Chapter 61: The Poisoned Chalice (9)
Chapter 61: The Poisoned Chalice (9)
December 31, 1789, Paris.
“…Haa. Even this sight is getting tiresome now.”
Seeing the Paris citizens by the roadside waving frantically toward him, Orléans—no, Louis XVII—let out a small yawn inside the carriage as he spoke.
“Useless rabble. Here, I’m in a good mood.”
Louis XVII cracked the carriage window slightly and waved his hand a few times.
It was an emotionless, absent-minded gesture from Orléans, one that didn’t even carry a glance, yet the citizens went wild.
“Oh! His Highness the Duke of Orléans saw me! He saw me!”
“Idiot! Not the Duke of Orléans—His Majesty King Louis XVII!”
“That’s right! And it wasn’t you—he was looking at me behind you!”
“No! He was clearly waving at me!”
“Long live Egalité Philippe, His Majesty King Louis XVII!”
The escort soldiers, caught up in the fervor, were busy pushing back citizens who unconsciously stepped toward the carriage.
“Sir, please step back!”
“Hey! Renal! Block that side properly!”
“Yes! Sergeant! No, please, move back!”
Watching the scene from the rear of the procession, General Dumouriez clicked his tongue and spoke to his adjutant.
“Adjutant, what do you make of this spectacle?”
The adjutant bowed his head and replied.
“My apologies, General. I’ll take action at once.”
Turning his head, the adjutant signaled several times to the cavalry following at the rear.
At the signal, the cavalry shook their reins and urged their horses forward, surrounding the carriage.
Under the clear winter sunlight, the breastplates worn by the cavalry flashed brilliantly, overwhelming the surroundings.
Pressed by that show of force, the crowd no longer dared to step onto the road.
Only then did Dumouriez speak, his expression finally satisfied.
“Good. Now it looks like there’s some order.”
He lightly shook the reins and brought his horse alongside the carriage, then tapped on the window.
“Your Majesty, we will soon arrive at the Champ de Mars.”
“Ah, right. I was supposed to shake hands with that fellow—the mayor of Paris. What was his name again…?”
Louis XVII’s voice, dulled by the carriage wall, came faintly from inside.
“I believe it is Jean Bailly, Your Majesty.”
“Ah, that’s it. Now I remember. Thank you, General.”
At Louis XVII’s words, Dumouriez removed his hat and bowed his head as etiquette demanded.
Behind the Paris Central Military School, Champ de Mars.
Georges Danton, vanguard of the Bastille’s capture and an electoral commissioner of the Third Estate, kept fussing with his clothes.
“Mayor Bailly, how do I look right now? Do I look presentable?”
“…You look exactly like Commissioner Danton.”
At Jean Bailly’s emotionless reply, Danton puffed out his lips.
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“Judging by the commotion up ahead, it seems His Majesty King Louis XVII is already close.”
Whether he failed to notice Danton’s reaction or simply pretended not to, Bailly pointed toward the distance as he spoke.
From the direction of his fingertip, the murmur of the crowd grew loud.
At Bailly’s words, Danton swept his gaze over himself again.
The tricolor cockade on his chest.
Securely fastened.
Hair.
Hmm, not bad.
Clothes.
Fairly neat.
Shoes.
Ah—there’s some dirt on them.
Danton stamped his feet a few times, scattering the soil.
After inspecting himself for a while longer, his eyes caught sight of a splendid carriage bearing the fleur-de-lis crest entering the square.
The carriage stopped before the platform at the Champ de Mars, and cavalry and infantry lined up in sequence behind it.
A burly man opened the carriage door and strode toward Mayor Bailly and Danton.
Louis XVII, a head taller than Danton, smiled broadly and offered handshakes in turn.
“Good to meet you. I am—no, I am Louis XVII.”
“It is an honor, Your Majesty! I am Jean Bailly, Mayor of Paris.”
“I have long heard your name as well. I look forward to working with you.”
“Long live His Majesty King Louis XVII!”
The king then extended his hand to Danton, standing to Bailly’s left.
“Good to meet you. And you are…?”
“I am Electoral Commissioner Georges Danton, Your Majesty! It is an honor to meet you!”
“Danton… come to think of it, you look familiar.”
As Louis XVII tilted his head in thought, Danton spoke up eagerly, his face flushed.
“Yes, yes! That’s right! I once benefited from Your Majesty’s hospitality at the Palais-Royal.”
“Ah, is that so. No wonder I thought I’d seen you somewhere before. Hahaha!”
As the three exchanged pleasantries, a simply dressed attendant in ceremonial attire approached, carrying a plainly ornamented wooden box.
Danton accepted the box and slowly opened it toward Louis XVII.
Inside lay a silver brooch adorned with the tricolor.
“This is something the citizens of Paris prepared for you, Your Majesty. Please accept it.”
Louis XVII slowly lifted the brooch and pinned it to his chest, then flashed a grin.
“Well then—does it suit me?”
“It suits you perfectly, Your Majesty!”
Danton nodded, his face filled with elation.
Satisfied, Louis XVII turned around and shouted loudly toward the countless citizens gathered in the square.
“I shall always stand with the Revolution!”
“Long live Egalité Philippe, His Majesty King Louis XVII! Long live! Long live!”
Louis XVII—Orléans—let out a faint, private sneer.
“…Hmph. Crude. Not a shred of aesthetic sense.”
