Episode 118: Toward the Rhine (1)
Episode 118: Toward the Rhine (1)
“““Long live the French people! Long live the Revolution! Long live Bonaparte! Long live the National Guard!”””
After the royalists led by the Count of Artois had been wiped out like dogs, our National Guard was completely swept up in a festival mood, everyone holding the wine I’d handed out.
“Grouchy, where the hell were you, showing up only now? Get over here and have a drink!”
“Thanks, Guillaume.”
When Emmanuel de Grouchy—who had bravely rammed into the enemy’s ass and smashed them to pieces—entered the headquarters, I brought him a cup filled to the brim and spoke.
But Grouchy barely touched the wine, and in the middle of a headquarters where everyone was laughing and shouting, he was the only one wearing a grim expression.
“…What’s with your face? Why do you look like you’re at a funeral?”
Grouchy frowned briefly, then looked straight at me and spoke.
“Finance Minister.”
“Oh, come on. Finance Minister my ass… What, do you have something on your conscience?”
What is this guy doing?
“About the Count of Artois.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame we let him slip, but it couldn’t be helped. They say human affairs are decided by heaven, right?”
“I killed him.”
“…Huh?”
What the—
“…That’s a little too shocking to be a joke.”
“If you mean to punish me under military law, I’ll accept it without protest, Finance Minister.”
“…”
Those eyes. This wasn’t the usual Grouchy—this was the serious Grouchy that showed up sometimes.
Without a word, I clenched my pipe between my teeth and pulled out my matchbox.
But it was empty—so empty there wasn’t even dust left inside.
Damn it. Of course this happens today.
I had no choice but to crush the empty matchbox in my hand and shove it back into my pocket.
“Phew. Grouchy—no. Emmanuel de Grouchy, Second Lieutenant. Let’s talk. Come with me.”
“Yes, Finance Minister.”
I left headquarters and led Grouchy, who followed behind me, toward the wagon where my baggage was piled.
“No one would’ve known. Why didn’t you just hide it, Second Lieutenant?”
“As an honorable soldier, I cannot hide the truth from my superior, Finance Minister.”
“Seriously… Get in.”
I opened the wagon door and let him inside.
Everyone was busy guzzling booze and half-throwing a party—no one would come listening out here in some back corner.
While I was at it, I’d find a match too. Ah—here it is.
“First, I want the reason. Why didn’t you take Artois prisoner and instead shoot him?”
“For the peace of France.”
“For the peace of France…”
I pulled a match from the box, lit my pipe, and continued.
“In what way?”
“If we took Artois prisoner, wouldn’t chaos come again, like it did with Orléans?”
“…Yeah. Probably.”
Just thinking about that Orléans bastard makes my head throb again. If this were the 21st century, king or not, it would’ve been life in prison for treason and insurrection. But because of this shitty feudal era’s limits, how much did we suffer?
There’s a reason Marx and Lenin turned that red.
• You dared cut off a king’s head? Damn, this guy’s insane.
• You dared imprison a king? Damn, this guy’s crazy.
Artois would walk the same road if we let him—he wouldn’t go quietly. France was drawing massive aggro from all of Europe right now.
When you look at it that way, Artois dying suddenly wasn’t going to hurt France. If anything, it would bring stability.
“Where is Artois’s body, Second Lieutenant Grouchy?”
“Hidden in the grass off the road to Lille, Finance Minister.”
Then yeah—there’s the answer.
Even for Artois, this was probably better. Better to have “fallen honorably” than to be remembered as a fugitive who abandoned his men and died while running.
I tilted my pipe and tapped it with a finger. The burned tobacco crumbled pasas— to the floor.
“Everyone will be dead drunk and asleep soon. When that happens, pick reliable soldiers and move the body onto the battlefield.”
“Onto the battlefield…?”
“Yes, Second Lieutenant Grouchy. The Count of Artois died in the middle of fierce fighting—unluckily struck by a stray bullet. The battlefield was chaos, so we failed to find the body, and only discovered it the next day. Understood?”
“…Understood, Finance Minister.”
Kingdom of France, Paris.
Champ de Mars.
“Didn’t they say the enemy already passed Lille?”
“They say the army led by the Finance Minister is fighting those royalist bastards in front of Amiens!”
“They said Marquis de Lafayette’s side took a huge hit at Valmy… Is Paris really safe?”
Citizens gathered in the square for the National Assembly’s regular report, unable to endure their anxiety as they waited for the spokesman, gossiping ahead of time.
And it made sense. If neighbors didn’t at least talk like this, they couldn’t endure this restless atmosphere.
Day after day, young men who’d ridden wagons up from the provinces headed for the front in shabby clothes with only guns in hand. Every forge had been requisitioned, producing rifles and cannons all day long.
Nuns and priests who used to pray in monasteries were busy nursing the sick and wounded at the front. The officials elected by citizens went to the battlefield to fulfill their duty.
