Chapter 17: New Faces "Hey, Guillaume, I should get going first. I've got too much to do these days to spare any time."
Napoleon said that after finishing dinner in five minutes—no, that's not right.
He didn't even chew. He just swallowed his dinner whole, then stood up from his chair.
"Yeah, got it. Get back safely."
The way Napoleon rushed through everything these days made even 21st-century South Koreans look relaxed by comparison.
At first, I thought he'd finally gone mad from writing novels.
Well, if you keep writing stories where the protagonist gets shot by a pistol every time, it's understandable.
But that wasn't it.
"I talked with the headmaster. I promised I'd compress the three-year curriculum into one year."
"Are you crazy? How are you going to pull that off? Go back and tell him you changed your mind!"
"Hey, leave it. I'm not doing this on a whim. It's a thoroughly calculated decision."
Calculated.
"What kind of calculation? Let's hear it."
"Look. If I finish a three-year course in one year, what happens?"
"Well, you'd get commissioned as a second lieutenant at seventeen. What else?"
"Money! I start earning money!"
"If it's money, you could just work with our business—"
"Hey! I've already taken enough from you. Anyway, this is all part of my calculation. Got it?"
"It's not like you'll quit just because I don't understand—agh! Stop hitting my back!"
"You lack manners! I'll teach you some today!"
Damn it, just remembering it annoyed me again.
If he's going to hit his weak, younger friend just because his mood got slightly rubbed the wrong way, karma will get him later.
Come to think of it, the Napoleon portraits in history books showed him balding. Maybe the god of hair took it away because he didn't live kindly.
Yeah, that made sense.
Perfect logic.
Anyway, for the past half year, Napoleon had been cutting time from everywhere possible and pouring it into studying.
Meals in under five minutes.
Running from the boardinghouse to school.
Catnaps during breaks.
Sleeping less than five hours.
Considering he studied three times the usual amount—and at higher difficulty—every minute really was precious.
But could a person even live like that?
An adult would collapse living like that, yet sixteen-year-old Napoleon had kept it up for half a year like it was nothing.
Someone meant to lead a nation really must be built differently.
After Napoleon stepped back from our year's top ranks, the number-one spot he used to monopolize started rotating between Mathieu and me.
Hugo took a leave of absence and went back home.
With their leader gone—and after getting thoroughly beaten by our Equality Legion—the Paris faction had mostly gone quiet.
Our group kept meeting regularly and gradually turned into a friendly social circle.
And today was one of those regular meetings.
"Oh, Guillaume! Long time no see. Been well? You came early this time. Come in."
"We saw each other at school the day before yesterday—how is that long ti—ugh!"
"That's just how the saying goes! Hahaha!"
Mathieu smacked my back while laughing.
Why did both Napoleon and this guy seem desperate to hit me?
At this rate, my back won't survive.
Rubbing my sore back, I entered Mathieu's room.
Hmm, am I first today? No, I'm not.
My eyes turned to a young man in uniform sitting alone in the room.
He looked a few years older and bigger than me. He was deep in thought until my cough made him notice me.
"Oh! Guillaume de Toulon, the pillar of our Equality Legion! An honor to meet you again! Hahaha!"
"Ah… yes."
He grabbed my hand and shook it with excessive enthusiasm.
His name was Emmanuel de Grouchy. Born in Paris, the precious son of a very prominent marquis family.
His grades were solid too—he'd be commissioned as an artillery second lieutenant in a few months.
What? Why would someone about to graduate, and from such a high family, join a group of lower provincial nobles and commoners like the Equality Legion?
Because he kept showing up at our meetings with an innocent face and insisting on joining.
You can't spit on a smiling face. He kept saying he liked what the Equality Legion stood for, that even the name suited a new era, and begged to join.
What was I supposed to do? I eventually accepted him.
Whether he was truly naive and optimistic or wearing a mask to get what he wanted, how would I know? I'm not a god.
Still, judging by how he talked and acted, he really did seem like a naive noble strolling through a flower garden.
