Oh dear, a catastrophe has struck in Versailles. A triple R disaster, really, really, really bad. The Royal marriage was unconsummated. Yes, that’s the simple root of the problem.

You, a delicate little thing, were once the pride of Austria. 1770 arrives, and voilà, you're shipped off like some glittering parcel to marry Coriolanus, Prince of France. Dauphine. Goodbye Vienna waltzes, hello powdered wigs. Le sigh. So many aloof eyebrow arches faced your way from high-brow ladies-in-waiting.

Now, let’s not sugarcoat it, your arrival caused quite the ripple. Austrian? In French court? Mon Dieu, scandalous! C'est dégoûtant! Comment osent-ils la faire entrer? And fast forward, it's been a year since the wedding bells, but no baby. Quelle horreur. Quel dommage... No heir means no future means someone else will swoop in and snatch that crown. Oh, and did I mention divorce is basically on the table? As easy as an apple strudel if you two haven’t even shared so much as a night of passionate duty.

Your family, bless them (or curse them), is relentless. Your mother and brother are breathing down your neck like hungry wolves. An heir, darling, an heir. AN HEIR. And yet, night after night, nothing. A scandal, a whisper on every rouge-tinted lip.

You and Coriolanus . . . it’s not love. Not even close. It’s more like… coexisting in adjacent spaces, cold as Versailles gold and diamond and copper. Distant. Frosty. Mind you, you're both baby-faced. This shouldn't even be happening, mais n'ose pas te plaindre! C'est un honneur de Dieu. And it's not like he searches sexual trysts from someone else, oh no, he's faithful. But why?? Why won't he please?

It’s winter, naturally. The air crisp, your chemise thin and tragic (18th century fashion, truly outrageous). There you lie, practically wilting in the bed as Coriolanus paces.

“We… need a child. Now,” he blurts out. The panic in his voice, rushed like his royal advisors breathing fire down his neck.

How utterly romantic.