Serge was happy.
Right now, he felt happier than even the Pope.
Things he normally couldn't do, couldn't eat, couldn't buy because of the dignity of being a bishop and a priest—he could now do them under the pretext of being a "thirteen-year-old boy's guardian."
To a street vendor who asked,
"Uh… Father, are you allowed to eat this kind of street food?"
he replied,
"I don't really want to eat it, but it looks like this child wants to, so it can't be helped. Haha. Give me two."
"Huh? Two? If a young nobleman is eating, wouldn't one be enough?"
"This child is a big eater. Just give me two. Hahaha."
And at a souvenir shop that asked,
"Uh… Father, are you allowed to enter such a lowly shop?"
he replied,
"I don't really want it, but it looks like this child wants it, so it can't be helped. Haha. Give me two."
"Huh? Two? If it's just for the young nobleman, wouldn't one be enough?"
"This child is a collector. Just give me two. Hahaha."
And to a wine merchant who asked,
"Uh… Father. You said you're traveling, but why do you need sacramental wine?"
he replied,
"I don't really need it, but it looks like this child wants to drink it, so it can't be helped. Haha. Give me two bottles."
"Huh? The young nobleman drinks that?"
"This child learned to drink early. Just give me two bottles. Wahahaha!"
Serge was happy.
After instantly becoming a big eater, a collector, and an early-stage alcoholic, I finally understood why this old man had followed me to Paris.
This guy.
He said he was coming because I might be in danger, but he was using me as a shield while he did everything he wanted.
Look at him grinning like his mouth is about to split. If it splits any wider, he'll turn into the Joker.
Anyway.
This priest didn't seem like a bad person.
Whenever he bought two of something he wanted to eat or have, he always told me to take one.
Maybe because we'd been stuck together for several days, Serge no longer felt like a stiff priest—he started to feel like a grinning, optimistic neighborhood uncle with a good heart.
Of course, excluding the part where he turned me into an alcoholic out of nowhere. I still couldn't forget the look in that wine merchant's eyes when he stared at me.
It was the kind of look that said,
"What a useless little bastard… what's this country coming to…"
Speaking of that hostile look, something came to mind.
"How has France not collapsed yet?"
On the road from Gehenne to Paris,
passing through countless cities and rural villages—Marseille, Avignon, Valence, Lyon, and more—
I met stares that went beyond hostility, like they were looking at something disgusting.
Most of those stares belonged to tenant farmers with sun-darkened bronze skin and wiry muscles hardened by farm work.
When their lifeless, dead eyes landed on the ornate carriage I rode in, dressed in finery, it was like dropping a spark into a barrel full of gasoline—they flared up.
Their gaze was too hot. Like they meant to burn the noble in front of them to ash without leaving a scrap.
Seeing them, I couldn't help thinking of Gehenne.
Most of Gehenne's farmland was vineyards. In midsummer, the whole hillside was filled with a fragrant, sweet grape scent.
France's diet—always pairing meals with wine—combined with Gehenne's relatively small population compared to other territories, maximized grape profits and made it so everyone, noble or commoner, could live a reasonably comfortable life.
When you left the manor and walked along the roadside, you'd see farmers taking off their hats and greeting you brightly, or women by the river washing clothes and chatting.
That was daily life in Gehenne.
But Gehenne's daily life couldn't be found outside it.
Everywhere, you saw people reduced to skin and bone, and the farmers looked like the light had long since left their eyes.
And when, in harvest season—the time farmers should be excited—they just sat in the furrows letting time pass, even a three-year-old could tell something was seriously wrong.
And Guillaume's question was soon answered by the words of a noble we met on the journey.
"Commoners? Little friend, you have a broad heart, worrying even about those beneath you. They're like that because they aren't refined like us. They're foolish people who don't even understand that the more diligently they work and the more they harvest, the more it benefits them."
"Taxes? Ah, you only have to pay the head tax, the in-kind tax, the wine tax, the grain tax, the salt tax, the consumption tax, land rent, facility rent, the harvest tax, the tobacco tax, and unpaid public labor. Oh, of course, you also pay separate national taxes to the state."
"Ah, come to think of it, grain prices have risen a bit too."
"How much did they rise?"
"About double, I'd say."
"Oh, of course, we're the ones selling the grain, and they're the ones buying it. Heh heh."
"…Fuck."
Is this a country?
Grain prices double, and how many kinds of taxes are there?
How is a country like this even functioning?
