Chapter 63: A Strange World (2) The next night.
"…I was rude yesterday, Commissioner Danton."
"It's fine, Mister Desmoulins."
To Desmoulins, who bowed his head in apology, Danton replied with a wave of his hand.
Camille Desmoulins, editor-in-chief of Free France.
Jean-Paul Marat, founder of The Friend of the People.
Even Jacques René Hébert, the man the public called a mad red.
The journalists who had gathered last night had assembled in the same place again.
Once everyone had taken their seats, Danton calmly rose, rested his arms on the table, and murmured in a low voice.
"…Comrades, I'll get straight to the point. I intend to go to Versailles myself and meet the deputies."
"…Are you serious, Commissioner Danton?"
At Danton's words, Marat—his closest friend—furrowed his brow deeply.
If Orléans had defected, who knew what he might do to Danton if Danton came to Versailles.
"If that Orléans bastard really is a traitor, that's far too dangerous!"
Desmoulins also straightened his posture and spoke.
Only the madman Hébert stared steadily at Danton without saying a word.
But Danton waved his hand and spoke again in a low voice.
"You all know it too. Right now, there's no other way but for me to go in person."
At Danton's words, Marat and Desmoulins lowered their heads, faces dark.
But the briefly somber atmosphere was washed away by the words Hébert spat out with a grin.
"Haha. If Commissioner Danton insists, I'll at least get you a pistol."
Jean-Paul Marat shot Hébert a look that said, Do you call that talking?
"…Hébert, are you insane?"
"Why me? Isn't it you, Jean-Paul Marat, who's insane? Instead of shoving your head into the floor and whining, I think it'd be much better to think about putting a bullet hole in that pig Orléans's belly."
"What?! Are you done talking?!"
"A man who can't even squeak at Orléans, but you're real good at snapping at me."
"Enough!!!"
Danton glared at the two of them and shouted.
"We didn't gather here to fight! Am I wrong?!"
"…My bad, comrade."
"…I'm sorry, Commissioner Danton."
Danton let out a sigh and continued.
"…I understand that an officer I'm acquainted with is currently assisting the Finance Minister. If we go through him, we may be able to meet the Finance Minister directly and speak with him. That's the first objective, and…"
"Then what's the second objective?"
At Desmoulins's question, Danton drew in a breath and spoke.
"The second objective is to face the king directly."
"…."
"…."
"…You really won't take a pistol?"
At Hébert's final remark in the heavy air, Danton and the others sighed.
Versailles Palace, the Finance Minister's Office.
Danton removed his hat, bowed his head, and spoke.
"Captain, it has been a while. When I met you last time, I remember you were a second lieutenant."
"Ah, you're the one I saw at the Paris Electoral Committee back then. What brings you all the way to Versailles?"
Captain Mathieu, who last July had saved the Paris citizens from the king's clutches, replied with a smile at Danton's manner.
"I have come to see His Excellency Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon… if that is possible."
"That bas— no, you want to meet Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon. Hm… please wait a moment."
Captain Mathieu rose from his seat and walked to the door of the Finance Minister's inner office.
"Hup! Hngh!"
Mathieu, well over the mid-180s in height, grabbed the door and, with a strange sound, lifted it up. The Finance Minister's door panel lay along the line of Mathieu's arms as though it had never had such a thing as hinges to begin with.
"…Why is the door broken?"
"Th-That… well, a few things happened. Ha… haha…"
To Danton's incredulous question, Mathieu rolled his eyes around and answered haltingly.
How could he say the man called the king got so enraged he kicked the door in and broke it?
"…Aren't you going to fix it?"
"Th… they said since it's handmade and all, the craftsman has to make the parts himself and bring them. We're using it like this for now."
Captain Mathieu went into the room and, with a coffee cup clutched in his hand, shook the shoulder of the young man who had face-planted onto the desk and fallen asleep.
"Hey, hey—ah… no. Finance Minister… sir. Wake up… please."
After three or four shakes, the young man, who had been slumped like a corpse, twitched, then slowly rose like a zombie.
"W… why… who is it…?"
"A guest came from Paris… sir."
"G-guest…"
With bloodshot eyes, the young man stared blankly at the desk like someone half out of his mind, blinked a few times to chase away sleep, yawned wide, then shook his head hard left and right.
"…If that fucking bastard hadn't rummaged through my documents, I wouldn't be working overtime. Seriously."
"Hey! I said there's a guest… sir!"
"Ah…"
The young man saw Danton standing beyond the doorway, bowed his head, and said,
"I'm sorry, sir. I haven't slept for two days, so my language got a bit rough…"
"N-No, not at all, Your Excellency!"
Seeing him, Danton waved his hands.
As expected—the Finance Minister is different from those who just throw around empty bravado with words.
Who could blame a Finance Minister who'd stayed up for two days for the citizens?
Deep down, Danton felt relieved that someone like this was in the Finance Minister's seat.
Ah, my head is spinning like crazy.
I barely managed to hold on to my fogging mind and held my hand out to the rough-looking middle-aged man in front of me.
"Nice to meet you. Your name is…?"
"Nice to meet you, Your Excellency. I am Georges Danton, electoral commissioner of the City of Paris."
"Ge—Georges?"
