The Verdict and the Fallout

The silence in the wake of the huntsman's testimony was in no wise vacant. It was a void into which had been dragged all the vitality, all the belief, and all the self-satisfied confidence of the Old Guard. Maître d'Éprémesnil's silence was more guilty even than any concession. At once the entire court understood the significance of the fact that the proceeding had been transformed at one stroke. It was no longer the say-so of a noblemann set against the king's version. It had been changed into the question of conscience.

The presiding judge, the ultra-conservative aged Duke de Duras, was plainly upset. His worldview, a neat pyramid with the nobles at the top and the servants at the bottom, had been shaken in its roots. The State finished its case. The defense, dazed-appearing, had nothing additional to say. With trembling voice, the Duke announced the judges would retire in order to deliberate.

The room was at boiling point. Vergennes face was in icy rage and he grumbled indignantly at his colleagues in jerky irate gestures. No longer the confident puppeteer but army commander whose principal fortress had been suddenly taken from him. Down the aisle Marie Antoinette sat frozen in stillness, her hands knitted tightly in her lap, wordless pillar of strength. She cast a look once in hope at Necker, who for once in weeks was not a man on the verge of nervous collapse.

The wait was agonizingly short. A mere twenty minutes thereafter, a bell rang out the arrival of the judges. Their faces were grim, their stride austere. They appeared men who had been forced to perform a most unpleasant but necessary operation.

The Duke de Duras stood up in the room; he was a lanky slouching man with the burden of the centuries on his back. He cleared his throat in a harsh note in the still room. He had a piece of vellum in his hand and his hand trembled almost unrecognizably as he spoke.

He spoke about the gravity of the crimes, the sanctity of the oath of a noblesman, the honor of the realm. A long introduction, a final plea on behalf of the world he knew. But he reached the substance of the question.

"But," said the Duke, his voice strained, "the oath testimony of a Crown witness, a man of irreproachable loyalty and forty years' service, has cast irrevocable doubt on the version given by the defendant of where he was." He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. "And, therefore, this court finds the testimony by the Baron de Clugny on the receipt of a secret royal order was perjury, a crime rendered more grievous by the slanderous intent against the estate of his dead Sovereign."

Everyone in the room gasped simultaneously. It was happening.

"On the principal charge of cheating the Royal Treasury," the Duke concluded in barely more than a whisper, "this court finds the defendant, Baron de Clugny, guilty."

The word—guilty—dropped like a blow. The Old Guard was shocked into utter silence. The Baron de Clugny deflated in his seat as if his strings had been cut, his face a chalk-white face of ruin. Vergennes closed his eyes for one long moment, drinking in the full depth of his loss. Art had not only won the trial. He had the system they had, the rules they had, the court they had, and beaten them with them. He had forced the aristocracy in public to say the simple integrity of a common man was more valuable than the honor of one of theirs.

In the ensuing uproar, as bailiffs marched in to arrest the convicted Baron, Art's advocates withdrew. Marie Antoinette walked tall and marched out with her ladies, a vindicated queen. Outside the Palais de la Cité, the news of the verdict had already spread rapidly. The vast crowd, which had been standing in rapt silence, went wild.

A great, cathartic shout rose up, a voice of pure delight. They were chanting, but it was not the old formal "Vive le Roi," but something new, something different: "Vive le Roi de Justice! Long live the King of Justice!"

At Versailles, when the courier rode in with the word, Art felt a floodgate of relief wash over him so strong it almost took his knees out from under him. He had wagered the grand slam of his life on a 10% chance of absolute victory, and he had won. His HUD was a blinding array of good news notifications, the figures shooting up many times higher even than he'd ever seen.

Public Trust in Monarchy: +50% (STATUS: IRONCLAD).

Third Estate Popularity: +30%.

Crown Fiscal Integrity: +40%.

Old Guard Faction: MORALE CRUSHED. Power -40%.

Vergennes's Influence (Court): -30% (STATUS: WEAKENED).

Later in the day back at the palace the mood was funereal. The relentless whispers and superior smiles had been replaced by a fear-motivated sullen silence. The Old Guard now viewed Art not with disgust anymore, but with something much more precious: fear. They well understood what had happened. The unspoken rule, the simple tenet by which the class was above the law, had been violated in public. If the word of a huntsman was enough to condemn a baron, then nobody was anymore protected from the ledgers kept by the King. The balance at Versailles had been irreparably upset.

That night, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Art allowed himself a true celebration. He was in the study, but the account books were forgotten. He was in his armchair by the fire with Marie Antoinette, swigging a bottle of the best Burgundy in silent toast among jubilant co-conspirators. They had defied the strongest men in the realm and come out on top. They had stared into the abyss and taken a giant step back.

"To the King of Justice," replied Marie Antoinette in a gentle voice, raising her glass. With pride her eyes sparkled.

"To the Queen," he added in a voice heavy with a feeling he could not quite name. "I could not have done it without you."

The peace of the victory was, however, shattered by a furious pounding on the study door. The door was flung open on the form of Necker, who ran in without announcing himself. He was not celebratory. His face was ashen, and he held in his hand a diplomatic dispatch as if it was a poisonous snake. The seal was broken.

"Your Majesty," he said gruffly through a fresh and unfamiliar fear. "A dispatch. From our ambassador in London. Arrived minutes ago."

The good humor deserted Art, a chill taking its place. "What is it, Minister?" Necker's hands trembled as he read from the paper. His voice was serious. "The British Parliament in an emergency session has passed a mammoth new naval appropriations act. Citing 'unprovoked French naval aggression'—Your Majesty, the new frigates we paid for out of the returned pension funds!—and 'growing turbulence in the American colonies' as the reason."

Necker looked up at him in horror. "It's worse. The bill further enables the immediate deployment of additional ten thousand troops into North America."

The floor had dropped out from under Art. So caught up in his inner struggles, so preoccupied by the intrigues at Versailles and the Paris trial, he had completely forgotten the world beyond the border of France. While he had been fighting Vergennes in a courtroom, the British had been preparing for a real war. The play was bigger than he had ever envisioned.

A red new message appeared on his HUD. It was part of the system he had never had reason to glance at, an aspect of the game he had never recognized he was a member of.

GEOPOLITICAL THREAT DETECTED: Great Britain (STATUS: AGGRESSIVE).

HISTORICAL EVENT IMMINENT: American Revolutionary War - PRELUDE DETECTED.

Conflict Probability: 85%.

CRITICAL DECISION REQUIRED: The American Question.

Option A: Intervene in support of the colonists.

Option B: Remain neutral and focus on internal reform.

The fate of two revolutions now hangs in the balance.