Chapter 198: The Empty Seat of the Little Giant (5)
Chapter 198: The Empty Seat of the Little Giant (5)
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it all.
I deliberately walked around in this freezing winter wearing only thin clothing, and for days I prayed before the cross, saying, “Lord, please let me fall ill.” Yet this morning my eyelids opened not only lightly but almost refreshingly. It was clear that the Lord and the Virgin Mary had abandoned me.
“If I had known this would happen, I shouldn’t have wasted my time going to church… Or maybe I should have believed in Calvinism instead of Catholicism.”
“Dear, what are you talking about first thing in the morning?”
“…It’s nothing. Just something on my mind, my dear.”
I got up from the bed and hurriedly threw on a thin coat instead of my nightclothes.
“Charles? Charles! Where are you going without even eating breakfast?”
“I’m telling you, breakfast isn’t the issue right now! The fate of our entire family depends on the health of Charles-François Dumouriez!”
“What on earth are you talking about? Of course our family will be fine if you stay healthy.”
“…Yes. Well… that’s the problem.”
How should I explain this?
“…Sigh. The Controller-General of Finance is trying to send me away as a colonial governor! A colonial governor!”
“Oh my! Isn’t that a promotion? A governor’s post is major general rank, not brigadier general!”
“It is technically a promotion…”
“That Controller-General of Finance—he’s that handsome young man, right? Tall, good-looking, and apparently he even has a good eye for talent! Ho ho!”
My wife’s eyes began to sparkle as she rattled off one excited remark after another.
“Where are we going? Saint-Domingue? India?”
“North America. Next to the United States.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!”
“…What?”
“I heard Saint-Domingue and India are far too hot for people to live comfortably. But America must have such pleasant weather! Oh my, listen to me rambling. If we’re going to socialize there, what should I study? Should I learn some English first?”
“Well… the thing is…”
“Why? Is there a problem?”
“No. No problem at all, my dear.”
Dumouriez could not bring himself to reveal the dark side of Paris—the intrigue, conspiracies, and ruthless politics—to his bright-eyed wife.
How could he explain that the handsome Controller-General was in truth a devilish creature, and that the man had seized Dumouriez’s weakness and was threatening to tear him apart and hang the pieces in the Champ de Mars if he did not depart for America immediately?
The more he kept it bottled inside, the more it felt like he would go mad. If he did not go outside and get some air right away, he truly might lose his sanity.
“…I will step out for a moment.”
“You’re going for exercise, right? Have a good walk. I’ll prepare something delicious tonight to celebrate your promotion.”
“I’m going insane.”
“Pardon? I couldn’t hear through the door!”
“I said I’ll be back soon!”
The current brigadier general—no, now effectively a major general (designate)—Charles-François Dumouriez left his house and began running laps around his garden in nothing but thin clothes.
“Huff… huff… Lord, please make me sick. Please! Haven’t I donated generously to the church?”
He had to fall ill.
If he could say he was sick—too sick to travel—then even that devil would have no choice but to back down. Sending a sick man to an unfamiliar land would attract too much public criticism.
Perfect. A perfect plan. If Dumouriez could even execute a defensive maneuver from a hospital bed, perhaps he could even secure medical discharge.
But contrary to his plan, his body—hardened by decades of military service—remained incredibly healthy. In fact, lately his complexion had improved and his appetite had increased. Rather than getting sick, he seemed to be becoming healthier.
“Huff, huff. Damn it. Does it make any sense that at my age I’m doing this kind of training like a stray dog?”
Damn that Lord. Was he asking for something unreasonable? All he wanted was a pleasant estate with good scenery and water, where he could live peacefully with his lovely wife and adorable children.
While the exhausted Dumouriez muttered curses toward a God whose existence he now doubted, applause suddenly came from behind him.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
“Bravo! Bravo!”
“Who’s there?”
Turning around, Dumouriez saw a young man—perhaps about thirty—clapping with a delighted smile.
“That diligence! Training your body early in the morning. As expected of the victorious General Dumouriez! I am deeply impressed.”
“No—who are you?”
“My apologies. I should have introduced myself sooner. My name is Augustin, General.”
“Augustin?”
The young man smiled broadly and handed him a small card.
[Augustin Robespierre — Deputy Secretary of the Mountain Faction and Deputy of the National Assembly]
“…Oh.”
“Our leader of the Mountain Faction, Maximilien Robespierre, very much wishes to invite you to our headquarters.”
“M-me? Why?”
“Why? Opportunities to meet a spirited man like yourself do not come often. You are a capable man soon to be posted abroad—if we do not invite you now, who knows when the chance will come again.”
“Please get dressed and come out. We’ll be waiting.”
“Pleasure to meet you, General. I am Maximilien Robespierre, leader of the Mountain Faction.”
“T-the pleasure is mine, Deputy.”
