The sudden outburst from Franz early that morning wrapped up as nothing more than a minor mishap.
However, anything involving the imperial family was bound to be reported down to the tiniest detail.
Especially since Franz was one of the candidates personally selected by the emperor himself as a potential son-in-law.
In other words, he was a prospective husband for Maria Theresa, who might one day become the heir to the Habsburgs.
That alone meant every move he made naturally reached the emperor's ears—and indeed, that's exactly what was happening.
"...So, he just barged into the place where Theresia was having breakfast?"
In the office of the Leopoldine Wing, a favorite haunt of Charles VI, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.
Sigmund Rudolf, the Chief Steward standing before the emperor, read through the fresh report that had just come in, a awkward smile tugging at his lips.
"Yes. The maids and servants were so startled they nearly screamed."
The Habsburg court wasn't as rigidly strict as France's, but it still upheld its own court etiquette.
No matter how young she was, Theresia was an archduchess of this realm.
For a visiting noble to casually drop by and meet her was, naturally, a breach of decorum.
"What on earth possessed him to commit such a faux pas? What did Franz say to the girl?"
"...He just greeted her and left."
"...What? Say that again."
"He just... greeted her and left."
-He just greeted her and left.
Charles VI closed his eyes tightly at the steward's report, which echoed like a hallucination, and rubbed his temples.
"Was there anything unusual last night?"
"No. The only odd thing was that when Albrecht went to wake him this morning, he was lying in the middle of his bedroom. He claimed he'd slipped."
"What?"
"Then he asked how long he'd been here and if today was indeed November 29th, before suddenly bolting out."
Charles VI turned to stare blankly at the steward.
"What kind of nonsense is that...? He didn't hurt himself badly, did he?"
"I doubt it. If he'd been seriously injured, he couldn't have run off like that."
"True enough. Then what in the world...?"
Charles VI snatched the report from the steward's hand and scanned it over and over himself.
Of course, reading it again didn't change the contents, leaving the emperor the only one frustrated.
"Why would a boy who's been perfectly fine until now suddenly act out like this?"
"Ah, Your Majesty. There's one more thing on the back you should see."
"What else is there?"
He was hoping it would end there, but upon seeing the content, Charles VI narrowed his eyes involuntarily.
"He spoke to her in German?"
"Yes. The servants say he spoke quite fluent German, too."
"I'd heard Franz barely knew any German. Was I mistaken?"
"No, that's what I understood as well."
Franz, heir to Lorraine, was known to have grown up with a strong French identity due to his Paris-born mother.
In fact, French was his native tongue, his education was French-style, and even his birth name was the French François Étienne rather than the Germanic Franz—what more explanation was needed?
He had received German lessons since arriving in Vienna, but his progress was so minimal that he could barely string together a few awkward words.
After all, French was the lingua franca of European courts at the time, so lacking German didn't hinder communication.
However, no one could deny that failing to speak the German used by the common folk in daily life was grounds for criticism.
That said, Charles VI actually appreciated such minor flaws.
He wanted a husband to stand by his daughter's side and support her—not some powerhouse who might swallow the empire whole.
But what if he could actually speak fluent German?
"Has he been pretending not to know all this time?"
"For now... that's how it looks."
"But what's the gain in hiding it? Showing off good German would win him favor easily with the others."
"True, but if someone who's only spoken French suddenly masters German perfectly in two years, it'd cement his image as extraordinarily brilliant. Maybe he judged that unwise."
Charles VI's face subtly hardened as he grasped the steward's point.
"He thought it advantageous not to seem too outstanding if he wanted to be my son-in-law?"
"If not, why hide it?"
"...It might be jumping to conclusions, but I can't dismiss it entirely."
Franz—or more precisely, the Duke of Lorraine title he stood to inherit—was one of Charles VI's early picks for son-in-law.
High prestige, weak house power, impeccable character as heir, and not a shred of ambition.
Where else could you find such a perfect candidate for a son-in-law?
Numerous nobles had recommended suitors for Theresia, but Charles VI had been pushing hardest for Franz.
Frankly, even after hearing the full report, he didn't want to suspect the boy.
The emperor genuinely liked him, after all.
"Tonight, I should have a private word with our Franz. That alright?"
"Of course. I'll inform His Highness Franz that dinner will be in Your Majesty's private dining room."
Anyone with a brain knew what it meant to invite someone to the emperor's private quarters instead of a formal banquet hall.
No point in overthinking it—the expressions of children this young were all too easy to read.
A little pressure, and their hidden true feelings would spill out naturally.
He could judge then; it wouldn't be too late.
Charles VI turned his gaze from the politely departing steward back to the towering stack of documents.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
I learned that dinner would be with Emperor Charles VI in his private quarters after my riding lesson ended.
Private or not, it wouldn't be just the two of us talking and eating.
There would be servants attending, and guards standing at a distance for security.
Even so, dining alone with the emperor was a rare opportunity—one I had no memory of at this age.
In other words, this change stemmed from that morning's incident.
Court rumors spread frighteningly fast.
I bathed thoroughly, dressed properly, and followed the servant to where Charles VI awaited.
Upon arrival, the tableware was already set, and the staff kept their distance.
