Chapter 95: Foundation Stone (5)
Chapter 95: Foundation Stone (5)
“He ate a tomato!”
“No, Finance Minister!”
“Kyaaaaak!”
“Doctor! Call a doctor!”
As I started crunching down on the tomato, screams rose from all over the square, like the natives in some mass-produced fantasy novel.
Ah, these ignorant isekai people—this wasn’t a poisonous herb. This was a tomato. And if you sprinkled sugar on it, it tasted even better. Damn, I should’ve dusted it with sugar in advance. Why didn’t I think of that?
As for health benefits... I don’t really know.
I don’t watch that “AltoX” crap that landed at No. 1 on Forbes’s list of “TV Programs Sons and Daughters Hate,” so I don’t know exactly what it’s good for.
Though it would be nice if I remembered—since I vaguely recall there were plenty of videos about it floating around places like YouTube.
It probably has some antioxidant effect or whatever. And somewhere among my heart, liver, and brain, one of them probably likes it.
What? When did Forbes ever rank something like that?
Forbes in my head did. If you have sons and daughters who have lived in Korea, they all hate that show.
Because the moment it came on, magic unfolded before your eyes: your mom’s kimchi stew would suddenly get stuffed with weird, grotesque “ingredients for health.” Eggplant in kimchi stew because it’s “good for you”! How was that even a thing?
Thinking all kinds of nonsense like that, I kept chewing and swallowing tomatoes for five straight minutes.
The citizens who had been horrified at first now started whispering with puzzled expressions.
“Uh... what? He’s fine?”
“Finance Minister! Are you feeling unwell anywhere?!”
“Maybe tomatoes really don’t have poison.”
Mm. Good. So there really was value in putting on a show like this.
“Hey, Tom—when do you drop?”
“I’ll bet five sous he collapses in twenty minutes.”
“Really? Then I’ll bet five sous he collapses in ten.”
...So there wasn’t any value after all.
But unfortunately for them, even after ten minutes, even after twenty minutes, I didn’t collapse.
‘Oi, oi. Tomatoes not being poisonous is “common sense,” you know?’
Meaning: my mustached father didn’t appear hazily before my eyes and shout, “Get up, Guillaume! Get up! Your opponent is the communist who killed your father!”
I raised my hand high and shouted.
“Everyone, do you believe it now?! Tomatoes have no poison!”
“Waaaah!”
“Finance Minister Guillaume risked his life to teach us!”
“Guillaume! Guillaume!”
...I feel like something in there was weird, but it had to be my imagination. Still, we were almost there. Only the climax was left.
I climbed the podium again and opened my mouth toward the people.
“Everyone, do you remember why we gathered in this square today? That’s right. We gathered today to remember—and commemorate—that already one full year has passed since we brought down the Bastille. However, in the lively atmosphere of this festival, I dare to speak to you.”
I took a deep breath again and continued.
“Everyone. Please look at the tomato I ate. What do you think? That it’s red? Yes. Tomatoes are red. Red like the blood our citizens spilled—the blood they bled as they fell there on that day we stormed the Bastille. I dare to say this. Let us remember their sacrifice, everyone. Let us remember the sacrifice of that day that created the foundation for us to laugh, shout, and enjoy ourselves here today in this Champ de Mars. Through this red tomato, let us rise for those brave people who cannot be here.
“And lastly, everyone, I will say this. Tomatoes are red. As red as the blood the victims spilled, as red as the blood our citizens spilled. To honor that sacrifice, today, the Ears of the Nation stalls in this square will sell every product to you citizens for free. And in the amount equal to that sales volume, we will deliver it to the families of the victims who fell at the Bastille. Please eat well, and I hope you will honor, deep in your hearts, that tragedy from one year ago. That is all.”
Clap clap clap.
“You’ve really become a politician, haven’t you.”
“When did you even get here, Father?”
“I’m sick of being stuck in Versailles. My body felt stiff.”
As I came down behind the podium, Father Sieyès was smiling lightly and applauding.
“More importantly, what politician. Politics doesn’t suit me, Father Sieyès.”
“Doesn’t suit you, my foot. You’re better than me, and I devoted myself entirely to politics. Can’t you see what’s happening? Thousands of Paris citizens are chanting nothing but your name.”
“I told you before—I was born hating to stand in front of people.”
“Haha, sure you were. Anyway, because you’ve fired everyone up like this, the people giving speeches after you can only sit there blinking their eyes. You’re a very bad friend. If you were going to give a speech like that, you should’ve gone later.”
“Uh... is that so?”
“Of course it is.”
Father Sieyès shook his head, like he was looking at a troublemaking nephew.
“But listen, Guillaume.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Saying you’ll deliver donations to the victims. What does that mean?”
“Pardon?”
“Whatever your intention is, you can spill it all in front of me.”
“What do you mean why? Of course we should do it.”
After being in an army that runs “he’s our son when we’re dragging him along, but he’s your son if he gets hurt or dies,” reality where nobody acknowledges sacrifice is depressing as hell.
No—rather than depressing, it’s just fucking infuriating when you experience it yourself or see it happen to someone next to you.
At minimum, anyone who’s been to the army—whether intentionally or not—if they end up in a ruler’s position, isn’t that exactly the reality they want to change?
But giving compensation to victims was a nightmare procedurally.
