Chapter 196: The Empty Seat of the Little Giant (3)
Chapter 196: The Empty Seat of the Little Giant (3)
November 17, 1793.
Although it was still too early for people to wake as they normally did, the streets of the 5th arrondissement—the very heart of Paris—were already overflowing with people.
There were so many that it would not be an exaggeration to say there was not even space to set foot on the sidewalks.
Yet the street was silent.
Countless people had gathered, but the streets of the 5th arrondissement were strangely quiet. It felt like the world just before a violent storm swept through.
That silence began to break the moment the procession from Versailles entered the street.
Clop. Clop.
Cuirassier cavalry wearing black tassels rode at the front as the honor guard passed by.
Step. Step. Step.
Infantry soldiers in blue uniforms marched behind them.
Rattle. Rattle.
When the funeral carriage—carefully turning the corner so the stone coffin loaded on top would not fall—finally reached the crowd, the people who had been holding their breath began to release their emotions.
“Sniff… sob…”
Whether it was grief.
“Teacher! Teacher! Why did you have to leave us so soon! Why would the Lord take you at a time like this!”
Whether it was sorrow.
“Long live Mirabeau! Long live France! Long live the Revolution!”
Or the desire to bid farewell to the man on his final journey.
In front of the Panthéon National Cemetery in the 5th arrondissement of Paris—where those who sacrificed themselves for the motherland of France were laid to rest—tears welled in the eyes of the gathered crowd.
“…At least the chairman does not seem lonely on his final journey.”
“Even though he was short, he was full of energy and always running around everywhere. If he could see this scene from heaven, he would probably be pleased and say, ‘So I wasn’t working for nothing after all.’”
“I truly hope so.”
I placed a cigarette between my lips and spoke to Jacques Pierre Brissot, who had been elected the acting president of the National Assembly.
Sss—
Hoo—
To think that the man who had gone all the way to the Mediterranean died before even arriving here. Mirabeau, you rotten old man. Would it really have hurt you to at least show your face before dying?
You clearly told me it was nothing serious. You said it was just overwork. You said you would be fine after resting a little. You were the one who pushed me to hurry off to Corsica.
And now what—was the real story something like:
‘Ah, actually everything I told you was a lie. The real illness was heart disease. Fooled you, didn’t I? Heh heh!’
And to make matters worse, he even left a will behind, trying to squeeze every last drop of usefulness out of me even after death.
Half of Guillaume’s brain is basically Confucian-Taliban mode. When an elder—especially a dead one—writes a letter personally asking for something, you cannot ignore it even if you want to. It leaves a nagging weight in your chest.
…Damn it. They say a tiger leaves its skin when it dies, and a man leaves his name.
But this Mirabeau fellow—while alive he made people work through orders, and after dying he is still making people work through his last will.
Do I, a capitalist, really have to establish a labor-hour limitation law in France with my own hands?
Just imagining it is horrifying. There will probably be a bucketful of future capitalists chewing on my name and calling me a traitor.
“What an irritating man.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s nothing. Just something I muttered to myself.”
By then the carriage carrying Mirabeau’s coffin had stopped in the Panthéon square, and soldiers and priests began approaching the coffin.
<The nation is grateful to its great men.>
In front of the Panthéon, where the sacred inscription was engraved, the soldiers lined up horizontally.
“Company! Attention! Present—arms!”
With a metallic click, seven soldiers raised their rifles.
“Ready, aim, fire!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I threw away the cigarette that had burned down and lit another.
—At least I have already taken care of the conflict I was worried about. Now whether France moves forward in harmony, or becomes a hell resembling purgatory, will depend on you from here on.
Purgatory, hell… As expected from a revolutionary who spent his life shouting “Uprising! The People! Republic!” His word choice was aggressively dramatic. And of course he had that typical politician mindset—if things go well, it’s my credit; if they go badly, it’s your fault.
Truly the president of the National Assembly. Look at that political rhetoric dropping from the sky like a perfectly placed sinker ball. Isn’t it impressive? That must be because the tennis court had a dome. That must be the logic.
But now that domed stadium—no, the National Assembly—had lost its master.
The breakwater that had held back the clash between the left and right wings was gone.
For the moment, things would probably be fine. The entire nation was mourning Mirabeau’s death, and in his will he called for the unity of all French people. And as long as Robespierre, Sieyès, and I stood firm, who would dare stir up conflict in France?
“Ready, aim, fire!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
But even the sturdiest building will eventually develop a small crack over time. And once that crack begins to widen, no one knows when the whole structure will collapse.
Would the man beside me—the next president of the National Assembly—be someone capable of plugging that hole in the dam?
Or someone who would widen it?
“Ready, aim, fire!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Until the final salute was fired and Mirabeau’s coffin disappeared into the Panthéon, I could do nothing but keep smoking one cigarette after another.
The empty space left behind by the departure of the little giant—and the uncertainty filling that space—was simply too large.
