The Accountant Becomes Louis XVI to Save His Neck

The Queen's illness cast a pall over Versailles, a thick, suffocating blanket of anxiety that smothered all other concerns. The glittering, gossiping, and scheming machine of the court ground to a halt. The bitter enmities of the trial, the hawkish cries for war with Britain, the intricate plots and counter-plots—all of it seemed to fade into a trivial, distant memory. The entire palace, from the highest duke to the lowliest scullery maid, was united in a single, shared obsession: the health of the Queen and the fate of the unborn heir.

The antechamber outside the Queen's apartments became the new, somber heart of the court. It was a space usually reserved for the Queen's ladies and closest confidantes, but now it was constantly, quietly crowded. Nobles who had been at each other's throats just a week ago now stood in hushed, anxious groups, their political differences momentarily forgotten. They spoke in low whispers, exchanging scraps of information gleaned from a passing physician or a somber-faced lady-in-waiting. They were no longer the Old Guard or the Reform Faction; they were simply worried aristocrats, their own family histories filled with the ghosts of wives and children lost to the cruel lottery of 18th-century childbirth.

This shared vulnerability had a strange, humanizing effect on the court. The political drama had been suspended, replaced by a more fundamental human one. The talk was not of alliances and budgets, but of past difficult royal births, of the Queen's piety, of prayers being offered in the royal chapel.

Art, after a long sleepless night sitting in the chair beside Marie's bed, at last emerged from the sickroom for a whiff of air not heavy with the smell of medicine herbs and terror. He was drained, his head numb from futile going over of the HUD's frightful probabilities. He leaned against the chilly marble wall of the antechamber, massaging his sore eyes, and came nose-to-nose with Vergennes.

The two men looked at each other for a moment, the ancient animus a reflex action. Art's mind quickly geared for a political thrust, a delicate question about the affairs of Britain. But his face did not wear the countenance of a political foe. That mask of crafty calculation was absent, superseded by a still, tired solemnity. He did not come to plot. He came only to wait, as each man did.

It was Vergennes who ended the stilted silence. "Any change, Your Majesty?" he asked, his tone low and without its normal rhetorical flair.

"The fever holds," said Art, his voice rough. "The doctors... are doing what they can."

Vergennes nodded, his gaze distant. He looked at the closed doors to the Queen's chambers, and for the first time, Art saw a glimpse of the man behind the formidable minister. He saw an old man, burdened by the cares of a lifetime.

"Four children I have buried, Your Majesty," Vergennes said softly, his voice low enough that Art strained to listen. "Two sons, two daughters. None of them reached their fifth year. The fevers strike at night... there is nothing one can do. Power, riches, they can't stall God's will." He took a deep breath, a heavy, tired sound. "My own wife... she almost died having our only surviving boy. For a week, she balanced between this life and that. I remember feeling powerless. A man can't ever forget it. Even a monarch."

The confession was so unexpected, so deeply personal, that it disarmed Art entirely. This was not a political tactic. It was a moment of common human understanding, a shared sense of a universal grief that went past rank and rivalry. Art understood, with a sudden clarity, that Vergennes's bitter, often cruel opposition was not of simple malice. It was of a deeply felt, paternalistic belief that he, with his age and his experience, knew what was best for France. He regarded Art as a reckless, inexperienced son, and his responses were those of a hardfather who tried to save a beloved child from hurting himself.

"We can disagree on matters of state, Your Majesty," replied Vergennes, his eyes for once meeting Art's. "But in this... in this, all of France's husbands and fathers stand with you. We pray for the Queen. We pray for the Dauphin."

"Thank you, Minister," said Art, and his words were low-key, humble, and absolutely sincere.

A notice, a first sighting of green in days, flashed on his HUD periphery.

Relationship Status: Vergennes +5% (STATUS: TRUCE)

It was a tiny movement, but in the atmosphere of their acrimonious feud, it seemed colossal. Vergennes bowed stiffly and retired to a more remote corner of the antechamber, continuing his vigil.

This momentary, short flash of mutual humanity did not cure Art's dilemma, but it ascribed it. It pierced his own sense of hopelessness and moved him to action. He could not remain inactive and allow his wife be treated with procedures he knew, with each shred of his modern consciousness, were poisonous. He could not place his faith in doctors' dogmatic unknowing. He must place his faith in himself.

He swung about and marched back into the Queen's bedchamber. The doctors were gathered around, making ready another bowl and lancet for another bleeding. Dr. Lassonne was assuring a fidgety lady-in-waiting that this bleeding would be certain to be the one that would finally bring forth the evil humor.

"Stop," Art said. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the room like a blade.

The physicians turned, startled.

"There will be no more bleeding," Art stated, his eyes cold and hard. "The treatments are not working. They are weakening her. You are killing her."

He stiffened, his sense of professionalism hurt. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, you are no doctor! This is standard treatment, tried for centuries..."

"And for hundreds of years, women have perished in childbearing from fevers while they were being bled by their doctors!" Art replied, his composure at last lost. "Your 'accepted course' is a failure. Forbidden. End of story."

He walked to the bedside, placing himself between the doctors and the Queen. He was no longer a helpless husband; he was the King, and his voice rang with the absolute authority he so rarely used.

"You will do nothing. You will apply no more poultices, you will give no more concoctions, and should any man within this room come near the Queen with a lancet again, I will have him seized for treason. Comprehend?" He fixed Lassonne with a hard stare. "Your new orders are to keep Her Majesty comfortable. She is to be given fresh water, weak broth should she be able to tolerate it, and cooling cloths for her fever. You will attend and you will observe. We will allow nature its course. That is a royal edict."

The doctors gazed at him, their countenances a blend of shock, terror, and indignant outrage. He had gone against the whole medical establishment, defying two millennia of conventional belief. He was making his greatest gamble so far, pitting his own contemporary instinct against the accumulated learning of their time. His wife's life as well as his dynasty after him now depended entirely on his shoulders.