"…Is that true, Lieutenant?"
Jean Bailly, an election commissioner for the Third Estate in Paris, doubted his own ears.
"Yes. The king sent the Royal Guard into the Estates hall. And according to officers I'm close with, some foreign mercenary units have left their garrisons."
The lieutenant in front of him nodded as he said it.
Hearing that, Bailly repeatedly wiped his blank face with his hand.
"My God… my God, something like this… You said you're Deputy Guillaume's friend, yes? Thank you very much, Lieutenant."
"No. I only did what I must as a soldier of this country. Please be careful."
With that, the lieutenant left the election committee building.
At the sudden bombshell, the election committee building—busy and bustling just moments ago—fell silent.
"If what that lieutenant said is true, then we have no time, sir. If the National Assembly has been suppressed by the king, the next step is obvious—the army will march into Paris!"
Georges Danton, a Third Estate election commissioner, short and with a fierce face, shook Bailly's arm as Bailly still couldn't pull himself out of the shock.
"So, Commissioner Danton, are you saying we should form some kind of militia right now? The mood in all of Paris is growing more dangerous by the day. If even talk like that spreads among the people, bloodshed will break out everywhere at once. And that is exactly what the king and nobles want us to do. That's the moment we become a mob!"
At Bailly's words, Danton replied with a hardened face.
"…And why shouldn't we? Why can't we cause bloodshed and become a mob?"
At Danton's words, Bailly slowly turned his head to look at him.
"…What? Commissioner Danton—what did you just say?"
"Mister Bailly. I don't think you understand the situation. They already see us as a mob."
"What are you talking about! We came here in response to the legitimate demands of the French peo—"
Cutting off Bailly's furious words, Danton said,
"The king sent troops. And not French troops—foreign mercenaries. Do you not understand what that means?"
"…"
"The king intends to shoot all of us dead. And because he's afraid the soldiers might refuse if they can understand us, he's using foreigners who can't even speak our language."
After saying that, Danton laughed like a madman.
"Hahaha! Isn't it incredible? A king who has foreigners shoot his own people to death! Sure, if we'd actually plotted a rebellion, that'd be one thing. But this bastard—worse than a pig—wants to drive bayonets into the bellies of the people just because we spoke a few words!"
Bailly steadied his chilling heart at the sight of Danton like that, and asked,
"…Commissioner Danton. Then what do you intend to do now…?"
Seeing Bailly's ashen eyes, Danton rubbed his chin with his hand and grinned.
"If they're going to call us a mob for no reason, then we should give them a reason. Put up a podium in the Champ de Mars."
"Secretary, what do we do? Do we… do we really have to drive those people away?"
"Chef, just a moment. Give me a little time to think too."
Florian, executive secretary to the president of Ears of the Nation, pressed down on his aching head.
It had already been over a month since the president had been "kidnapped"—not quite kidnapped, but close enough—into the role of a Third Estate representative and left his post.
• Uh… Mr. Florian. I'm giving you full authority, so… I'll go for a bit, okay?• No. You're not leaving me behind and going off to have fun again, are you!?• N-no, what do you mean fun. I don't want to go either, you know? I'm going so my head can get chopp—no, never mind.
Because of that, Florian's under-eye circles were growing darker by the day as he handled alone the work that was supposed to be done by two people.
"If it were only that, it'd still be a blessing…"
Florian said it while looking at the beggar-looking people huddled outside Ears of the Nation's window.
What used to be just a few poor people lingering around after being lured by the smell when business began had long since become dozens.
Handing out leftover scraps was doable when there were only three or four people. With dozens, it was impossible.
But if they just left those people alone, then in Paris's increasingly dangerous atmosphere, they might get looted.
Sure, among the poor in Paris, there wasn't anyone who hadn't eaten the convenience meals Guillaume created—but when things reached an extreme, people could go mad.
If it were the boss… that slightly crazy boss… what would he do in this situation?
Florian sank deep into thought, then spoke.
"…Chef Marie. How much grain do we have left in the warehouse?"
At Florian's words, Marie narrowed her eyes, thought for a moment, then said,
"Probably… if we set aside a generous buffer for what we'll need going forward, we've got about 100 to 200 tons left."
"Whew… Good. Release all of it."
"…Pardon? Then even if we sell everything we make, we'll barely break even."
"Chef. Was the boss really the kind of man who was that crazy about money?"
"Uh… he does… like money…"
"No, no. He's not someone who squeezes people just to earn one more coin, is he? If anything, he's the type to give."
