The wheel of the Dauphin's carriage did not break by chance.
The royal craftsmen claimed it was a flaw in the wood, an unseen weakness that had waited for the worst possible moment. Versailles accepted the explanation because Versailles always preferred comfort over truth.
Louis did not.
He sat quietly in his chamber while servants cleaned the dust from the velvet curtains. Étienne Moreau stood near the door, arms folded, jaw tight.
"They weakened the axle," Étienne said. "Cleanly. Professionally."
Louis nodded.
"So the game has begun."
Two nights later, the second move arrived.
A young page boy was caught trying to slip into the Dauphin's chamber long after midnight. His hands trembled as Étienne seized him, a small glass vial falling from his sleeve and shattering on the marble floor.
The smell was faint.
Bitter.
Deadly.
The boy collapsed in tears.
"They said it would only make him ill," he sobbed. "They said it would look like fever."
Louis watched silently as the guards dragged the child away.
"They will not stop now," Étienne said.
"They will become sloppy," Louis replied.
The court was not informed.
Not officially.
But silence never stayed silent in Versailles.
By morning, half the palace knew something was wrong.
By evening, all of Paris had invented its own version of the story.
The prince was poisoned.
The prince is already dying.
They are afraid of him.
Louis walked the galleries the next day with his head high, refusing to acknowledge the rumors.
He wanted them to grow.
That afternoon, he summoned Jacques Necker.
"Who benefits from my disappearance?" Louis asked.
Necker hesitated.
"The answer is too long for a single breath."
"Then begin with the first name," Louis said.
Necker closed his eyes.
"Calonne."
Louis smiled faintly.
"So history resists."
That night, Louis stood alone at the balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens.
He was six years old.
And someone had already tried to kill him.
Not because he was weak.
But because he was dangerous.