by local guilds, neighbors, or roving patrols. Murders went unsolved. Abductions uninvestigated.

But if I could reform the police… if I could restore order and safety… that, too, would be a blow against the chaos of revolution.

The carriage rolled on, clattering past farm fields and hamlets as it neared the outskirts of Paris.

Joseph turned another page, deep in thought.

And then, from the open window, the unmistakable stench of the city—sour, acrid, suffocating—wafted in.

Welcome to Paris, he thought grimly. Let the work begin.