Whispered Secrets, Alliance Formed ca. 1931 (Tag Chauv)

[attr="class","YAMtext"] Chauvelin raised an eyebrow at Henri's reply, his expression one of sardonic amusement. "Why indeed?" he murmured, though he was willing to wager that if he were to pay a visit to the palace library, he would find nothing by Locke there. Nor would names such as Rousseau, Voltaire, or Montesquieu appear on any of the books or folios. There was doubtless some Aquinas and probably some Aristotle, but it would have been purged of any of those 'heretical' Enlightenment thinkers. The boy developing ideas of his own was not in the Chouannerie's best interest.
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Which raised the question of just how Henri had come by his familiarity with Locke. Either someone -- likely one of his young group of spies -- had smuggled it in, or he'd read it before the Chouannerie had gotten their hooks into him. And thinking of that made Chauvelin realize just how little he really knew about the boy. He had the basic information -- parent's names, the absence of siblings, where he'd grown up -- but nothing about the child as a person.
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He'd viewed Henri just as the Chouannerie had, as merely a gamepiece. A king on a chessboard was important, even vital, but ultimately was simply a carved bit of wood or stone to be moved as the player wished, with no will or choice of its own. That had been a profound moral lapse on his part, and if he'd dared to look within himself, he'd find the reason why. The last thing he'd wanted was to see another boy King as a person, with hopes, dreams, loves, and fears of his own.
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It was also a profound professional lapse, which was what the old spymaster told himself really mattered. He had an opportunity here to show a bright young mind the virtues of republicanism. Granted, Henri's political views were essentially irrelevant -- the boy would be extremely lucky just to survive to eighteen, let alone remain in power. But it was far less painful to think about that than the other, so that's what Paul did.
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"So," Chauvelin continued aloud. "You have no trouble acquiring whatever books you want on whatever subjects interest you?" [break][break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] Chauvelin considered that for a long moment. Revealing his true feelings about the Chouannerie and his awareness of his figurehead status had been a risky move by the boy King, and bold because of that. Granted, neither was exactly a huge surprise to the old spymaster at this point, but actually speaking the words aloud must have been a difficult step. Acknowledging reality openly like that meant letting go of the blanket of denial which, however tattered, still let you pretend you weren't freezing to death.
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Henri was teetering on a tightrope, and Paul realized he could at that moment either steady the boy or knock him off. He also knew it wouldn't take much of a jostle to do the latter, even if he didn't intend to. The old spymaster knew was going to have to choose his next words with great care, and so he took his time doing so. He had to walk a tightrope of his own, the fine line between lifting with false hope and crushing with despair.
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Chauvelin sighed. "In my experience, very few men set out deliberately to do evil … and yet they do," he said at last. "They do it through ignorance, or folly, or weakness, or for some other of a hundred reasons, but they do it. And precious few of them realize that they have even then, even when it all falls apart around them."
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He looked at the boy levelly. "I'm not seeking to enter your service any more than the Chouannerie's. Wait," he continued, holding up a hand to forestall any protest. "Hear me out. You believe you would make a good ruler. Fair enough. But I'll tell you, so did Louis XVI. And Victurnien. And Bonaparte. And Louis XVIII. And Hebert. I knew all of those men, and every last one of them believed to the very bottom of his heart that he would make a good ruler. And every last one of them believed to his dying breath that he was a good ruler. Now," he spread his hands, "we have the Chouannerie. And they, too, believe they're good rulers."
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With an eloquent shake of his head, Chauvelin expressed his opinion of that assessment, but said, "I'm old and tired. You believe you would be a good King. Perhaps you're right, perhaps you're wrong. I don't know.

"Yet." [break][break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] Chauvelin hid a smile at the sound of the King's stomach speaking up, and the boy's obvious embarrassment at it. Though he'd raised no children of his own, and rarely came into contact with them in the course of his job, he'd been a young man once himself. Even decades on, he remembered well the seemingly constant hunger. He'd raided the kitchen several times a day, and more than once in the middle of the night. Fortunately, the cook had had five boys of her own and knew what to expect. There was always something available, and usually something portable like bread and cheese, a pickle or two, apples, or a sandwich.
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The old spymaster still liked to eat, as the extra flesh on his stocky frame attested, and one didn't refuse an invitation to tea from the King at any event, so he followed along behind the younger man. The dog went as well, sticking close to its master's side, casting frequent suspicious looks over its shoulder at the stranger/guest. It still didn't trust him, but then animals often were good judges of character.
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He'd glimpsed the boy's room when he'd peeked inside earlier, but his attention had been focused on the unexpected sight of two actual living human beings rather than the furnishings and decorations. Now, able to take a long and comprehensive look at it, he found it surprisingly spartan. While it was obviously a chamber in a royal palace, with gilding and decorative moldings and a general excess of adornment on the walls and ceiling, otherwise it was fairly simple and uncluttered. Louis' room, the old spymaster remembered, you'd barely been able to navigate for all the furniture.
