Chapter 59: Poisoned Chalice (7) The Champagne Plain, so vast you could see the horizon.
France's pride and lifeline, and the homeland of champagne—one of the most famous wines in the world.
At the heart of Champagne lay a city people called Reims.
And at the center of Reims, a gigantic cathedral stood high, flaunting its grand and majestic form.
Notre-Dame de Reims.
The cathedral of Reims that shared its name with the famed Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris—
Even if it couldn't match its Parisian brother in fame, it seemed determined not to lose in elegance and refinement. Even in the bitter winter, it remained dignified and silent, ringing its faithful bells far into the distance today as well.
"…So I've finally come to Reims…"
At the sound of Notre-Dame de Reims's bells faintly reaching this far, the Duke of Orléans opened the carriage window, gently stuck his face out, and spoke without realizing it.
Even as the cold winter wind brushed his nose again and again until it turned stuffy, and even as the warm carriage gradually lost its heat, the Duke of Orléans kept his face out as if bewitched by the bells.
As the city—no bigger than a grain of millet at first—grew larger and larger, Orléans's swelling emotion only grew with it.
Orléans suddenly lifted his head and looked up at the sky.
It was truly high and clear.
It felt as if Yahweh were smiling brightly down at Orléans himself.
Toward Orléans, who had the window open and was grinning like an idiot, a stylish general in a thick cloak embroidered in blue and gold thread and a triangular hat rode up.
"Your Majesty, I believe we'll arrive at Reims in one to two hours."
The Duke of Orléans turned to the general and laughed loudly.
"Ha ha ha! Is that so? Thank you for telling me, General Dumouriez."
"I, Dumouriez, have merely carried out my proper duty, Your Majesty."
At the king's—no, the "king-to-be's"—routine praise, Dumouriez removed his triangular hat, brought it to his chest, and bowed his head.
Seeing Dumouriez like that, the Duke of Orléans smiled and waved his hand.
"Ho ho, don't be so stiff, General. I praise you sincerely."
Orléans meant it.
Right now, everything in the world looked beautiful to him—the snow-blanketed plain, the few birds cutting across the high sky, even the pebbles by the roadside.
Yet even so, General Dumouriez bowed his head once more, showing Orléans his barren crown with hardly any hair left.
"It is an honor, Your Majesty."
"Ha ha ha! You're a stubborn man indeed. Fine—there must be people as steadfast as you by the king's side!"
Is there something you want, personally?
Orléans added with a satisfied expression.
At those words, Dumouriez's eyes flashed. The neurons in his head began firing at tremendous speed.
Brigadier General Dumouriez, regional commander of Nantes.
Why had a one-star general like him come up to Paris and volunteered for an escort commander's post—usually handled by a field-grade officer—just to follow Orléans?
Of course, he'd said it was because he "wanted to personally protect the friend of the Revolution, Philippe Égalité, the Duke of Orléans," but—
Wasn't the truth that he hoped to forge some connection with Orléans, who would soon be king?
Like soldiers who live for promotion and die for promotion—and among them, generals most of all—Dumouriez's mind turned quickly.
"Ha ha! Go on, speak! I'll grant almost anything, General Dumouriez. And my favor isn't something that comes easily, you know?"
At Orléans's words, added with another loud laugh, Brigadier General Dumouriez cleared his throat and spoke softly.
"…It is embarrassing and presumptuous to say, but on my epaulets, perhaps…"
"Ah."
Orléans stroked his chin and smiled broadly.
"General Dumouriez, so you too are a soldier through and through?"
"My apologies, Your Majesty. That was a slip of the tongue."
"Ha ha, enough modesty. Dumouriez—'Major General.'"
"Yes?"
Dumouriez stared at the Duke of Orléans, stunned.
But Orléans met Dumouriez's eyes and spoke calmly.
"Hm. What is it, Dumouriez—'Major General'?"
"N-no, Your Majesty! Long live King Orléans! Long live! Long live!"
"Ha ha ha! Yes, yes. Now return to the column, General."
Dumouriez showed his barren crown once more, then turned the reins and returned to the column.
Orléans closed the carriage window, leaned his back fully into the carriage seat, stared at the ceiling, and murmured.
"…So. I'm truly becoming king."
To be able to change a general's rank insignia however he pleased in a single second.
Was this the taste of power—the power of being king?
"It's so sweet. Too sweet!"
At the first taste of royal power he'd ever wielded, Orléans's cheeks flushed red.
Versailles Palace, the National Assembly.
The presiding officer, the Comte de Mirabeau, wore a look of disbelief.
No—he truly couldn't believe it.
In the end, with a trembling voice, the Comte de Mirabeau had no choice but to pronounce each word clearly, one by one.
"…Your Majesty, th-then what you mean is, right now?"
Louis XVI calmly met the Comte de Mirabeau's eyes and answered.
