Chapter 131: The City of Light, Paris (1)
Chapter 131: The City of Light, Paris (1)
April 18, 1792.
Revolutionary Kingdom of France, Paris.
“The twilight is quite beautiful, Your Excellency.”
“Are you indirectly telling me that I’m late?”
“Oh, certainly not.”
Well… the sunset does look nice.
And it’s not like I was playing around. A person can be a little late sometimes. It takes quite a while to get here from Grenoble Street to the 13th arrondissement, you know?
The 13th arrondissement, once filled with shanties made from rotting wooden planks, narrow alleys where two adults brushing past each other would bump shoulders, and sewers crawling with rats—
had now completely changed its appearance.
At the very least, the wide central boulevard could allow several carriages to pass side by side.
Around it stood houses built from stone and basic cement, along with copper water pipes and a proper sewer system.
“When we first started breaking the pavement with pickaxes, I honestly doubted whether this street could truly change. Now it has transformed so completely that those worries seem ridiculous.”
“Haha. We demolished seventy percent of the existing buildings and rebuilt them from scratch. If it didn’t change, the Engineer Corps would feel rather insulted. So, are you satisfied, Your Excellency?”
“Oh, more than satisfied.”
If people weren’t watching me so closely, I’d link arms with you and dance the can-can right here.
“Superintendent Guillaume, are you finished talking? Everyone is waiting for you.”
“Yes, I’m coming now. Lieutenant Colonel Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, thank you for your hard work.”
I bowed my head to the man who had overseen the practical work of rebuilding the 13th arrondissement, which had been a slum only six months ago.
Then I followed Deputy Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès toward the main street, where a long red ribbon had been stretched across the road.
Wealthy men wearing silk hats and carrying parasols purely for show, families who had brought their children out of curiosity, journalists already holding pens and paper in anticipation of tomorrow’s headline story—
the crowd was quite impressive.
And scattered throughout were gendarmerie officers in plain clothes, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.
So this is what the powerful figures I used to see on television in my previous life experienced—politicians and construction company executives standing before crowds like this.
I took the scissors and stood before the red ribbon.
“Today, I am sincerely delighted to finally present the clean new appearance of the 13th arrondissement, a project into which our revolutionary government has poured half a year of effort. Beginning with this place, I hope that before long everyone living on French soil will enjoy this same prosperity. With that wish, I will begin the ceremony.”
Click!
The tightly stretched ribbon lost its tension and slowly fell to the ground.
At the same moment, journalists who had been waiting for me to speak began hurriedly moving their pens across paper, recording every word.
Hmm. This feels like the party congress of those communist pigs up north.
Strangely addictive.
How many newspapers and magazines are there in Paris again? Around four hundred?
Tomorrow’s morning papers and magazine covers are going to be something.
“For three years since 1789, we have endured extremely difficult times. Internally, we had to defend ourselves against oppressors who suppressed the people. Externally, we had to defend ourselves from oppressors who viewed us with hostility.
From the royalists led by the late Orléans, to the savage grenadiers of the war-mad Prussia, we fought war after war against the governments of oppressors.
But, my friends—
the ones who overcame all those hardships were people like us.
People wearing red caps and rough wool clothing, wooden clogs on their feet.
People who survived on meager bread and poor-quality beer.
People holding muskets hastily forged in neighborhood blacksmith shops.
People so exhausted that when they could no longer stay awake to debate, they simply slept on blankets spread across the floors of meeting halls.
Passionate and diligent people.
Those are the people who saved France.
And everyone here—including myself—is that kind of person.
And I am proud of that fact.
Of course, the Russians still remain, advancing toward us from the frozen lands of the far east.
But I believe that people like us will once again rise to defend this land and the people beside us.
And that we will win again.
Yet some of you may ask me this.
After we defeat every threat against us, will anything truly change?
After we drive away the oppressors, will reality itself change?
I understand that question.
No matter how much politicians claim that reality has changed and the revolution has succeeded, if the miserable life we live today remains unchanged, who could truly say that reality has changed?
That is why I gathered you all here today.
Because I wanted to show you that changing reality as soon as possible.
I wanted to show you how the material conditions of our lives—our once miserable existence—will transform.
And I wanted to show that it can never be wise for countless people living alongside us to remain in degradation, abandoning their dignity as human beings for any reason whatsoever.”
Mr. Murdoch, please prepare.
I paused and glanced toward William Murdoch, who stood among the crowd.
Murdoch nodded and slipped quietly into the crowd.
“The seventeenth century, someone once told me, was the age of kings and monarchs.
If that is so, then I say the eighteenth century is the age in which citizens and the people themselves appeared upon the stage of history.
And I dare to predict this—
that the coming nineteenth century will become the age of progress and reason led by citizens and the people.
