Chapter XVI: The Crown Prince Returns in Triumph

Converse with a man of sense, and the heart finds ease.

So thought Joseph as he watched Count Mono depart in haste. Their conversation had gone precisely as planned—Mono, once uneasy and uncertain, had left eager to prove his loyalty. The young Crown Prince, it seemed, was not to be underestimated after all.

"Gizo shall be remembered as a man who harbored villains and conspired with assassins," Joseph had said simply. "I shall clarify all to Her Majesty."

Mono had immediately clutched his chest in a salute, his powdered wig slightly askew, and exclaimed, "Your Highness is the very embodiment of justice. Please know I shall remain ever loyal to the King, the Queen… and most faithfully, to you."

Joseph had smiled. "I thank you. Oh, and the scimitar is splendid—I shall keep it close at hand."

With that, Mono departed, bowing so low he seemed to melt into the air, retreating backward as courtly manners demanded. Only once he had passed a dozen paces did he permit himself to breathe again, marveling at how deftly the Crown Prince had steered the entire discussion. The child had spoken with a calmness and authority reminiscent, he thought, of Louis XV in his prime.

"Indeed," he muttered as he climbed into his own coach, "a boy touched by the divine. I must distance myself from the Duke of Orleans—this is no ordinary youth."

Joseph, too, had much to consider.

He recalled that the Minister of the Interior—Count Mono himself—was responsible for appointing a successor to the disgraced Gizo as Director of Paris Police.

It was an opportunity.

Though his own ambitions pointed now toward finance, the continued success of his police reforms required a steady hand at the helm. More importantly, he needed a reliable figurehead behind whom he could begin quietly building the intelligence bureau he envisioned—one hidden in plain sight.

He called after Mono, who was just about to board his carriage.

"One more matter—who will be Gizo's successor?"

Mono paused, immediately understanding. "Naturally, Your Highness's opinion shall weigh most heavily."

"Then I shall offer some names shortly," Joseph replied with a faint nod. "And Count Mono—rest assured, I believe Gizo acted without your knowledge."

"You honor me, Your Highness." Mono bowed low once more, retreating with renewed reverence.

It was nearly noon when the procession of carriages reached the outskirts of Versailles. The sudden sound of trumpets and marching drums broke the silence.

Eman leaned in, voice low. "Your Highness—we've arrived."

The carriages slowed and came to a halt. Outside, two unfamiliar young nobles—resplendent in livery—rushed forward. One opened the carriage door and bowed deeply, the other laid a carved step at Joseph's feet.

"Welcome home, Your Highness."

Joseph descended and blinked at the sight before him.

A full regiment of guards, arrayed in pristine uniforms, lined either side of the Marble Courtyard, their swords raised in salute. Beyond them, gathered upon the grand steps of the palace, stood hundreds of nobles, watching with evident anticipation.

A murmur swelled into cheering the moment he appeared.

Joseph stopped short.

"…This is absurd," he muttered under his breath.

The nobles beside him, overhearing, beamed with pride. "His Majesty and Her Majesty have come in person to receive you."

Joseph rubbed his forehead. It's as though I've returned from conquering the Austrians, he thought wryly.

But perhaps it was no surprise. His recent triumphs had captured the attention of all Paris. He had thrown the Director of Police into prison, eradicated gangs from Saint Antoine, and restored peace in a district long abandoned by the Crown. His name was on every tongue.

And the Royal Family, so long criticized for its detachment and decadence, saw at last a chance to reclaim lost prestige—through their son.

So it was that Queen Mary stood at the top of the steps, regal in a rich amethyst silk gown, white mink shawl draped over her shoulders, towering coiffure crowned with long ivory feathers.

Beside her, Louis XVI, dressed in velvet of royal blue, silver trim catching the light, looked as though he wished the floor might swallow him. His discomfort in public was written across his furrowed brow and hunched shoulders, hidden partly behind the Queen's imposing silhouette.

Joseph approached.

Nobles parted like a tide, bowing as he passed. Their silks and satins swept the steps in undulating waves of color. He was halfway up when a young lady in an off-shoulder gown at his right suddenly swayed, gave a theatrical gasp, and collapsed toward him.

Startled, Joseph caught her.

"My lady—are you unwell?"

She closed her eyes and curled up against his chest, mumbling faintly, "So cold…"

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. And then—chaos.

One girl after another began to swoon.

First, a tall noblewoman dropped her fan and muttered, "My corset… it's too tight," before gracefully falling into Joseph's left arm.

Then another faltered and leaned heavily upon his shoulder. "Oh dear… the sun…"

From every side came soft gasps, trembling knees, and delicate collapses—until a dozen or more young noblewomen had practically encircled him, their pale hands reaching, their perfumes mingling.

Joseph stood frozen, buried in lace, frills, and powdered curls.

"...What is happening?" he muttered helplessly.

Captain Kesode, the ever-efficient commander of the Crown Prince's Guard, strode forward. Without hesitation, he lifted one fainted noblewoman under each arm and bellowed:

"Guards! Aid these ladies!"

A thunder of boots followed as guards scrambled into action.

But at the sight of burly soldiers advancing, many of the "fainting" girls suddenly sprang upright—miraculously recovered.

One girl adjusted her sleeve, another smoothed her gown. "Oh, how clumsy of me!" "I just needed a breath of air."

Joseph watched in stunned silence as they fled to safety—like startled birds from a suddenly disturbed fountain.

Eman leaned in with a half-concealed grin. "It seems Your Highness has become… fashionable."

Indeed, the Crown Prince was now the darling of Versailles. No longer the sickly, forgotten youth of idle gossip, he had become a living legend: the boy who outwitted professors, reformed Paris, and returned victorious.

To the noble ladies of court, he was no longer merely a prince.

He was their romantic ideal—their Knight of Enlightenment, their Hero of Justice.

Even if they could not marry him, many had decided: to faint into his arms would suffice.

Joseph sighed, brushing lace from his sleeve, and continued up the steps toward his parents.

As the band resumed its melody and the guards raised their swords once more, the Marble Courtyard echoed with a single, resounding truth:

The Crown Prince of France had arrived—not as a boy, but as a man of influence.