December 1, 1793.
Paris.
“…Gentlemen.”
“Yes, Director.”
“I hate war.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I fucking hate war. I hate it so much I could just slaughter—”
“Would you like a coffee refill?”
“Yes.”
Slurp.
A sip of the coffee the clerk brought warmed my body, and my head began spinning again.
My cursed life really does require coffee. Perhaps the existence of coffee itself is proof that God exists.
What? My reincarnation itself is proof of some spiritual divine existence?
Nonsense. If God really reincarnated me, he should have sent me to around the year 2500, when the technological singularity arrives—not into this garbage era.
This place has no television, no computers, no smartphones. It is pure barbarism. If anything, my being born here is proof that the devil exists.
“Director, your hand stopped moving. You are not spacing out, are you?”
“What are you talking about? I am clearly writing right now.”
“You’re holding the pen upside down.”
“…Ha ha. Ah… why is it upside down?”
“You need to finish approving everything in five minutes.”
“O-of course, of course.”
Mirabeau was gone, but the vacancy he left was in the legislative branch.
For us in the Ministry of Finance—part of the executive branch—it was simply business as usual.
However, with the damn war drawing to a close—and against two entire countries at that—the Ministry of Finance was updating expense lists every single day. There was so much work we practically needed to use our feet as well as our hands.
—Aaaaah! Help us! Director!
—I am not the current Controller-General of Finance. I am merely an ordinary civilian living in seclusion. If I interfere with government work it would be illegal—
—Aaaaah!
—Sigh… Fine. I will help a little.
No… don’t go down that road… stay… Guillaume, you idiot. What were you thinking doing something like that? This is the Ministry of Finance! The place that killed your youth!
“Guillaume, why the long face?”
“I clearly said I would only help ‘a little.’ But looking at my desk, it doesn’t seem like ‘a little.’”
“Ho ho, don’t worry. I, Condorcet, have already taken care of everything.”
Oh! Condorcet is a god! God Condorcet! God Condorcet!
…Wait. God Condorcet? Why do I feel like saying it twice?
Well, who cares! I can finally leave work and soak in a bathtub!
“I already wrote a report explaining why you absolutely must handle this task and submitted it in advance. There’s no longer any reason to worry about a civilian viewing confidential documents. Ha ha!”
“…Excuse me?”
Condorcet handed me a document.
“This is…”
“<Financial Report on the Corsican Theater and Report on Lost Supplies, with Additional Compensation Proposals>. Written by Guillaume de Toulon.”
“So what?”
This was the Corsican campaign report outline I had drafted earlier. Why was he showing it to me?
Seeing my confusion, Condorcet smirked.
“Well, Guillaume. Unfortunately, I cannot understand this report no matter how many times I read it. Therefore I informed the relevant departments that the original author absolutely—absolutely—must sit beside me and personally explain it.”
“Wait! I wrote that so you people could understand it easily, and now you are using it to trap me!?”
Wow. Wow. Condorcet. The man got fatter and his personality turned into something like Nolbu from folklore. He used to be such a kind and gullible gentleman.
“Ah, fries really taste good when you are working overtime. Boss, would you like some?”
“No thanks.”
…What if tomatoes are actually poisonous? The kind of poison that makes people mean-spirited. Or maybe Mirabeau is casting magic from the afterlife and controlling Director Condorcet’s mind…?
“Stop imagining strange things and get back to work. You cannot escape today anyway.”
“Damn it. Then hand me the next document.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Condorcet tossed a thick stack of papers onto my desk.
“Let’s see. <Compensation to Spain>. I think I saw something like this from Deputy Talleyrand.”
“Ah, that wasn’t the draft. This one is a revised report reflecting your proposal to seize Spanish North American territories—including Louisiana.”
“Arkansas… the Mississippi River basin… Louisiana… and everything up to the 49th parallel…”
I rolled the map around in my head for a moment before speaking.
“Do you know how many square kilometers that is?”
“No idea. We don’t even know what lies beyond the Mississippi River.”
“Then we will need a field survey if we want to cultivate all this land.”
—G-General! You must not enter!
—Nonsense! Is there any hierarchy in matters of state! Where is His Excellency?
—He’s… he’s over there.
Bang!
The door burst open. A soldier crossed the coffee-scented overtime hell of the Ministry of Finance and shouted at me.
“Your Excellency, please discharge me from the army!”
“…General Dumouriez?”
Why is this man here?
“Discharge? All of a sudden?”
Shouldn’t you be in Toulouse?
“Last time we met, weren’t you asking for a promotion?”
“I, Dumouriez, once harbored such wicked ambitions. But now, as an honorable soldier, I reflect on that shameful past and request discharge in disappointment with myself.”
“Are you feeling unwell? Perhaps your head…?”
“No—ah! Yes! I am sick! Very sick! Please discharge me immediately, Your Excellency!”
What is wrong with this guy?