The Ossuary
June 29, 1779. The exterior finishing and interior layout of the massive gray ossuary were complete. From the moment it opened, it drew crowds like a magnet. Not just the laborers who'd built it, but curious Paris citizens passing by flocked to see it.
And inside were countless shelves—and two signboards.
People stared blankly at the words on the signboards at first, unable to comprehend. But moments later, they fled in horror.
To the eyes of Paris citizens, the ossuary was a pagan altar. A wicked shrine that desecrated the flesh destined to rise again at the resurrection, turning bodies into mere commodities. And worst of all, it peddled these heathen tricks as if they were perfectly normal, for a price.
The collective grotesquery hit Paris like a wave. Most trembled in fear, praying for the king's army to arrive. Some reported it to priests who said weekend Mass. Others whispered it to Enlightenment friends.
Martin, a doctor and man of the Enlightenment, took an interest in the ossuary. He canceled his plans on the spot and rushed over.
By the time Martin arrived, an angry mob had gathered out front. Being in the city, they carried no weapons—just torches, unarmed.
The police demanded dispersal to prevent riots.
"Folks, what good's this gonna do? We've reported it upstairs already. No need for trouble—head home. It's a bright, sunny day perfect for a picnic. Why not swap those torches for bread and head to the hill over there?"
But the crowd just grew restless, refusing to scatter.
"I'm a doctor. Mind if I come through? Thanks for moving aside."
The belatedly arriving Martin approached the police.
"Mr. Martin? You too...?"
The officer recognized the familiar face but stayed wary given the situation.
"Nothing like that—don't worry. Heard the news, seemed unusual, so I'm here to investigate."
"Ah, right, you write plays too."
Confirming Martin wasn't stirring trouble but pursuing his writing, the officer relaxed.
"Just a side gig. So, what's going on?"
"Well..."
The officer tried explaining, but the crowd wouldn't give him time. The moment he glanced away to Martin, they murmured and suddenly coalesced.
"I'll explain later."
The officer pleaded for dispersal.
"This place has official approval from the Paris magistrate. If he revokes the opening, it'll shut down immediately."
"And we just let this pagan altar stand?"
"Right!"
Despite the police efforts, more joined than left. They'd persuade one over minutes, only for passersby drawn by the commotion to swell the ranks. Desecrating corpses was absolute evil to the French masses.
"Nothing's decided yet. The report just went up—the magistrate will check soon."
"Fine, we'll stand guard till then."
The argument ended in the crowd's victory.
"Shouldn't have approved this building in the first place. Doesn't this mean pagan sorcery's infiltrated France's heart?"
"Right!"
The crowd's words rang persuasively. Even the Christian police couldn't easily refute. Some officers were swayed.
"Sergeant Jacques. Mind if I handle this?"
Martin offered to step in.
"No need, sir. This is our job."
The officer refused politely, but the mood had turned viciously irreparable.
"Shouldn't we surround the building?"
"Surround it, and no one gets lured by pagans."
"Spot on."
"Surround the building!"
The crowd surged to encircle it. Citizens with torches blocking windows and doors—it looked like a scene from a popular uprising.
Police abandoned dispersal, leading the nonviolent siege to prevent riots.
Under police command, the besiegers reorganized orderly: sentries efficiently watching windows, long-range spotters cross-guarding from afar, squads of ten under one officer. Most police were ex-soldiers, American Revolutionary War vets.
"Hah... so it came to this."
"Should've let the doctor try."
"Forget it. Water under the bridge."
Some police, fully swayed, whittled wood on-site for makeshift barricades toward the ossuary.
"Anyone'd think a rebellion's brewing."
Martin jotted notes, clicking his tongue sharply.
"Pretty much. Unauthorized paramilitary action."
The young constable, a disabled vet, directed the crowd like finishing an American campaign. Seasoned commoner officer from real battles—he commanded well. Tactlessness aside.
"Sergeant Jacques, what the hell's this commotion?"
A mounted officer with rose epaulets approached, hooves clopping.
"Lieutenant, my apologies."
"Playing dumb? What's the riot?"
The lieutenant wasn't blaming—just baffled.
"Why are civilians under police command like a militia?"
It defied common sense.
"And didn't the magistrate pre-approve that building?"
"But the crowd's understanding is another matter..."
"That's why I sent you—to persuade them. Not get persuaded yourself."
"I..."
Jacques had no retort; it was spot-on.
The lieutenant turned to the young officers, issuing one command.
"All personnel, return to station."
"Return to station!"
"Return to station!"
His mounted police relayed it to those directing the crowd.
The young officers abandoned command and headed back. bereft of leaders, the tight-knit squads dissolved into chaos. Some left to check what happened; others cited errands. Leaderless, the crowd drifted—only a few zealots lingered; the rest dispersed.
"That's why ranks exist. One order from the lieutenant, and those stubborn folks scatter."
The near-civil war heat cooled instantly without directing police. The devout few aped sentry duty amateurishly—civilian without military experience; it was a sieve, not a dam.
Martin slipped through the "dam's" hole at the front door into the ossuary.
"Welcome. Customer? Or rioter?"
A lame old woman and mute children staffed it.
"Neither."
"Just a busybody, then."
"You could say that."
The old woman tilted her chair, opening a back drawer.
"Not customer or rioter? Means you might become one depending on my pitch. So, busybody sir—what intrigues you?"
She handed over a service brochure.
"Call me a doctor, not busybody. Doesn't matter. I just want this place's story."
Martin sat opposite, scanning the brochure.
"Nothing fancy. Just selling private spots to those who hate dorms."
"Private spots. Yeah, looks like it."
He returned it, probing further.
"His Majesty's brainchild?"
"You know your stuff."
"Obvious—reeks of his vision. I like it."
Martin stood, patting the mute kids' heads.
"Orphans?"
"Sharp-tongued youth. They just can't speak well—but they hear fine. Better than you, maybe."
"Oops. Sorry, kids—rude of me."
The mutes stared blankly, then turned to their tasks.
"They're sulking."
"I see."
The old woman lit her pipe.
"Phew. As you guessed, youth—His Majesty's creation. A sustainable orphanage and perpetual cemetery."
"So, His Majesty ignoring this matches my thinking?"
"Could be, or not. How would ignoramuses like us fathom the depths of his concerns?"