Dear French Citizens
June 1, 1778. 4:55 a.m. "All units, execute."
I tossed a freshly cut, moisture-laden log onto the campfire. Acrid smoke billowed up from the flames toward the sky. Looking up, I saw thick black plumes rising from spots all around Paris. The darkness of the smoke stood out starkly against the pale dawn sky. Even beyond the horizon, more black smoke surged upward.
I led my white stallion toward the noble villas in the heart of Paris.
Clop-clop.
Clip-clop, clop-clop.Clip-clop.
Clop-clop, clop, clip-clop.Clop-clop.
Clip-clop, clop-clop.Clop.Clop.
Countless mounted police followed the path I had taken. Men without legs sat in their stirrups with their buttocks. Men without hands gripped the reins in their teeth. A one-eyed man on the right marched alongside one missing his left eye. They were France's proud soldiers, who knew the battlefield, honor, love, and freedom.
Yes, soldiers.
Clop.
I arrived at the villa of the Duke of Orléans, Louis Philippe I, and called for him. The guards and servants seemed startled, clearly not expecting the king at this early hour. I waited for Louis Philippe to emerge.
"Brother, you're taking your time."
"Your Highness, please correct the form of address. It's too much for me."
"No. This is probably the last time, so I came."
I turned my horse's head, facing away from the rising sun, and gazed at the sky.
"Must have been quite a shock, this crack-of-dawn visit."
"Not at all, Your Highness."
"Drop the formalities. That's an order."
"Is that so... All right, then."
The servants and guards, sensing the mood, withdrew into the villa.
"To think you owned such a grand hôtel particulier. Surprising."
"You used to come here often before you became king. Still, it's been ages since you spoke to me like this—childhood, maybe?"
"I was immature back then."
"So this is what maturity looks like now?"
I looked down at Louis Philippe. We exchanged knowing smiles.
"The sun's fully up. It's early morning now, not dawn."
"Suppose so. You didn't ride all this way just to say that, did you?"
"No."
I drew the court sword from my belt and leveled it at Louis Philippe.
"You saw this coming, right?"
"Of course. If anything, it's a bit late. I was starting to think I'd die waiting. Ah, now I really will."
As the sound of my blade rang out, the hidden mounted police surrounded the mansion like a noose. The entire Île-de-France region, including the outskirts of Paris, was already filled with the thunder of hooves and screams.
"Aren't you worried about those people?"
"Any noble with a villa near Versailles is the same. Me included."
Louis Philippe pulled a snuffbox from his pocket. It was an opulent thing, encrusted with rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds on a gold lid. He opened it and offered me some snuff.
"No thanks. Tobacco's bad for the body."
I slightly lowered the court sword pointed at him.
"Fair enough."
Louis Philippe took a sniff in an elegant yet somehow comical pose.
"Truth is, I always knew you'd do this someday."
"Everyone says that after the fact."
"You've been turning down the snuff all the nobles pushed on you since becoming king?"
"Problem?"
"Problem? None. None at all... That's the problem."
"I'm not some innocent little brother. I'm the King of France."
"Indeed, Your Majesty."
I pulled an unused snuffbox from my own pocket.
"Care for some?"
"I just did."
"I see. Duke of Orléans, I thought you'd accept mine."
"Aren't we all arrogant types?"
I raised the awkwardly balanced court sword high toward the sky. Inspector Paul approached and read the warrant.
"Criminal Louis Philippe. From 1770, persistent hoarding and speculation have ruined the livelihood of the people. He formed factions to obstruct state affairs, evaded taxes owing six million francs, and in spring 1775 hired agitators to incite bread riots in central Paris, plotting rebellion. He embezzled military supplies for the American War of Independence, corrupting national discipline. Above all, he issued orders to robed nobles early in the reign, paralyzing the government in a grave abuse of power. Thus, Louis Philippe Joseph d'Orléans, who sought to usurp royal authority and privatize France, is charged with treason. As a caught-in-the-act offender, immediate judgment is rendered."
I swung the court sword through the air. At the signal, the mounted police drew their longswords and charged the traitor.
I departed my cousin's villa.