It wasn’t like I could go ask a parliament already busy brawling to ratify it, either.
So I just did it with my own money. I’ve got plenty—why wouldn’t I give those people a few coins?
And... to add a bit of selfishness, if people eat free food today and get hooked on ketchup, that’s promotion too, and along the way it could create additional regular customers.
There’s a reason companies do “try a bite” samples at markets whenever they launch a new product.
Isn’t this completely win-win?
“...Right. You’re that kind of person, haha. My mistake. Sorry, Guillaume.”
“Huh? Why are you apologizing? More importantly, is it alright for you to leave Versailles like this? What about Orléans?”
“Ah, Orléans? Why fear a man who’s had one of his few remaining wings half-plucked and is dangling there?”
“What’s that supposed to—?”
“...After you practically put a noose around Orléans’s neck, you’re asking ‘what’—you know that Talleyrand fellow you attached to him.”
“Ah, Bishop Talleyrand?”
“Yes. That man has quite the tongue. Even the hardline royalist lords—when they have a private talk with him in a room, most of them end up switching sides.”
Turning those reactionary diehard royalists? What the hell was Bishop Talleyrand?
Did he have a smartphone in his pocket with a hypnosis app installed?
Or did he shoot hypnotic beams from his eyes...?
Father Sieyès took a pipe from his pocket, lit it, drew in deeply, then exhaled as he continued.
“Anyway, from here on, that Orléans bastard is finished for all intents and purposes. The last remaining cards are General Dumouriez and the royal guard, but as long as Commander Lafayette is there, even that can’t be used.”
“True. What soldier would dare fire a gun at a war hero?”
“Haha, you really do speak like a soldier. Must be because you’re from the officer academy.”
“No. I hate the army.”
I’ve done the army twice in one lifetime—how could I possibly like the army.
“Ah, come to think of it, have you seen where Director of Taxation Condorcet is?”
“...Condorcet? If it’s him, I think I saw him over there while you were giving your speech.”
“Over there...”
Wasn’t that the Ears of the Nation stall?
“Condorcet was holding a whole bunch of something in his hands.”
“...Was he holding something like a paper bag? Kind of brown...”
“How do you know that?”
Director... guess you really liked the fries.
“Anyway, my turn to speak is next, so I’ll be going. Enjoy the festival. Oh, and over there they’re selling sweet desserts too—go take a look.”
“Ah, yes. Father, good luck.”
But after I parted with Father, I got grabbed again by someone else for a long while.
“Your Excellency the Finance Minister, that was truly an incredible speech!”
“Ah... Mr. Danton. Ha... haha.”
“I’m here too, Your Excellency.”
“Mr. Dan—no, Representative Robespierre? Ha... hahaha.”
Just let me go already!
“Next is... Mr. Louis von Betovan? Is that name correct?”
“No. It’s Ludwig van Beethoven.”
“Then you’re German?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Understood. Please tell the performer to go up in ten minutes.”
“Yes, understood.”
Babeuf hurried down from behind the podium and ran toward the Ears of the Nation stall.
“One more serving of fries here!”
“Two servings of convenience meals here!”
“Ke—tchup or whatever, squeeze it one more time!”
“...There weren’t this many people just a moment ago.”
Babeuf forced his way through the sea of people around the stall, shoulders pushing and shoving, and finally broke through into the staff entrance.
“Ugh. What’s with that fat man? I barely got in.”
“Oh, Mr. Babeuf? Are you here to get Ludwig?”
“Yes, Vice President. Where is Ludwig?”
“If you go to the back, he’ll be there.”
Babeuf headed where Florian pointed.
“...In the name of the Son, the Father, and the Holy Spirit, please save me...”
“Ludwig? Ten minutes left. Let’s go.”
“What, already?”
Babeuf patted Ludwig’s back as he prayed with a bowl of cold water set out.
That... was it the “Miraculous Prayer Method of Prester John of the East” from Forbes’s issue last week?
“Hoo. Understood, Mr. Babeuf. Let’s go!”
“Don’t be too nervous, Ludwig. You’ve performed plenty of times already, haven’t you?”
“It’s my first solo performance today...”
“If that’s the case, should I throw a whole bucket of cold water on you like usual?”
Beethoven gave Babeuf a small smile.
“Haha. Thanks to you, Manager Babeuf, I feel less nervous.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Beethoven had practiced for nearly a month for today’s performance. Maybe because there was nearly a ten-year age gap, Babeuf—who thought of this eccentric musician as a younger brother—smiled back at Beethoven.
“Don’t worry too much. Just do what you usually do. Haven’t you made me jump in surprise over and over?”
“Hoo. I’ll go.”
Beethoven left Babeuf behind and went up toward backstage.
“You’re Ludwig van Beethoven, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right!”
“What piece is it? We need to tune in advance.”
“Mozart. Piano Sonata No. 11.”
“...Mozart, and a piano sonata—ah, that Turkish March? Understood. I’ll pass it along as is.”
“Yes, please.”
Beethoven forced down his pounding heart.
Wasn’t this what he had dreamed of his whole life? Not the patronage of anyone—finally getting the chance to write and sell his music himself.
Today, he would make the name Beethoven ring out in the heart of Paris, the greatest city in Europe.
“Ludwig, go up!”
“Ah, yes! Understood.”
That day, at the Champ de Mars, Beethoven’s melody rang out beautifully.