"That's right. I want the Assembly to pass a bill reclaiming all military authority held by the king, and allowing me to deploy only the Guards stationed at Versailles."
"…."
Unlike the hall that had fallen silent, Louis XVI's mouth twitched.
As if he were using all his strength to hold back laughter.
The Comte de Mirabeau, shocked, forced his mouth—no longer obeying its owner's will—to move and speak.
"Then as for 'military authority'… from where to where does that include?"
The king replied cheerfully.
"To where? I mean all of it."
"When you say all of it…"
"Appointment authority over officers, conscription, the creation and dissolution of units, and even the management of military supplies."
"…."
"Keuh-keuh-keuh!"
Louis XVI's loud laughter struck the walls of the silent Assembly in every corner.
Watching Louis's laughter echo through the hall in reality, the elderly archbishop of the Orléans faction, dressed in golden silk, ground his teeth.
'You bastards—how far does this go? Guillaume de Toulon, Louis-Auguste! How far have you two planned this together! No, it doesn't matter. I have to stop it—no matter what it takes!'
If the king's full powers were stripped here, then even if the Duke of Orléans came to Versailles, he would be left unable to do anything.
Reject a bill already passed by force?
Half of the Duke of Orléans's support base is held up by the revolutionary forces. If he rejects a bill by the king's unilateral judgment?
It's insane.
If half your support base disappears, anyone will fall. For a person, it's the same as losing one leg.
But if he accepts the bill, then Orléans becomes nothing more than a doll that can do nothing as he pleases.
'A true checkmate—proper checkmate!'
Even as his old body creaked and screamed, the archbishop sprang up and shouted.
"No! You cannot do that as you please, Louis-Auguste!"
With the king and the Finance Minister's successive bombshell declarations, the faces in the hall that had been slack with shock just moments ago were now stained with horror.
"W-what? Your Grace! Wh-what are you saying!? All of a sudden?"
Nearby deputies barely managed to open their trembling mouths in disbelief.
Even so, the archbishop rolled his rosary rapidly, click-click, and shouted.
"Louis-Auguste is not the king! Our king is His Highness the Duke of Orléans, who is receiving the crown in Reims—NOT Louis-Auguste, who agreed to hand over the throne!"
At the archbishop's continued rampage, even the priests seated behind him now had faces twitching in stunned alarm.
The archbishop didn't care and kept shouting.
If he couldn't stop it now, they were finished.
"As a deputy of the National Assembly, I refuse to allow Louis-Auguste to set foot in this sacred Assembly! A man who has laid down the crown—what qualification does he have to come here, where the representatives of the people gather!"
The archbishop's wrinkled face twisted hideously.
After huffing and puffing for a while, the archbishop paused as if short of breath and slowly inhaled and exhaled.
But then someone stood up and began applauding Louis XVI.
Now the eyes of the hall fixed on the applauding young man, around thirty.
After clapping for nearly a full minute, the young man suddenly stopped and spoke.
"I am Maximilien Robespierre, deputy for Arras in the National Assembly. I have much to say, but as a lawyer who keeps close to the law, I will first leave only a few words.
First, I inform you that legally, His Majesty Louis XVI is still the sovereign of France, and that remains so until His Highness the Duke of Orléans places the crown upon his head in Reims.
Therefore, I inform you that the authority of the current king, Louis XVI, may be exercised without any issue."
And then—
Robespierre leaned forward, braced his hand on the chair in front of him, and spoke in a low voice.
"You people nitpick every single day, and I've endured it until now, but I, Robespierre, dislike you priests very much. If it were up to me, I would like to cut the throats of everyone standing by the archbishop there. I want you to know that."
Reims, before Notre-Dame Cathedral.
"Long live His Highness the Duke of Orléans!"
"Long live! Long live! Long live!"
"Long live France! Long live the people!"
Even though sleet was beginning to fall along the main road leading to the cathedral, countless citizens had come out to greet them, forming a sea of people.
"Your Highness! Just wave once!"
"Hey, you old lady—seriously! Get back!"
"Oh, soldier sir—when will we ever get to see His Highness? Move aside!"
The escort soldiers lined up in a single row, guarding the procession, naturally had it rough.
General Dumouriez dismounted and walked toward the carriage Orléans rode in, knocking on the door.
"Hm. Who is it?"
"I, Dumouriez, Your Majesty."
"Yes? Have we arrived?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. We have."
A moment later, with a clunk, the carriage door opened, and the Duke of Orléans stepped down in a solemn manner.
Orléans cast one glance at the crowd, then turned and followed the massive cathedral with his eyes.
Two great Gothic towers and enormous windows filled Orléans's vision.
After slowly taking in, one by one, the façade carved with the figures of Christ and the Virgin Mary, King Clovis, and the kings who followed him, Orléans drew a deep breath in—then let it out.
"So… I succeeded."
The small bead of moisture in Orléans's eyes was washed away by the cold winter wind.
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