Out of all the names, why did it have to be the same as that executioner bastard back in my hometown?
"…Is something wrong?"
"No, it's nothing. There's someone I know who uses the same name."
At Mister Danton's head-tilt as he asked, I waved my hand and answered.
"Anyway, what brings you from Paris all the way to Versailles in person?"
"That is…"
Mister Danton bit his lip a few times, then spoke slowly.
"I want to ask whether the Finance Minister is aware that Paris journalists have recently been subjected to repression."
"…What?"
What the hell is this now?
"As far as I know, I don't believe our Assembly has passed any laws related to the press."
It's a revolutionary government, the National Assembly—if anything, they'd loosen the press, not clamp it down.
"…So it is as I thought?"
Even I could clearly see Danton's hands trembling.
"Repression of journalists—please explain in more detail, Mister Danton."
At my words, Danton pulled out an envelope from his chest and held it out to me.
"…Who are all these people?"
Inside the envelope were countless handwritten signatures.
Free France — Camille Desmoulins.
The Friend of the People — Jean-Paul Marat, and others.
These were all outright pro-revolution magazines.
"They are all journalists who were verbally threatened regarding publication."
"Verbally threatened… by whom?"
"…By deserter officers."
"Ha…"
I scratched my rough, messy hair with my hand and sighed.
Fuck, this is ridiculous.
If it's someone in a position to issue simultaneous orders to deserter officers, there's only one person it could be.
That man—the one who kicked my office door in and smashed it.
"…Have you told anyone besides me about this?"
"No. Not yet. Only us journalists and Your Excellency."
I brought both hands together and covered my face.
Hoo… Orléans, you bastard. I cut off the king's hands and feet, and now you're using the connections you used to have?
If a bastard like this had held royal power…
"…I don't even want to think about it."
"Yes?"
"It's nothing. Hoo…"
Was Orléans really still able to control nearly a thousand deserter officers even now?
No wonder they were nowhere to be found no matter how much the gendarmerie tried to catch them.
A thousand Red Guards. This is a real setup for civil war.
I barely managed to patch up internal affairs—one wrong move and the whole game will explode.
"…For now, trust me and return to Paris, Mister Danton. Today, I'll meet the king directly and speak with him."
"…I will do as you command, Your Excellency. However… may I also have an audience with the king today?"
"No."
Putting a repressed journalist together with the king who ordered the repression—nonsense.
Who knows what would happen?
Danton bowed his head to me and pleaded one last time.
"…Then please allow me to see the king at least from a distance."
"…No means no, Mister Danton."
Versailles Palace, the War Room—under a new master.
"Well now. It seems there was a liiiittle misunderstanding between us, Finance Minister."
"State affairs are the sort of thing where that can happen, Your Majesty."
"Hahahahaha!"
"Hahahahaha!"
Louis XVII—no, Orléans—and I looked straight into each other's eyes and laughed it off for a long while.
"Then I shall take my leave. I have 'practical work' that I must handle, Your Majesty."
[If you've become a paper tiger with no real power, then act like a paper tiger and sit down.]
"Mm, if so, it can't be helped. Good work, Finance Minister. Ah, but doesn't Paris seem a bit noisy these days? As the King of France, it is truly regrettable."
[Did you think I'd let you have it easy, you filthy vermin?]
"Oh? Paris is noisy? I've never heard such a thing."
[So it was you after all?]
"Heh heh. When the world changes so quickly, a man might fall a little behind, no?"
[Your intel's slow, brat.]
"…Hahaha!"
"…Hahaha!"
So that's it. You won't yield an inch.
A slippery snake of a bastard.
"…General Dumouriez."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
After the Finance Minister withdrew, Louis XVII summoned Captain of the Guard Dumouriez to the War Room and spoke quietly.
"The reorganization of the Royal Guard—has it been carried out thoroughly?"
"Of course. All revolutionary elements who followed Deputy Captain of the Guard Major Antoine Dezé have been expelled from the Guard, and we have filled it only with those who truly follow Your Majesty."
"Good. Very good. Ah, right—tell me what became of that idiot Artois."
"You mean the Count of Artois?"
"Yes. That cripple who fled to England."
Louis XVII clicked his tongue as he spoke.
Charles Philippe, Count of Artois.
Louis XVI—no, Louis-Auguste's younger brother.
And when the Revolution broke out, he fled to England in a panic and has been spitting on the revolutionary faction nonstop ever since—an idiot who can't even read the tide.
"He's a fool who acts without thinking of consequences, but thanks to that, plenty of naïve deserters follow him, damn it. Still, we need to keep contact with him to properly command the deserters, don't we?"
"Your words are most correct."
The deserter officers still did not fully trust Louis XVII.
Until recently he'd been shouting "Long live the Revolution!"—of course they would be suspicious when he suddenly changed his face.
"Ah, yes. And how are things with the Austrian Habsburg side? Is it going well?"
"You mean Emperor Joseph II?"
"Hah. That man's a half-cripple with not much time left. Not him—Leopold. He's the next Holy Roman Emperor, isn't he?"
"I did not think far enough."
"That happens. In any case, deliver it properly to Leopold, as I told you before."
Finishing, Louis XVII waved his hand dismissively and sent Dumouriez out.
"Good, Guillaume. Let's see who wins."
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