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Here are some stories from the world of the Roboticist of Versailles.

Joyeux Noel

A vignette about Adelaide Coumain, the Roboticist of Versailles, when she was a young girl at the Academie des Sciences.

Snow fell outside the window next to Adelaide’s workbench. It was almost Christmas but she hadn’t celebrated since she left Maman and Papa to enroll in the Academy two years ago. No feasts, no presents, no carols. Adelaide missed the singing most of all. She stared down at the automaton’s voice box on her bench and grinned. She was supposed to make the automaton deliver a lecture but couldn’t bring herself to program something boring like Latin declensions. But a Christmas carol? That would be a challenge. She picked up a delicate screwdriver designed for the tiny brass mechanism.
“Mademoiselle Coumain?” A voice behind her startled her and she dropped the screwdriver. It was Valmont, the scion of a noble family. He had never spoken to her before. She was from a peasant family so had been too low for him to notice.
Adelaide turned, a nervous smile pasted on her mouth. “Bonjour, monsieur. How may I help?”
The young nobleman thrust his own automaton’s voice box at her. “I would like to exchange this equipment with yours. It appears to be faulty and I know you would be able to repair it.” He paired his request with a sweet smile.
Adelaide’s heart fluttered. Valmont, needing her assistance? Her hands shook as she took the little brass cylinder. “I’d be honored to assist you.”
“Of course.” He reached around and snatched the voice box off her workbench. Valmont went back to his station without a backward glance.
Adelaide examined the faulty mechanism Valmont had left. The comb was bent. He must have been too rough with it. She hummed to herself as she carefully realigned it, then set to work with her modifications. She wound the little mechanism and Mon Beau Sapin filled the students’ workroom. The mechanical voice wasn’t operatic quality but it was pleasant enough.
The other students looked up from their work. Valmont called across the room. “Is that a Christmas carol? The machines are supposed to deliver lectures, not music.”
Adelaide flushed and tears sprung to her eyes. She had been so pleased with her accomplishment.
Professor Piorry approached her bench. “What have you done here?” He picked up the voice box. “Astonishing! You were able to produce both words and tones. Well done, mademoiselle.”
Her tears turned to joy. “Thank you, monsieur. And Joyeux Noel.”

Nathalie and the King

This story is set closer to 1900, when the Naturalist King Henri has aged and become a tad eccentric.

The King wasn’t quite as she’d expected–he was shorter for one thing. Nathalie had thought he’d be better dressed too. If she hadn’t been introduced to him, she would’ve thought him a gardener, clad as he was in rough grey woolens with a little cap perched on his grey head. His Majesty stooped over a geranium bush, cutting off dead blooms with a tiny pair of silver secateurs. He handed the clippings to a bored servant in royal livery standing next to him with a wicket basket.

Nathalie’s father stood among the sumptuously dressed courtiers, at ease despite his rather scruffy suit. He smiled at her. No one but her seemed to be paying much attention to the king.

Nathalie’s etiquette lessons given just before her presentation to the king hadn’t covered this topic, but she thought it must be polite to engage when in the presence of royalty. She smoothed down the front of her dress, pintucked green linen, her favorite, and stepped closer. “Are you a lover of geraniums, Sire?”

He scowled up at her from under an untidy fringe of graying hair. “This is a Pelargonium, young miss, not a geranium.”

She flushed, the heat prickling her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, your Majesty. I was unaware of the distinction. How can you tell the difference?”

He gave her a long, considering look, perhaps examining her to see if she was mocking him. He nodded and a satisfied smile creased his face.

“You see, you must look to the petal structure and positioning when you wish to distinguish these species. They are both members of the Geraniaceae family, so they do share certain similarities.” He halted his lecture. “What’s your name, mademoiselle?”

She curtsied, hiding a smile. “Nathalie, Sire. Nathalie Desjardins.”

He beamed. “Of the garden! Excellent name. I think we shall be good friends.” He placed her hand over his arm and tugged her along the gravel path, pointing out more of his favorite plants.

She cast a look back over her shoulder at her father. He was caught up in a conversation with a lovely courtier. Typical Papa, always flirting. Nathalie turned back to the king, finding herself curious about this monarch, at once rustic while possessing a keen mind. She found him charming. Odd but charming. Maybe as he said, they would be friends.