Charles VI, dressed in comparatively casual attire, sipped water from his glass while watching me approach.
The emperor smiled, but the air in the room felt subtly heavy.
"Your Majesty, you summoned me?"
"It's been a while since we've dined alone like this. Come, sit."
"Yes."
As I sat across from him, the lavish course began.
The old Franz would have been so tense his heart might burst, but I was astonishingly calm—even to myself.
Even imperial cuisine merely rated as "decent" compared to famed 21st-century restaurants.
Ingredients might share names, but without centuries of selective breeding, no chef could work miracles.
They say a dish is eighty percent ingredients, twenty percent skill, after all.
Lost in such idle thoughts, the emperor spoke up softly.
"Franz, you're still young, but soon you'll be old enough for military service. You understand why you're staying here in the palace receiving an education, yes?"
"Yes. I am endlessly grateful for this undeserved grace."
No one stated it openly, but anyone with sense knew.
In the Holy Roman Empire, which didn't recognize female succession, Theresia couldn't become emperor.
Childless Charles VI had pushed the Pragmatic Sanction to allow female inheritance and avert the realm's fracture.
But that only applied to Habsburg lands.
The Habsburgs had held the imperial throne for generations, yet inheritance of their territories wasn't identical to the crown.
Thus, Charles VI needed a man to marry Theresia and claim the throne in her name—and I was one candidate.
Meaning there were still others besides me.
"Personally, I like you. Not for conditions or such—though I'd be lying if I said those didn't matter. More than that, I've been watching your character."
"I am humbled by such praise."
"But you know it's no light decision swayed by my fondness alone. This incident may seem trivial, but in noble life, even trifles can spark scandals."
One might wonder what big deal it was to rush to the archduchess's breakfast like a man possessed, but breaching etiquette was undeniable.
The saying goes there's no one without dirt if you shake hard enough—anyone eyeing me warily could latch onto this.
Above all, the emperor was probing indirectly right now, without showing it.
Asking why I'd acted so impulsively.
Meeting his gaze head-on, I offered the excuse I'd prepared.
"What happened today... I'm truly ashamed and have no words."
"Ashamed?"
"I had a terribly realistic nightmare. Even after waking, I couldn't tell dream from reality—my wits entirely fled. When I came to, the Archduchess was right there."
"So... you had a nightmare worrying about her, and bolted straight there?"
The emperor chuckled in disbelief, but as expected, he didn't press further.
I knew my situation perfectly, but to others, I was just a 17-year-old novice noble, fresh in Vienna two years.
A convoluted, airtight excuse might ring false.
Better: the 17-year-old lad from remote Lorraine, crushed by the capital's pressures, put on a comical show.
Showing such human flaws felt more natural, painting me as approachable.
"If the nightmare was that bad, you've been under unconscious pressure. Was hiding your German fluency for the same reason?"
"...Yes. Embarrassing to admit, but raised on French alone, I was a near novice in German. Yet as Lorraine's heir representing the duchy, I didn't want to show myself fumbling unfamiliar words."
"So you hid it until you reached a satisfying level? Well, that's aristocratic pride in a way."
"But the moment I dreamed something bad happened to the Archduchess, I forgot all that. Proof I'm still far from ready."
Racing off, heedless, at the thought of seeing her again—that was true, so my self-criticism was sincere.
Charles VI nodded with a faint smile at my heartfelt response.
"Someone once told me: knowing your flaws leaves room to grow. You'll improve further."
"I shall never forget to reflect, as Your Majesty teaches."
"Hahaha! I remember you freezing up, barely speaking at our first meeting. Now you answer well."
Seeing the emperor laugh heartily stirred complex emotions hard to pin down.
At the same time, long-forgotten memories from a distant past shed their dust, sharpening into focus.
As he'd said, at this age, his charisma overwhelmed me in private audiences—I could hardly meet his eyes.
Charles VI, Holy Roman Emperor.
To my younger self, the name alone inspired admiration and awe.
Yet by the time Theresia took the Habsburg reins, he'd become an object of resentment.
If only he'd prepared the succession properly, educated her fittingly as head.
She wouldn't have faced early legitimacy struggles, nor the War of Austrian Succession.
So now, after uncountable years?
Naturally—or unexpectedly?
Regret and grudge had eroded away, leaving no trace.
In their place, fond memories filled the void.
I understood now: despite imperfect results, how hard he'd strived for the house's survival.
How sorry he felt for not bequeathing a flawless empire to his daughter.
Having lived a lifetime as Franz I, I wanted to tell that past self: good work.
Even if that path was forever closed.
I bowed sincerely to the man before me.
"Your Majesty! Thank you for summoning me today and forgiving my blunder so graciously."
"No need to belabor it. Your honest answers ease my mind—especially sincere thanks, not glib flattery. No one's perfect. Forget today's mistake."
"Yes. I will strive to meet your expectations."
Perfection is relative, after all.
From certain views, Theresia and I inherited a fine position.
Failing to build on it was our choices' result.
Avoid repeating errors—that suffices.
It's fine. Everything changes from here.
Finishing dinner with the emperor, I bid farewell to my past father-in-law.
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