Versailles awoke the next morning to a thunderbolt. It was no soothing vibration of rumor, but a deed thunderclap. Just after the morning audiences, when the courtiers went through the vast halls passing the word, there appeared a detachment of the King's Swiss Guards, grim-visaged, with their halberds at attention, right into the palace wing upon the offices of the Treasury.
The court froze. Mid-sentence, the conversations ceased. Each face gazed after the guards. Moments afterward, they appeared, flanking a man whose face was a mask of pallid dismay. It was the Baron de Clugny. He wasn't in chains—such a thing would have been unthinkable within the palace walls—yet the guards' placement near him was equally accusatory. Following him, three white, trembling junior clerks were pushed after him, their terror manifest to all. They were shown the door of the palace and pushed into a closed carriage, which, everybody knew, was intended for the grim fortress of the Bastille.
News of the arrest coursed through Versailles like a burning fuse. It was an unprecedented move. Kings had exiled troublesome lords, stripped them of titles, but to arrest one openly, like a common thug, for a money-related crime? It was vulgar. It was chilling. It was a declaration that the old ways no longer applied.
By midday, Art was feeling the pressure increase. Vergennes requested that he be seen immediately, his note seeming to crackle with fury. The Duke of Orléans was mustering a group of hard nobles, their visages black thunderheads. They saw the arrest as no demonstration of justice, but as a terrifying escalation, a commoner's tool of law and order being applied by one of their own.
Art denied all audiences. He closed himself up in his study, not with account books this time, but with a sheet of blank parchment and a pen. Necker had warned him not to do this, imporing him to let the justice system take care of it, to pass a standard, mundane legal decree through the proper offices. Art knew that would be a mistake. A legal document would be read by lawyers and functionaries. He had to speak to the people. He was about to make an act of political communication that was totally unfamiliar to the 18th-century monarchy.
He wrote, not kingly, not as a man trying to demonstrate a point, to control a narrative, but as a man trying to influence an argument, to overwhelm a tale. He wrote neither in the elaborate, formal manner of the court. He wrote in straightforward, plain simplicity. He remembered his own era's political speeches, the ones that stirred not through the force of their intellectual cleverness, but through the force of their affective authority.
After several drafts, he had it. It was not a royal edict. He titled it: A Proclamation to My People.
When Necker arrived, his face gaunt, extremely nervous, Art handed him the draft. The minister read, his eyes growing wider at line after line.
"My people," began the document. "For too long, the trust that you have placed in the Crown, has been profaned by the men of greed and obscurity. Today, I have ordered the arrest of the men that did not regard the Royal Treasury as a sacred trust, but their private treasuries. They robbed not me. They robbed YOU. Every livre pilfered in payment of the debt of a usurer was a livre that did not feed a famishing family, repair a broken bridge, or equip a soldier to confront our foreign enemies. This was no treason to the state; 'twas a robbery upon every loyal, taxpaying subject of the French."
Necker gazed up, his face pale. "Your Majesty... to speak so directly... to use the terminology of 'your' money... that's revolutionary."
"It's the truth," replied Art. "And the truth is a weapon we've yet to use." He pulled the document from his pocket. "Minister, I want a hundred thousand of these printed. Immediately. I want them distributed in Lyon, Marseille, Paris, in all the key cities. I want them posted in every town square where the people gather. I want every Frenchman, man or woman, who can read, read, or be read to, well informed of what has happened, and what his King is doing about it."
He was aghast. "Ten thousand copies? Your Majesty, that's the printing of a successful novel. The cost..."
"A fraction of what Clugny stole in one year," said Art. "You can call it an investment in popular confidence. Do it."
But that wasn't the limit. A paper sheet was one thing. He wanted to give it a face. He would be visible not atVersailles, in the midst of his enemies, but atParis, in the midst of the people themselves. He would read the proclamation from a Louvre Palace balcony, the former throneroom of the kings, something that would call up the history of the city.
It was a tense afternoon. The royal procession to Paris was heavy with troops. The mood in the city was seized in doubt. There was a crowd gathering in the square in front of the Louvre drawn by the word of the dreading arrests and the novel possibility of a royal address. They were the curious, the skeptical, the hopeful, the angry. They formed a powder keg.
Art stepped out onto the balcony, Necker at his side. Whispers coursed through the crowd. He was not in the elaborate, formal fashion of a ceremony. He wore a simple, black coat, the uniform of a working man. He waved his hand for silence, and after a moment, the crowd quieted down.
He did not adopt the loud, florid tone of the standard orator. He spoke in a strong, resonant voice, his tone grave and serious. He read his proclamation.
He spoke of trust betrayed. He spoke of justice being no respecter of rank or station. He spoke of a new era of responsibility. And he finished with a simple yet powerful vow that he wrote himself, a sentence that came from the heart of a doubting accountant who cared about the bottom line above all other things.
"The riches of the kingdom are the riches of the people, left in my trust!" He said, his voice ringing out with conviction. "Those would rob from the trust of the people, be they of what rank, are enemies of France! Them, justice will apprehend. By my word, that is my sworn vow to you!"
There was a moment of stunned silence. The crowd was processing, this strange king that treated them not as a remote deity, but as an elected magistrate giving account to his voters. Then, someone bellowed, "Vive le Roi!" Long live the King! Another, then another, until the entire square erupted in a wave of cheers that engulfed him, a din of pure, genuine approval.
His HUD was flashing with notifications, a burst of positive reinforcement.
Popularity with Third Estate: +20% (STATUS: ADORED)
Popularity with Bourgeoisie: +15%
Crown Fiscal Integrity: +30%
Public Trust in Monarchy: +25%
He had done it. It was a gigantic, irrefutable victory. He had evaded the hostile judiciary and reached the people directly. He felt a moment of real, dizziness-inducing triumph, the feeling of a man who had stared into the abyss and had taken a determined step away from its edge.
He waved to the crowd one last time, then turned away from the palace. Just down the corridor, resting against the wall as if awaiting his return, was Vergennes. The minister's face was as calm as ever, but his eyes blazed chips of ice.
"Congratulations, Your Majesty," Vergennes growled, his voice in contrast to the crowd enthusiasm outside. "You've managed to get the people to adore you. It was a brilliant piece of popular theatre."
He pushed himself free of the wall and drew near, his voice segueing to a whispered confidence that only Art would grasp. "You've also signed the Baron de Clugny's death warrant. His family may be poor, but his mother was a Polignac. His cousin, as I believe Minister Necker may have said, is the wife of a Rohan. These are no homes that face affronts. These are no homes that will take this as justice. These are homes that will take this as a declaration of war on their entire station."
Vergennes produced a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "You've gained the favor of a capricious crowd. I wonder if you will relish the hatred of the people that count."
When the minister bowed faintly and turned to go, the last, threatening message materialized on Art's HUD, wiping away the smile of victory.
NEW FACTION CREATED: The Old Guard.
Members: Vergennes, House of Rohan, House of Polignac, +12 others.
Status: (CONSPIRING).
Threat Level: HIGH.