Chapter 106: Shine or Go Mad (10)
Chapter 106: Shine or Go Mad (10)
October 23, 1790.
Kingdom of France, the city of Autun in the mid-south.
“Extra! Extra!! Extraaaa!!”
Soisson, a fourteen-year-old newsboy in Autun, tucked dozens of magazines he had just pulled from the Autun branch of the Ears of the Nation magazine company under his arms and in both hands, and shouted at the top of his lungs until it felt like the whole city would lift off.
“Good grief. What on earth is written in there that you’re screaming like the world is ending, boy?”
“Sir! Do you like magazines? Just looking at you, your face is practically shouting, ‘I’m quite educated,’ and you’ve got class written all over you!”
When an elderly gentleman—leaning on a birchwood cane and wearing an expensive-looking suit—asked him, Soisson, as if he hadn’t been thrown around this business for years for nothing, fired off slick words from his little mouth.
“Ahem. You think I look… like that? Hoho, you’ve got a good eye, you brat. I’m in a good mood—sell me one copy.”
Bingo. As always, Soisson’s sales pitch, honed by years of hawking papers, didn’t miss.
“What kinds of magazines do you have?”
“Yes, sir—fresh off the press! We’ve got Forbes, Maxim, even Old Man Duchesne! I’ll give you whichever you want!”
Soisson fanned the magazines out with a flourish and showed them to the old gentleman.
“Hm. Then give me one copy of Forbes.”
“Won’t you take a look at Old Man Duchesne?”
“Well… it’s entertaining, sure, but the content is too extreme and biting for my taste. Always spewing profanities—good grief. Forbes is just about right to read enjoyably.”
“Then since you’re buying Forbes, how about Maxim as well—ack!”
“Hey, you brat! Do I look like the age to be reading something that lewd? Insolent little wretch.”
The old gentleman tapped the kid’s crown with his cane—thunk—and clicked his tongue.
“Anyway, I’ll read it. Consider this the magazine price plus the price of that forehead flick I just gave you.”
“Y-yes! Goodbye, sir!!”
Strange. A friend who sold papers in the next town said that, unexpectedly, people who looked like they’d hate it were buying Maxim in droves.
“Tch. Still, I’d trade a little bump on the head for one silver coin ten times over. Looks like I’ll be able to eat my fill today.”
Soisson carefully put the few silver coins left in his hand into the coin pouch at his waist, then shouted again at full volume.
“Extra! Extra!! They’ve set the trial date for Orléans!! Extra!!”
December 13, 1790.
Kingdom of France, Paris.
Former High Court. Now the Revolutionary Court.
“Boooo!!”
“A trial for that Orléans bastard who tried to drown the people—what are you talking about?!”
“Kill! Him! Kill! Him! Kill! Him!”
“Now then, we will begin the trial of the defendant, Louis-Philippe d’Orléans II. Jurors, please maintain order for a moment.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Instead of the velvet robes worn by High Court judges, the judge—wearing the black suit favored by National Assembly deputies—struck the wooden block three times with his gavel.
“On the prosecution side, Deputy Maximilien Robespierre. You may begin.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Deputy Robespierre rolled a cart piled with thick stacks of paper into the center of the court and began reading them one by one.
“The first charge brought by the prosecution. The defendant, who became king by the support of the people and the support of the Assembly, betrayed all of that support and committed the grave crime of attempting to harm fellow French compatriots with guns and blades. Therefore, the prosecution—”
“…Stop the bullshit and just pass sentence already.”
“Defendant. Be quiet. The prosecution has not finished speaking.”
“Be quiet? What a joke. I’m too amused to even speak.”
The huge man—nearly 190 centimeters tall—sat in the defendant’s seat with disheveled hair and a sharp-eyed glare, like the shape of a madman, and spoke.
“Isn’t this all for show? A mere formality? Forget this pathetic children’s game—bring the guillotine that will cut my neck.”
“…Defendant, be quiet.”
“Hah. ‘Defendant,’ my ass. There’s no lawyer—was this ever a trial to begin with? Answer me, presiding judge. Answer me!”
“Defendant!! Sit down at once!!”
The madman sprang to his feet and began screaming. What stopped him was one man’s words.
“Hey. ‘Mister’ Orléans? You’re making people uncomfortable. Sit down.”
“…Guillaume. So it was you. Of course—if anyone would pull something this foul, who else but a man with blasphemous thoughts like yours?!”
Blasphemous—now that’s a bit much.
“Hey, Mister Crazy. You keep going on about a lawyer. You turned every French person in the world into your enemy, and you expect a French person to defend you? If you really want a lawyer, you’d be better off bringing in a German or an Englishman. More importantly—an attempted murderer asking the victim why they won’t defend him. That’s comedy. Thanks, Orléans. Because of you, next week’s Forbes article is going to be packed. People will laugh a lot.”
“Y-you…!!”
My, my, how terrifying… I didn’t know a face could turn that red. Looks like Mister Orléans isn’t white—he’s red.
“And if things had gone even slightly differently, it’s obvious you would’ve shot us without even putting the revolutionary camp on trial. You should be grateful we’re putting you in court at all, even if it’s just a formality. Isn’t that right, General Dumouriez?”