The Finance Minister who always made interesting speeches from the platform was one of them. Young and tall, he had gone to Amiens, just as he’d said, to fight the enemy.
Women with long hair cutting it off to sell as wig hair, then donating the money to the National Guard—that scene had long since become routine.
Paris had no choice but to feel the word “war” down to the bone.
And that much more, they clung to every announcement from the government.
“Ahem. Ahem. Ah—please pay attention. Citizens of Paris, please pay attention.”
At each word from the spokesman, thousands of citizens in the square swallowed hard.
“Thanks to the brave efforts of the National Guard—enemy commander, the Count of Artois, who threatened Amiens and Paris, has been killed in action! Royalist army completely annihilated! A great victory! A great victory! The Finance Minister and Bonaparte did it! Paris is safe, everyone!”
Some people’s legs gave out and they collapsed, others jumped with joy—everyone reacted differently, but it was the long-awaited victory report.
The spokesman continued.
“They fight for money, for wages—but we fight for our rights! We fight to reclaim human rights! Our cause is just, the enemy will be defeated, and victory will be ours! Long live the French people! Long live the Revolution! Long live the National Guard! Long live democracy!”
“““Long live! Long live! Long live!”””
The citizens shouted as one.
For the first time in nearly a year, Champ de Mars was once again filled with the heat of the people.
Kingdom of France, Marne.
Valmy.
Prussian headquarters.
Something was off.
By now, whether by courier, messenger, or some other method, news should’ve arrived.
“…Still no word from that Artois fellow?”
“Regrettably, no, Duke of Brunswick.”
“Tsk. Of course. A man who couldn’t even guard his own seat and fled abroad—he doesn’t even keep his promises.”
The Prussian commander, the Duke of Brunswick, clicked his tongue at his aide’s reply.
Marquis de Lafayette’s French army defending Valmy and the Duke of Brunswick’s Prussian army had dealt each other heavy blows.
The French had lost an entire infantry regiment, wiped out completely, and the Prussians had suffered casualties in over half of their most elite unit, the Brunswick Grenadier Jäger Regiment.
With their reliable shield shattered, the French committed reserves to buy time, then retreated to Châlons-en-Champagne on the road to Reims. With the sharpest edge of their spear blunted, the Prussians needed time to regain the capacity to launch further offensives.
Several other regiments that participated had taken casualties as well, leaving Valmy a battle with neither victor nor defeated.
No—if you had to name a winner, it was a strategic victory for the French, who had bought time.
But if Artois, as planned, had taken the empty Lille and Amiens and moved his force close to Paris, the Duke of Brunswick could have been the winner.
But what if… Artois had been blocked?
In front of the Prussians stood Lafayette’s French army—bloodied at Valmy but still standing. Behind them was the French force in Nancy under a man named Charles-François Dumouriez.
And on top of that, volunteer soldiers were said to be pouring in from all over France.
If they didn’t abandon hard-won Valmy and retreat to Metz immediately, the French would close in from every side and use Verdun as a coffin for the Prussian army, nailing it shut.
“…Aide, organize scouts and gather information again. Anything at all about Artois.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Under the duke’s orders, Prussian scouts began going house to house.
“Sergeant, this won’t open.”
“Kick it in and break it. It’s not our land, and they’re not Germans, are they?”
“Yes.”
Crack—!
The wooden door collapsed with a loud noise under a brutal boot, and Germans in black clothes entered.
“Kyaaah!”
“Hey—anyone here speak German?”
“De... quoi parles-tu?”
“Damn it. What’s she saying? Hans, looks like we need an interpreter—go bring that war correspondent.”
“Ah, that scholar? I’ll bring him right away.”
“You called for me?”
“Master Goethe. Do you speak French?”
“Of course.”
“Interpret for these civilians.”
“What should I tell them?”
“Ask if they’ve heard anything about the Count of Artois or the royalist army.”
“…A while ago the government said the National Guard led by Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon and a young captain named Napoleon Bonaparte defeated the royalist army at Amiens.”
“Damn it. We’ll have to check a few more places. Master Goethe, come with us.”
“Understood.”
[Information not confirmed, but based on residents’ testimony: Artois’s forces were defeated at Amiens by the National Guard led by Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon and a young captain named Napoleon Bonaparte; the Count of Artois is presumed killed in action.]
As the Duke of Brunswick read the report compiled from the scouts’ gathered information, his face twisted.
“…I know that Guillaume, but I’ve never heard of this Napoleon Bonaparte. Is he Lafayette’s age?”
“That is… he is twenty-two this year.”
“Twenty-two? Hah—he’s younger than my daughter Caroline?”
The duke’s hand holding the report began to tremble.
“Y-you—!! That idiot Artois! He got utterly crushed by a mere twenty-two-year-old rookie?! Are you fucking kidding me?!”
The Prussian commander flung the report far away, eyes bulging.
“Inform the entire army—prepare to march at once. We withdraw past Metz and retreat to Prussia!”
If they stayed, they would only be surrounded and die. The entire grand design had fallen apart.