Chapter 136: The City of Light, Paris (6)
Chapter 136: The City of Light, Paris (6)
“Form a political party? Me? Seriously? What do I know about politics?”
The only thing I knew how to do was listen to people and give them what they wanted. What kind of politics could I possibly run with that?
At best, within a year those monsters in the Versailles Assembly would strip everything I possessed away.
“Man… making a decent living without trouble is ridiculously hard.”
After chasing away the main culprits responsible for stirring up chaos in Paris, I pulled a long cigarette from the pack and placed it in my mouth.
It wasn’t as if I expected the eighteenth century—this inhuman madhouse—to have the kind of security found in modern South Korea, where people reserve seats with laptops and phones when going to the restroom and nobody touches anything except maybe bicycles.
All I wanted was a world where people could walk down the street without getting shot or blown up.
Was that really such an unreasonable dream?
From my perspective, even General Choe Yeong, who once said that gold should be treated like stones, probably was not as modest as I was.
So then, if I wanted to turn that modest dream into reality, what exactly should I do?
The answer was…
I had no idea.
How would I know?
In the future I had been a business major destined to be ground down in some company’s accounting and finance department—not a public administration student destined to be crushed in some city hall or provincial office.
Poor Guillaume de Toulon.
I could analyze corporate strengths and weaknesses and read financial statements, but manipulating laws and policies? That was not my skill set.
So the method I chose was simple.
I didn’t understand the underlying theory, but if we could create something roughly resembling a twenty-first-century South Korean society, then at the very least we would not end up like Mexico or Brazil, where drug cartels wage gunfights and launch terrorist attacks in broad daylight.
And to achieve that, the people at the top had to at least refrain from physically attacking rival factions.
In the modern era everyone can read and write, but right now even someone who can barely read a few words is considered educated.
Yet in such a world, respected lawmakers—lawyers and prosecutors no less—would shoot each other in the streets over disagreements?
Even if the upper stream runs clear, the lower stream can still turn muddy.
But if the upper stream itself is not clear, what will happen to France?
That was why Guillaume de Toulon was very, very worried.
So I tried threatening our friends Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès, Maximilien Robespierre, and Georges Danton.
“Gentlemen, the moment you raise fists instead of tongues, you should be prepared to hand half your parliamentary seats over to me.”
I didn’t think I had done anything special, but the citizens of Paris seemed to like me quite a bit.
So what would happen if I founded a political party?
At the very least, I could probably claim one-third of the Assembly seats.
I had lived in both the modern world of the twenty-first century and this eighteenth-century semi-barbaric civilization.
And human nature was exactly the same.
Whether now or in the future, merchants want to sell their goods at the highest price possible.
Taxi drivers and coachmen want to charge as much as they can.
Sure, the politicians I saw on TV and in newspapers lived in a time when liberal democracy ruled the world, so there might be differences.
But the fundamentals are the same.
They want positions where they can exercise power.
Under a monarchy where only the king’s favor matters, politicians behave somewhat differently.
But France is currently a democracy.
And in a Parliament that is already cramped, would they really want to lose seats to a brand-new party?
Wouldn’t they rather shake hands and laugh together while saying, “Let’s all get along”?
Of course, they might squeeze those hands pretty hard.
But that was none of my business.
I struck a match and lit the cigarette, then walked toward the window.
The smoke rising from the tip blurred the view outside.
The hazy scenery beyond the glass reminded me of my own situation, and I chuckled.
Damn.
If I had known things would turn out like this, I would have memorized the historical timeline one more time after finishing the college entrance exam.
Right now, in 1792, the late eighteenth century is an extremely dangerous time.
The future is so uncertain that it is impossible to see clearly.
Maybe it had always been like that.
The great powers—Prussia, the Holy Roman Empire, and Russia—had already carved Poland into three pieces and were enjoying their feast.
And Warsaw, the capital of the Polish people, was being stained with blood beneath the brutal blades and gunfire of Russian troops claiming to be pacification forces.
If only Poland suffered, that might be tolerable.
But the Russian empress—the so-called Tsar—was also crushing her own peasants’ rebellion with the army.
And as if that were some kind of mercy, they claimed to spare captured rebels from painful deaths by simply shooting them in the head.
What kind of mercy is that?
Is her name really Catherine, or is it Joseph Stalin?
Civilized people are supposed to rely on dialogue and compromise.
How do people even think of mowing others down with guns and swords?
I thought Russia’s traditions were limited to a ruined economy.
Apparently contempt for human life was a tradition too.
That was why, in this eighteenth century full of blood and slaughter, if we wanted to protect France we had to at least keep our wits about us and avoid stabbing each other in the belly.