And now, I will show you that age of progress and reason.”
I took out my pocket watch and checked the time.
5:59:40 p.m.
“20… 19… 18.”
Families carrying children on their shoulders, journalists writing down every word, even the gendarmes—
all began looking at me with puzzled expressions.
Still, I continued counting.
“15… 14… 13.”
No matter how many people tilted their heads or frowned in confusion.
I kept counting.
“7… 6… 5.”
And finally—
I placed the pocket watch back into my coat and counted the last numbers.
“3… 2… 1.”
Zero.
From somewhere in the distance, a clack-clack-clack sound began approaching the crowd and me standing at the center of the 13th arrondissement.
Then, the moment the sound reached us—
the iron poles that everyone had wondered about suddenly burst into light.
A brilliance hundreds of times brighter than candlelight filled the air.
“W-what…?”
“M-magic! It’s magic!”
“My goodness…”
Everyone stared in shock at the sight they had never seen before, raising their fingers toward the glowing gas lamps.
“Greetings, everyone.
This is Paris—the City of Light, proudly presented by Isaac’s People.”
“Oh, and if anyone wishes to install these street lamps at their residence or any other location, please contact the Isaac’s People Construction Office on Grenoble Street.
We just opened.”
Customers are always welcome.
The next day, April 19.
“Excuse me! How much does it cost to install one in front of my house?!”
“I want my entire garden surrounded by those gas lamps! How much per unit?!”
“What? Three months?! You’re telling me to wait three months?! How many reservations are there?!”
“Hey! Call the boss! Do you know who I am—?!”
“If you install it privately, the cost may be quite high. Would you perhaps consider a group purchase with your neighbors? If you share the pipeline installation cost, it will certainly be cheaper than installing it alone.”
“At the moment, you can expect about 400 livres per lamp. Of course, that may change once production increases.”
“The Tuileries Palace, Versailles Palace, the 3rd arrondissement city hall, the 10th arrondissement city hall—actually every nearby government office has already reserved them! There’s nothing we can do!”
“Our boss is Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon. Are you sure you want to push this matter further?”
The Isaac’s People Construction Company, which had rented part of Grenoble Street for its office, was overflowing with customers.
“Alright, break time! Everyone go eat lunch!”
“Damn it… damn it… damn it. I should’ve just gone back to my hometown.”
Philippe, newly hired by Isaac’s People as a construction officer, grabbed his lunchbox and muttered bitterly.
—Attention! Corporal Philippe reporting! I greet the Finance Minister!
—You lay pavement like a work of art. It reminds me of my days at the Cheorwon GOP… ah, ahem. Anyway, have you thought about what you’ll do after discharge?
—I was thinking of farming in my hometown.
—But it’s winter now. Instead, why not work for Isaac’s People during the farming off-season?
—You mean… Isaac’s People?
—Exactly! I’ll personally make sure you’re paid well!
Philippe bit into the Isaac’s People instant meal, regretting his life choices.
The next morning’s newspapers.
[Light from the darkest slum—the 13th arrondissement! The age of progress promised by Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon approaches!]
[Royal Academy — The unbelievable existence of gas lamps and the astonishing principles behind them.]
[The shining 13th arrondissement! Which district will be redeveloped next?! The mayors of the 3rd and 10th arrondissements argue: Our district is worse off!]
[Lavoisier, creator of the gas lamp, repents for his past mistakes and pledges to pay the gas-lamp installation costs for the Saint-Antoine district. Residents rejoice!]
This one’s good. That one’s good too.
The front pages of morning newspapers and magazines were practically covered with stories about the gas lamps of the 13th arrondissement.
Hmm. Very satisfying.
This is what you call noise marketing.
Of course, not every article was positive.
[The magic of Finance Minister Guillaume! Did Guillaume de Toulon receive aid from the Devil?!]
[The Muscadins protest: while we earned the revolution’s glory, excessive benefits are being given to Parisian slum dwellers. Many express dissatisfaction with Finance Minister Guillaume.]
[Père Duchesne: Isaac’s People are bourgeois exploiters who enrich themselves by exploiting workers!]
Well, the magic accusations are understandable.
After all, my reincarnation itself could easily look like witchcraft or something demonic.
But seriously.
“Florian, what exactly do these Muscadins and the Père Duchesne magazine think I am?”
“Indeed, boss.”
If I’m a communist, I’m a communist.
If I’m bourgeois, I’m bourgeois.
But how exactly am I supposed to be both at the same time?
That sounds like an extremely difficult challenge.
“Well, think of it as dogs barking. There’s nothing to gain by worrying about it.”
“Tch… but it still bothers me.”
It leaves a bad taste in my mouth…