“Of course!! His Excellency the Finance Minister is absolutely correct! How dare a criminal who tried to harm the French people open his mouth at all! I, Dumouriez, earnestly request of His Excellency the Finance Minister and the presiding judge! I believe we must gag the defendant so he can no longer damage the ear health of the citizens gathered here!”
“…You villainous traitor bastards!!”
Whew, nice and hot.
“You there, the clerk? You’re writing all this down, right? Later, pass me the transcript copy.”
“Pardon? Ah—yes! Your Excellency.”
“Now that our defendant has quieted down, it seems we can resume the trial. Your Honor.”
“…Thank you, Your Excellency. Then next—”
January 22, 1791.
Kingdom of France, Paris.
Champ de Mars.
“Suuup, whew.”
“You’re smoking, unlike usual, and you even took a drink beforehand. Why—are you nervous?”
“…Nervous? I don’t think there’s ever been a time I wasn’t nervous doing this work.”
A fifty-two-year-old middle-aged man, Charles-Henri Sanson de Longval, tapped out his pipe to extinguish it and answered.
“For that, you’re quite different from usual, Monsieur Sanson.”
“So you noticed. You’ve got a sharp sense, young man.”
“…Is it because you’re cutting a king’s neck?”
“…Hoho. More than that—it’s my first time cutting.”
Sanson only laughed off the young guard’s words.
“What time is it?”
“It’s… almost noon.”
“Fine. Let’s go. Keep the crowd from rushing in.”
“Haha. Like it’s my first time.”
Sanson stepped out of the building and trudged toward the center of the square, where people surged like clouds.
“Kill him!! Kill him!! Kill him!!”
“Long live the Revolution!! Long live the citizens!!”
“Viva la France!! Viva la France!!”
Already used to the roar of crowds numbering in the thousands and tens of thousands, Sanson kept his composure and climbed the wooden steps leading to the execution platform, one plank at a time.
“Uh-heh… heh heh heh…”
The prisoner, dragged from the Temple Tower with a black cloth over his head, only occasionally let out a snicker, and obediently placed his head into the guillotine as Sanson’s hands guided him.
“Greetings. I am Charles-Henri Sanson de Longval. I will take your neck.”
“Ah, Sanson! I’ve long heard your name. France’s greatest executioner, yes? Heh heh heh.”
“Do you have any last words you wish to leave?”
“Is Guillaume that bastard here?”
“…He is standing beside you.”
“He is?! Then that’s fortunate! I don’t want to die at the hands of a coward who kills his rival and then runs away because he can’t bear to see the blood!”
“Man, that’s one hell of a long sentence.”
“Your Excellency, do you need time to speak?”
“No. I just said a word because he was noisy.”
Sanson nodded and lifted the axe.
“Unfortunately, it seems His Excellency has no desire to converse with you.”
“Heh heh. Finance Minister! If you take my neck, do you know what will happen after that? All of France will burn!! Germans will trample Paris and burn Versailles! Even your precious hometown, Toulon, will burn under the English flag!! Heh heh heh. Yes! Take my neck! In later generations, I will be a pitiable king, and you will be the one who set France ablaze.”
“Yeah, yeah, got it. Um… Monsieur Sanson? Could you cut it already?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Sanson swung the axe with all his strength toward the guillotine’s rope.
Clank!
The guillotine dropped with a loud crash.
“…W-what?”
As the black hood came off, Orléans looked around wildly.
If he were dead, shouldn’t he be seeing heaven? Why… was he still at the Champ de Mars?
Then, before Orléans’ eyes, he saw a cursed man holding a wooden head high in the air and babbling on.
“Honored citizens! Rejoice! Orléans is dead!”
“W-what are you saying?! I’m still alive, you bastard!”
“Citizens, I understand. There is a man here who is alive and writhing—so why do I say Orléans is dead? I will answer you now. What do you think is the cruelest punishment? Death? Hmm. Well! I do not think so. I believe the cruelest punishment is this: no one can hear your words, no one can answer you, and no one treats you as a person who exists in reality.”
…What is he even saying?
“Far beyond Russia, in the East, there is a horrific punishment called paenghyeong. It is a punishment where a person is boiled to death. Ah, isn’t that horrifying just to hear? The people of the East must have thought so too—later, instead of boiling, they handled the criminal by merely dipping the body in warm water and taking it out. Ah—then why is that a punishment? Because that person is now a dead man. A criminal who has undergone paenghyeong must not speak with anyone, and even exchanging written words is forbidden. In other words—alive, yet dead. Think about it. A world where you are plainly alive and moving, yet no one even pretends to hear you!”
“Kill him…”
“Our National Assembly agonized over this for a very long time! And so, we resolved to kill Orléans, but not kill him. Now, here is Orléans’ head. Citizens. As of this moment, Orléans is no longer alive.”
“Kill me, damn it!! Kill me!! Guillaume, you bastard!! Do you think God is just watching?!”
“Waaaah!! Guillaume! Guillaume! Guillaume!”
“Now, the guards will take that ‘corpse’ back. Surely there isn’t some necromancer or magician here who talks to corpses, right?”
“Of course, Your Excellency!”
“Kill me! Please, I’m begging you—kill me!!”
Kill me. I’m telling you to kill me.