Louis XVII tore the tricolor brooch from his clothes and tossed it into a corner of the carriage as he muttered.
After spending not just a day or two but nearly several years acting the part, the moment they left Paris, Louis XVII twisted his previously cheerful face into a scowl.
“Ah, Father. Still, wasn’t it something your subjects prepared for you?”
Louis XVII shot a glare at the seat beside him, where the voice had come from.
Sitting there with a troubled expression was his son, Louis-Philippe d’Orléans III, now Crown Prince of France, whom he had brought along from Paris to Versailles.
Seeing his son’s face made irritation surge within Louis XVII.
Sixteen years old, and still so weak.
All because those lowlife scoundrels prattling on about revolution were allowed into the palace, filling his son’s head with nonsense.
Of course, he himself had been the one to invite those subversives in—but overthrowing a feeble predecessor and restoring the grandeur of Greater France had required it.
In a curt tone, Louis XVII spoke to the Crown Prince.
“If it bothers you that much, why don’t you take it instead?”
“Y-Yes? W-What do you mean by that…?”
Startled by his father’s words, the Crown Prince asked again.
“I have no intention of indulging in such childish revolutionary games.”
“…”
In the end, Orléans III bent down, picked up the brooch from the floor, and shoved it into his pocket.
“Tsk.”
As if he couldn’t understand his son at all, Louis XVII clicked his tongue.
A nation’s supreme ruler ought to have dignity—groveling like that, honestly.
As Louis XVII was thinking this, the coachman opened the front window, bowed his head, and spoke.
“Your Majesty, we have arrived at Versailles.”
“…Finally.”
The king smiled in satisfaction, opened the carriage door, and stepped lightly onto the ground.
The majestic golden splendor of the Palace of Versailles filled his vision.
“Long live His Majesty Louis XVII! Long live! Long live!”
In addition, hundreds of deputies stood lined up before the palace, chanting Louis XVII’s name.
“Hahaha! Thank you, thank you!”
Louis XVII was happy.
After receiving welcomes for quite some time and entering the palace, an elderly priest clad in golden silk robes approached, bowed deeply, and spoke.
“Your Majesty, there is something urgent I must report…”
“What is it, Archbishop? Hahaha!”
Versailles Palace, the War Room.
“…I have no face to show you, Your Majesty…”
“…”
Louis XVII clutched his lowered head with both hands, breathing deeply in silence.
Was he dreaming right now?
This couldn’t be real.
It had only been half a month. Half a month.
Was it possible that in just fifteen days, the position of king had become nothing more than a paper tiger—worth less than bare bones?
Yes. This had to be a dream. A dream.
A particularly vile one.
“…Do you take me for a fool, Archbishop? Ha… haha… that can’t be right, can it? This isn’t funny at all.”
Still bowing his head, Louis XVII spoke in a trembling voice.
“…I apologize, Your Maj—”
“Didn’t! I say! It’s! Not! Funny!!!”
The massive king, over 180 centimeters tall, sprang to his feet and roared so loudly it seemed the world itself would shake.
“Do you think I’m a fool?!”
Louis XVII grabbed a nearby vase and hurled it at the floor.
With the crash of shattering porcelain, fragments flew everywhere.
“Do you know why I started all of this?! Was it to become some pathetic paper tiger?!”
At his thunderous rage, the archbishop could only press his head to the floor.
“What were you doing, Archbishop, while things deteriorated to this point?! Answer me!”
“…I-It’s just that in the Assembly, our side is outnumbered…”
“Shut up! Shut up, I say! Do you even know how much I’ve poured into you lot?! You useless pig bastards!”
“…”
Louis XVII stared at the archbishop with bloodshot eyes and spoke again.
“Archbishop, speak! Why are you silent? Why! Aren’t! You! Speaking?!”
As he shouted, the king kicked over every piece of furniture in sight.
“No—no, forget that. Who was it?! Who dared pull something like this?!”
After smashing a chair to pieces against the floor, Louis XVII hauled the archbishop up by force and demanded.
“I-It was Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon, Your Majesty.”
“Guillaume? Guillaume! Guilllaaauuume!!”
I’ll kill him.
“…Is someone calling me?”
Why does my ear itch?
I set the documents down for a moment and scratched my ear.
“…Stop trying to pull tricks and read the documents properly,”
Mathieu glared at me and said in an irritated voice.
“No, seriously, my ear really itches. And hey, didn’t I get you promoted to captain? What’s with the attitude?”
“Oh, really? A cap-tain? Then why did our oh-so-meticulous Finance Minister forget to include the word ‘acting’ in front of it?”
“…Anyway, a captain’s a captain.”
“You’d be more likable if you just kept your mouth shut.”
I don’t remember Mathieu being this cold. Yeah—this is all Grouchy’s fault. Why on earth did he send that kind of letter to Commander Lafayette and drag both me and Mathieu into this mess?
Grouchy pulled me into this hellhole!
Just then, someone kicked open the door to the Finance Minister’s office.
It was hit so hard the door tore off its hinges and slammed onto the floor.
“W-What the hell, fuck?”
“You bastard! Are you Guillaume?!”
A burly man over 180 centimeters tall, his face flushed red, pointed straight at me as he stomped forward.
“Uwaaah!”
“No! Not the desk!”
The documents I’d painstakingly sorted on the desk scattered through the air like cherry blossom petals.