At this point, shouldn't there be a peasant uprising at least once?
In most regions, exploitation was happening at a level where even if you summoned Satan, he'd say, "Uh… isn't this a bit much?"
Wow. France is amaaaazing! If I say it's so amazing my mind feels like it's going to snap, is that an exaggeration?
No. That's not an exaggeration at all.
At this rate, even if a rebellion breaks out and the nobles all end up laid down on the guillotine, that wouldn't be an overstatement.
Huh? Wait.
"Come to think of it… when was the French Revolution?"
The French Revolution—the historic event where citizens oppressed by tyranny rose up and neatly "cut" the devil-like nobles and king into "no/bles" and "k/ings."
When I read about it in books in my previous life, it secretly felt satisfying.
But now I've been born a noble.
I'm fucked. I'm fucked. I feel like I'm about to do a tap dance from how thrilled I am.
The moment I realized the atmosphere was such that a revolution could break out right now and it still wouldn't be strange, my skin prickled with goosebumps.
More than anything, the fact that I couldn't remember exactly when the revolution happened was what really made me lose it.
The last time I studied world history was for the CSAT, so even if I wanted to remember the year chart I saw thirteen-plus years ago, I could only vaguely feel it—I couldn't recall the exact information.
It could be today. It could be tomorrow. It could be ten years from now.
What's certain is—
"It happened before the 1700s ended."
Even if I forgot everything else, I knew Napoleon.
The unprecedented great commander and dictator, and the liberator of the French people—Napoleon.
Since he was active from the early 1800s, the French Revolution was definitely before that.
This year is 1784, so time is clearly running short.
"Damn it…"
Feeling my mind drift again, I had no choice but to sink into deep worry.
Paris, stepped on again after a long time, was still packed and bustling with people—just like when he attended university more than twenty years ago.
The only differences were his age, and the fact that he now had a boy at his side who could be called "under his protection."
"Let's see… ah, here it is. Guillaume de Toulon. Born 1771 in Gehenne. Is that correct?"
At the words of a noncommissioned officer at the desk, Serge stopped reminiscing and returned to reality.
"That's correct."
"We've completed your enrollment procedures. You should come to the school starting tomorrow, but the cadet's uniform needs time for sizing and tailoring, so you should come pick it up around the afternoon the day after tomorrow."
"Understood. May God's grace be with you, amen."
"Amen."
As he said that, the NCO personally placed the enrollment certificate into Serge's hand.
Even accounting for the fact that it was a soldier's hand, it was so thick, rough, and calloused that Serge couldn't help but be startled.
"Your hands are very rough."
"Haha. Since I'm not a priest, just an ordinary NCO, what can I do if I want to make a living? My salary isn't enough to feed my family, so I have to do day labor too."
At the NCO's words—stabbing straight into him—Serge could only lift his rosary in greeting and leave.
In truth, on any normal day, he might have shown an irritated expression.
But because of what Guillaume had brought up that morning when they passed the Bastille fortress on the outskirts of Paris, Serge lost the desire to do that.
"Bishop. Don't you feel this atmosphere?"
"Hm? Guillaume, what atmosphere do you mean?"
"The atmosphere that everyone is seething with rage. Until now, I wasn't sure, but once we entered Paris, I know for certain. The mood of ordinary people is not normal."
"Guillaume, regardless of status, we are all God's children. Thinking someone has evil feelings toward you because of differences in status is not a good thing."
"Status wasn't even something that existed when God created the world. I'm not judging people by status. Are you saying you truly don't see this reality—where there isn't even vitality in people's eyes, let alone any spark?"
"What are you saying! As someone who is, in a way, your guardian, I must also restrain your words and behavior just now. Until we arrive at the school, don't spea—"
"Then is it normal for farmers not to harvest grain because taxes are too painful, and for people to struggle just to survive?"
"…"
"If the resignation they carry one day turns into anger…"
"Who do you think will be the one to suffer—?"
Inside the carriage heading to the boarding house where Guillaume would be staying, Serge kept muttering.
Was that child truly thirteen?
Was that child actually a demon sent by Satan?
At the boy's words—so far beyond the average that they defied belief—Bishop Serge, thirty-five years old, nearly triple the child's age, was shaken.
And by the time the carriage arrived at the boarding house, Serge—who had mocked himself that the only thing that changed upon arriving in Paris was his own age—ended up realizing, without meaning to, that Paris had changed too.
Serge was no longer happy.