“Ha ha! A man who works tirelessly in distant regions for our people should not call himself ‘a humble servant.’ Please raise your tone. Ah, that’s right—feel free to call me Max.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly address you like that—”
Suddenly Dumouriez clutched his neck as a chill ran down his spine.
“I-I understand… Deputy Max.”
“Ha ha ha! Excellent, General. I already feel we’re becoming close friends. Now come in. There are many questions I wish to ask you!”
“Heh heh heh… heh heh… ahahaha…”
Just imagining Dumouriez already being ground down made it impossible for me to stop laughing.
As the number-one instructor who had spent months teaching economics to Robespierre, I knew exactly what was happening by now. Robespierre would be squeezing Dumouriez to the bone. When he doesn’t know something, he digs until he does.
And Robespierre has tremendous interest in the military. Remember the terrifying concepts we discussed together—political officers, military coups, all that?
If Robespierre got hold of a toy like Dumouriez, the outcome was obvious.
Monsieur Guillotine, I believe in you.
Now Dumouriez had to choose.
Would he remain in Robespierre’s hands, endlessly ground up like meat in a blender?
Or would he run to America and be ground up moderately under my supervision?
Hmm. Personally, I think the latter is the better option. I’m generous enough to overlook a mine or two disappearing into his pocket. But beside Robespierre, he wouldn’t even get a drop of broth.
Our dear Dumouriez is a clever elite. I’m sure he’ll make the right choice.
“What’s making you laugh so much?”
“Just something amusing, Talleyrand.”
“Is that so? I’m not laughing at all.”
“Why? Something happening in the Foreign Ministry?”
“Would you like to hear it?”
What came out of Talleyrand’s mouth was quite shocking.
—The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Revolutionary Kingdom of France requests that the nations of Russia and Spain immediately pay the reparations corresponding to the crimes they have committed and begin negotiations regarding the prisoners captured from your respective countries.
—Spain acknowledges the reparations proposal and the cession of North American territory, but demanding the cession of Santo Domingo as well is far too heavy a price—
—Listen here! Want us to break through the Pyrenees and march down? Care to taste our cannons in Madrid?
—Very well! Very well! The Kingdom of Spain will comply with all of France’s demands!
Of course they would. If you lose, you pay the price. Let’s be honest—if we had lost, you people would have cut off the heads of every revolutionary, including me.
—The Russian Empire agrees to the reparations proposal, but we require a little time regarding negotiations over the prisoners.
—Time? Aren’t those your own countrymen? Russia doesn’t intend to farm in spring?
—Well, yes, but…
—Then come take them back already.
—His Majesty the Tsar… does not wish to bring the prisoners back.
—What the hell…?
After hearing this shocking statement, our Foreign Ministry wracked its brains and mobilized spies in far-off Saint Petersburg to discover the truth.
—Is that… is that truly the case?
—Your Majesty, I regret to report that it is true. Field Marshal Suvorov has been defeated.
—Impossible! Impossible! Ah! How could this happen?!
—Your Majesty, please calm yourself!
—If even Suvorov cannot be trusted, who can I trust?! Soon the peasants will storm this palace with sickles and hammers! Guards! Guards!
—Damn it… if the Tsar loses his mind, we’re all dead.
—He already sounds insane.
—Stop making jokes and think of something.
—Do you have any ideas, Minister of Commerce?
—I might have one…
—What is it?
—Instead of blaming the defeat on Suvorov, why don’t we find another cause?
The nobles, fearing the paranoia of the old Tsar who panicked at the mere mention of revolution, began searching for a scapegoat. One that was convenient and harmless.
—In truth, the reason Field Marshal Suvorov was defeated is that the soldiers under his command were not proper troops, Your Majesty.
—Indeed. France may be uncivilized, but its army still retains the military strength of the Seven Years’ War era.
Even a great commander cannot win if the troops he commands are worthless. The fact that he held out for two months was already impressive.
Yes—peasants were the easiest targets. Convenient to blame, and unlikely to cause trouble later.
Russia was already famous for “harvesting people like crops,” so they had no reason to cling to those seven thousand soldiers.
A perfect solution for everyone.
Except for the prisoners themselves—who now became someone else’s problem.
“What does the Foreign Ministry think?”
“You mean the prisoners?”
“That’s the only issue here.”
“Well, this is merely a proposal from the lower departments…”
Talleyrand leaned closer.
“They suggested putting them to work in mines or fisheries.”
Oh? That sounds like something only a slave state would come up with.
“Ahem. Don’t look at me like that. It’s only a proposal. Nothing has been decided.”
“Any other options?”
“Not yet.”
This was troublesome.
If we kept them, they would consume food and taxes. If we gave them land, farmers would protest about giving valuable farmland to Russians. If we forced them into hard labor, it would contradict the revolutionary spirit.
After stroking my chin for a long moment, I said:
“What if we send them to the North American colonial expedition?”