"That's true."
"If it were the boss, what would he do now?"
"…Probably exactly what you're saying, Secretary. Like, 'Chef, let's make just one hundred more servings!'—like that."
"Right. Then we'll make just one hundred more servings like the boss. Contact the other branches too—tell them to make one hundred extra servings each and distribute them to the poor. Even if our branch alone makes and hands them out every day, doesn't that mean a thousand people won't have their stomachs rot from hunger?"
"Thank you! Truly, thank you!"
"No. Don't let your stomach rot—come anytime and take some."
After handing the last person a convenience meal, Florian stepped outside the shop and locked the door.
"…Come to think of it, it's already been years since I came here…"
Looking at the signboard of Ears of the Nation Branch No. 1 glowing in the sunset, Florian spoke with a sudden swell of emotion.
Because it had been over five years, the sign—patched with spots where insects had eaten into it, paint flaking away, parts starting to rot—looked different to Florian today.
"Soon I should either get it repaired, or make a new one and hang it."
Feeling oddly satisfied, Florian smiled—when from between the buildings behind him, someone's booming voice was pouring out a fiery speech.
The Champ de Mars, two blocks north from Ears of the Nation Branch No. 1.
In that square where, later, the Eiffel Tower would be built, and across from it would stand the Paris Military School that Guillaume and the Equality Club members attended—a short man with a fierce face had gathered hundreds of people and was speaking.
"Citizens of Paris! With a heavy heart, I bring you the news that arrived today. The king has hired foreigners and is coming to Paris to suppress us with guns and steel!"
Anger, in the first sentence.
"What did we do wrong!?
'It's too hard to survive! You take nine-tenths of what we earn in taxes—how are we supposed to live!'
Beyond that, what did we ever say!?"
Sadness, in the second sentence.
"And to people like us, that king—who claims heaven gave him power to rule the people—now seeks to drive bayonets into the soft bellies of the people! Did the Almighty Lord grant him power so he could trample the people beneath soldiers' boots!?"
Appeal, in the third sentence.
"No! I'm not a priest, but I will say it! No! I will say it now. I will speak to those who see us as a mob!
Hey, Louis! And you lackeys—do we look like a mob to you!? Fine. If you see us as a mob, then we'll become one! Join me, everyone!"
Persuasion, in the fourth sentence.
"Everyone! Remember this!
To crush the enemy, first it takes courage—second it takes courage too. The only thing we need to survive is courage!"
Encouragement, in the fifth sentence.
The crowd at the Champ de Mars went wild.
The king was going to suppress Paris using foreign mercenaries? Wow, what artistic bullshit. What king would do that?
Huh? Come to think of it, I felt like there was one guy like that in Joseon history when I studied Korean history.
What was his name, goj—…
"What are you thinking so hard about?"
"Nothing. Just… thinking about this and that."
"Is that so? I thought you were planning to start a proper fire today."
"Well, that's also true, but anyway, it's nothing."
"…What did you just say?"
Father Sieyès stared at me with a dumbfounded look.
Why are you looking at me like that. I said I'll set the fire you want.
I wasn't going to do anything more, but the moment I heard about bringing in foreign troops to beat down their own people, the little Korean inside me triggered PTSD.
"Next, Deputy Guillaume de Toulon, National Assembly deputy for Paris's 14th District, will speak."
Leaving Father Sieyès's stunned face behind, I stood at the moderator's words and spoke.
"Greetings, deputies. I am Guillaume de Toulon. Today, I intend to speak of something truly shocking."
News that the king had brought in mercenary troops and stationed them near Paris spread swiftly through the Paris Third Estate Election Committee, and reached a few deputies from the City of Paris.
One of them was me.
"The king has gathered mercenary troops near Paris."
At my single sentence, every deputy in the Assembly gaped.
"This is what the citizens of Paris and my friends conveyed to me this morning."
"Wait, Deputy Guillaume. Friends—who do you mean?"
"Ah—my classmates from the military school. They said that this morning, a royal cavalry regiment made up of Germans arrived near Paris."
Now the audience had gone pale, trembling.
No wonder. If things went wrong, they could lose their heads in their sleep.
"I, Guillaume de Toulon, would like to say one thing on behalf of the citizens of Paris—to someone who is not present here. Mr. Moderator?"
"…You may speak, Deputy Guillaume."
"Thank you. I will speak on behalf of the citizens of Paris."
After clearing my throat once, I looked toward the highest VIP seats—where no one sat—and said,
"Louis—are you even human?"
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