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Here, the dominant impression he had was one of books, though there were some other things that caught his eye and his interest. There was a large harp, not a musical instrument he would have expected to find. The paintings on the walls were landscapes and similar panoramas, with no portraits in evidence. On the chessboard, the white side was winning and, as white was played by the visitor, he wondered who was daring to beat the King – and how easily it was going. It was also a sad room, in a way. While there were plenty of toys, and they were all expensive and of high quality, they were also all of a solitary type. As a child, Chauvelin himself, despite being a marquis, had always had plenty of playmates to call upon, from the children of servants to Jean, the daring village boy he met in the caves. That clearly wasn't the case for Henri.
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Having not only been raised to know proper etiquette and protocol, Chauvelin had apprenticed with that master of it, Charles Talleyrand. Taking the seat indicated, he went through all the polite tea motions without having to think about them, while he listened to the boy King speak. Henri was eloquent and determined, and clearly had at least some grasp of the problems and issues involved. He was perhaps a bit long-winded, but then he was also little more than ten years old. And Chauvelin had spent a great deal of time with republican lawyers and politicians, he was inured to verbosity.
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When Henri was done, Chauvelin put his cup aside, the fine china making a soft tink against the saucer. "Passionately argued," he said with a nod. "But there are some things you need to understand. I never said I wouldn't help you or give you a chance, I said that I wouldn't serve you, and that remains the case. Always and ever, to my dying breath, I serve only France. I'll be your friend, I'll be your teacher, and I'll be your secret connection with the world outside, but I won't be your servant. If I come to believe that you're right, that you'd be good for this country, then I'll do everything I can to see you get the chance to prove it – but you must also remember that I'm just a single old man, and one with no great power, wealth, or station." Arching his eyebrows slightly, he regarded the boy King levelly. "Nevertheless, I will try." [break][break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] When Henri had finished speaking, Chauvelin dusted imaginary crumbs from his fingertips. Folding his napkin carefully he set it to one side. His movements weren't hurried, but neither did he dawdle. While he had no watch and wouldn't have checked it if he did, the old spymaster had a good sense of time and knew that his for this visit was running out. Someone would be coming soon. King or not, Henri was still a child, and thus still had lessons. Paul smiled inwardly. Lessons which were about to at least double, if the boy really was willing to live up to his claimed aspirations.
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"You prove yourself by doing exactly what you just said," he answered Henri's question. "You give your life for this country. I don't mean dying for her, though I have no doubt if that were the price you would gladly pay it." The old spymaster shook his head. It was ironic that the young, with so many years ahead of them, were so willing to give them all up. Leaning closer, he dropped his voice to a near-whisper. "I'll let you in on a secret -- dying is easy and it accomplishes nothing. If you want to save France, the life you give up will be the life of ease you could have had, the life with all the things great and small that other men and boys take for granted. It means what you want, or even need, comes second. It means thinking when you'd rather be drinking, working when you'd rather be playing, and studying when you'd rather be sleeping."
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Holding up a silencing hand to forestall any youthful outbursts, Chauvelin fixed the boy with his grey-green eyes. "Make me no promises. Words are cheap and there are no guarantees in this. You might try your damnedest and still fail. Passion is a vital thing, but it isn't everything. It's not enough to want to be a good King and make this country great, you have to know how." He gestured toward one of the bookshelves, where the dozen volumes of Les Mille et Une Nuits, Contes Arabes Traduits en Français* sat. "Gallard won't help you. Others such as Voltaire, Paine, Smith, Condorcet, Locke, even Machiavelli will." He smiled a cruel-to-be-kind smile. "They'll certainly do for a beginning. I'll bring them within the week." [break][break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] Chauvelin was pleased at the boy King’s not just understanding, but acceptance of the risk and effort inherent in what he was proposing to do. He also showed a remarkably broad educational foundation, especially given the Chouannerie’s near total control over his life. It must have come from his parents, and the old spymaster made a mental note to compliment and thank them in the unlikely event the opportunity to do so actually occurred. And provided, of course, he actually survived long enough to do it.
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Meanwhile, his more cynical side was enquiring just what the hell he thought he was doing. It was so far from what he’d intended when he’d come there that he was brought up short at the realization. He’d been caught up and carried along by an emotion that he hadn’t felt in so long it took him a few seconds to recognize what it was. Hope.
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The first Revolution had gone so horrifically beyond the bounds of sanity that it had set France whipsawing between extremes. For awhile he’d tried to moderate the periodic waves of republicanism, but it was like trying to put a leash on an inferno, and the royalists were no better when they clawed their way back into power. Somewhere along the line he’d given up and instead simply concentrated on surviving and containing the damage until the pendulum swung back again.
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And somewhere along the line he’d gotten old. Too old to keep doing that, yet he loved France too much to think what would happen to her when he was no longer around . So perhaps it was as much desperation as hope, this notion of a republican king. But if anyone could make such a chimera real, he warranted it was this young man before him asking for a copy of Utopia.
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Chauvelin couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the request. He’d read the book, of course, albeit that had been many years before. It had struck him as a case of the author being overly taken with his own cleverness, though there were some intriguing ideas discussed in the ‘correspondence’ depicted in the first part. Counseling a prince he thought with wry inward amusement. How apropos. Still, it would be interesting – and educational -- to see what the young King made of it.
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“It shall be done,” the old spymaster said, somehow turning an inclination of his head into a bow. “And I must soon be about it, if I’m to avoid overstaying my welcome.”
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