*
June 1, 1778. Exactly 7 a.m. Seven tolls rang from Notre-Dame. After thousands of cavalry had roamed Paris through the dawn, the citizens were gripped by fear. I had scattered flyers announcing a major address, calling citizens to assemble at Place Louis XV by 7 a.m. The mounted police had distributed them diligently amid the purge, drawing a crowd just over ten thousand. Though the police controlled the numbers, any more and chaos seemed inevitable.
I solemnly read from the script.
Dear people of France. I am your King, Louis XVI.
As sovereign of France, I make this announcement with a heart bleeding in anguish.
Since my ascension on May 10, 1774, the Parlement has rejected every single lit de justice, demanding noble autonomy and ignoring royal authority. I spoke of abolishing feudalism, freeing serfs, equal taxation—but they answered with privileges, privileges, privileges.
Historically, when royal power crumbles, the people suffer, and elites indulge in luxury, it signals a nation's doom.
They intimidated the king, rejected lit de justice, opposed disarmament, protected private armies, resisted taxes.
The national budget ignored the people's needs, using the state as guarantor for luxuries, dumping their debts on France and plunging it into ruin.
This broke France's gradual recovery, leading to bankruptcy.
The nobles meant to lead France became monsters destroying it.
France teetered on the brink, ready to collapse at any moment.
Dear French citizens.
To eradicate reactionary conservatives at a stroke and safeguard great France, I have imposed martial law.
At dawn, as daybreak approached, mounted police and loyal French forces raided noble villas in Fontainebleau and Versailles.
Martial troops deployed to Provence, Brittany, Vendée, and beyond.
Citizens, you may have lost sleep from the early commotion.
But these measures were unavoidable for France's eternal prosperity.
Thus, as of exactly 7 a.m. on June 1, 1778, martial law is lifted.
*
"Pipe, sir?"
"Turgot?"
"Yes."
"No. Tobacco's bad for your health."
*
June 1, 1778. Public works screening office near the Seine. Portraits of numerous nobles were printed and distributed to the public. Like a gallery, each had a name and personal details below—except for one thing: bounties.
Marquis: 30,000 francs
Count: 10,000 francs
Viscount: 5,000 francs
Baron: 1,000 francs
After King Louis XVI's martial law, nobility became illegal. A de facto popular revolution.
"That guy looks familiar—think I saw him on the way here?"
"Where?"
As beggars chattered about sightings, a mounted policeman approached.
"Or maybe I was wrong..."
"No worries. We don't punish false reports if nothing's found. If they're gone, they escaped."
"Really? I saw that count around Rue Leclerc."
"Thank you for the tip."
The mounted policeman spurred his horse toward Rue Leclerc at the beggars' report.
"Everyone got a good look at the faces? Let's start work. Returnees from yesterday, head to Screening Post 2. Newcomers, to Post 1!"
The beggars, eyeing the bounties but doubting such luck, lined up anyway.
"World's gone mad. We dreaming?"
"Dream or real, what's changed? The world's different now."
"Could still be beggars in the new world."
The line at the screening office dwindled faster than yesterday. Post 1 examiners had gained experience; Post 2 veterans headed to their old zones without prompting.
Clip-clop, clop.
A beggar emerging from Post 2, laden with forty bricks on a yoke heading to yesterday's site, was stopped by a mounted policeman.
"Your bounty reward."
The beggar looked up at the policeman, sun at his back like a god offering something.
"Not a count, just another corrupt official in the lot. Here's 1,000 francs."
The beggar's legs buckled; he set down the yoke. The policeman handed over a pouch of 1,000-franc gold coins—forty-one gold and three silver.
"You've made it, friend. What's next?"
The beggar fiddled with the pouch, staring intently at the policeman, still in disbelief.
"Just... open a bakery back home."
"Good plan. Bounty caught, job done."
The policeman tugged the bound criminal along. The wanted man sweated profusely, scrambling to match the horse's pace.
The policeman went to the bounty flyer board in front of the office and marked a red X on the third from the top in the baron section with a brush.
Antoine-Laurent de Lavoisier, robed noble and tax-farming contractor.