We could not allow the Seine River to become a second Warsaw, filled with human blood.
“…Sigh.”
I crushed the finished cigarette in the ashtray.
If only the problems of the world were as easy to extinguish as a cigarette.
But it was a difficult era.
June 1, 1792
Saint-Domingue, West Indies, Caribbean Sea.
Governor’s residence.
“So then, Governor. Will you recognize the rights of us black people, or will you continue fighting us?”
Unlike the others in the room, the man with black hands slowly stroked the armrest of his chair before speaking.
“…Toussaint, give me some time.”
“Time? Did you give us time when you shot us for failing to meet the harvest quota? And I do not believe we are close enough for you to call me simply by name. Use my title.”
“…Very well, General Toussaint Bréda.”
To think that I would live to call a black man ‘General.’
But François Rouxel de Blanchelande, governor of Saint-Domingue, had no choice but to bite his lip and comply.
The distance between France and Saint-Domingue in the West Indies was enormous.
The black resistance forces had already seized several islands, and their advance toward the main island—where the governor’s residence stood—was dozens of times faster than reinforcements arriving from France.
If he wanted to live, he had to appease them.
“General Toussaint Bréda, you know I need time. You are not illiterate—indeed, you are an educated man. Surely you understand what I mean.”
“Again with talk about the mother country?”
“General, I am a governor appointed by France. I cannot make decisions entirely on my own.”
Facing the cold gaze of the rebel leader, the French governor spread his hands.
It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely false either.
However, the black leader merely snorted.
“So declaring that slaves would be suppressed by bayonets, and slaughtering civilians in the process—that was not your personal decision, but a formal order from the government in France?”
The governor ground his teeth silently.
This black bastard… calling him ‘General’ a few times has made him arrogant.
Still, a refined gentleman of Paris could not be provoked by the loose tongue of an uncivilized man.
“Ahem. General, please behave with the manners of a gentleman.”
The governor straightened his posture.
But the rebel leader ignored him completely.
Instead, he pulled a damp pamphlet from his coat, the paper softened by the humid Atlantic climate.
“I happened to pick up a few of your white men’s newspapers recently. One of them was called Forbes. Quite interesting articles.”
“…Is that so?”
“Two articles moved me deeply. Do you know what they were, Governor?”
“…I have no idea what you mean.”
The governor tilted his head in confusion.
Why was this man suddenly talking about magazines?
The rebel leader opened the pamphlet and began reading aloud.
“The first article: The City of Light, Paris! The brilliant success of the 13th arrondissement slum redevelopment project led by Isaac’s People! The great victory of human reason that drove away the Black Knight of darkness…!”
Looking at the illustration—crowds gathered around a strange tall pole topped with a lamp—the black man continued.
“You white men install miraculous devices called gas lamps, shining like the sun in your capital, and live happily laughing together. Meanwhile we black people are lucky if we can sleep in rotting wooden huts. Often we lie directly on insect-infested ground. Is that not true?”
“….”
The black man looked straight into the governor’s eyes.
“Governor, does it feel good decorating your homes with the blood you suck from us?”
“…!”
The governor’s eyes trembled.
This black bastard…
But despite the murderous aura emanating from the governor, the rebel leader continued calmly.
“Why? Are you going to draw your sword?”
“Y-you…!”
“If you wish to kill me, then kill me. But the moment you do, every black man in the West Indies will come for your throat. I wish you luck, Governor. I do not know how many bullets you white men possess, but surely fewer than our numbers.
And even if I fall, the Tree of Liberty in Saint-Domingue may fall for a time—but it will rise again and spread countless new roots deep into the earth.”
Leaving the trembling governor alone, the black man turned the page of the pamphlet and read aloud again.
The page looked more faded than the others, as if it had been inserted from another issue.
“The second article:
All men are born free and equal. Social distinctions may exist only when they serve the common good.
The rights to liberty, property, security, and resistance to oppression must be respected.
Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen, March 25, 1791. Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon.”
After finishing, the black man lowered the pamphlet and spoke slowly.
“Governor, let me ask you one question.
What harm have we black people caused to the public good?
If there is such harm, tell me.
But if there is none—why are we still not free?”
“….”
“If you do not wish to answer, that is fine. What I truly want to know is the position of the French government in Europe.”
He had never expected an honest answer from a governor who would stab them in the back at any moment and had no interest in negotiating with black people.
What mattered was the opinion of the man mentioned in the pamphlet.
“Tell me—does Guillaume de Toulon think of us black people the same way you do?”
Toussaint Bréda tapped the portrait of a young white man printed in the pamphlet illustration.