"Oh! To meet such splendid cadets and juniors—surely this is the boundless grace of the Lord! O Lord, this humble servant gives thanks!"
"With God's blessing, France's future is bright! Where King Philip once led France's past, now the Equality Legion shall march to lead its future!"
Most of what he said sounded like it belonged on a children's Teletubbies show or a Christian broadcast.
Normally, you keep some distance from people like this.
People with flowers in their heads are unpredictable.
So please don't talk to me. I really can't be rude to someone smiling.
"Guillaume! What do you think of horses?"
"H-horses? I don't have any particular thoughts…"
Despite my clear lack of interest, Grouchy kept going.
"Horses, Guillaume! They are comrades who become one with their rider—brothers in blood!"
"Ah… yes."
"Imagine it! Tens of thousands of honorable cavalry charging across vast plains as one with their noble steeds! Is it not beautiful?"
"Y-yes, I suppose."
After going on and on about horses, his expression suddenly turned gloomy.
"Ah… to be unable to command such cavalry! What a cruel twist of fate!"
…
Ah, he's a hardcore horse fanatic.
There was a pony cartoon in 21st-century America—if I showed it to him, he'd probably cry with joy.
By now I was half-zoning out, letting his words go in one ear and out the other.
How much time passed?
After what felt like thirty minutes, one word snapped me awake.
"Guillaume, you're truly easy to talk to! I've never met a friend like you in my nineteen years! Ahem. I'll tell you this only—do you know someone named Rousseau?"
"Cough!—kgh!"
I wasn't even drinking anything, yet I choked.
More importantly—what did you just say? Rousseau? The Rousseau who becomes the spark for smashing the monarchy and building a citizen democracy?
Rousseau was basically an idol for poor young intellectuals in this era.
I didn't know him at first either, but being around many commoners, I inevitably learned.
When I heard about The Social Contract, it reminded me of my college entrance exam studies.
"Society is made by contracts among people! So divine royal authority might be nonsense! Ta-da!"
But wait.
Aren't you a high noble? Why are you asking about him?
You're sitting at the top of the establishment.
…Wait.
Could this guy be a spy sent by high Paris nobles who disliked our Equality Legion?
This is an era without a constitution or human rights. If I answer wrong and get dragged away, I'm dead.
"Uh… he's an interesting figure?"
"No, Guillaume! Interesting?!"
I'm screwed.
Did I answer wrong? Dear God, Allah, Buddha—please don't let me die here!
"He's a prophet! Rousseau is the man who opened the eyes of those who were asleep!"
"…Huh?"
Why is a high Paris noble praising Rousseau?
After that, until everyone else arrived and the meeting started, I had to listen to two full hours of Grouchy preaching about how great Rousseau was.
"Then the High Court of Arras sentences the defendant to one year of imprisonment and a fine of 1,000 livres. With this, the court is adjourn—"
"Please, a moment! Your Honor! There is evidence that the plaintiff repeatedly extorted the defendant first! Why will you not even hear the defense's rebuttal?!"
"Counselor! Are you challenging the court's fair judgment? Are you insulting this sacred court?! One more word and those who hire you may suffer for it!"
The judge straightened his disheveled velvet robe and struck the gavel three times.
"This court is adjourned."
At his words, the prosecutors, judges, and the noble plaintiff left the heated courtroom chatting and laughing.
But the defendant and his lawyer could not leave.
Once they stepped out, the defendant would no longer be a protected defendant—just a criminal.
"…Sir Lawyer, I'm fine… I know you did your best. A poor man like me making a learned man like you work for free was already your kindness. Please, I just ask that my wife and child be able to live well."
After some time, the defendant said that and left.
The lawyer—called "sir lawyer"—could only lower his head and watch him go.
His hands trembled.
Was it anger? Resignation?
No. Self-loathing.
He had graduated top of the best university in Paris and, with sharp eloquence and upright character, had won many cases.
Yet today he couldn't even properly protect one wronged commoner.
What kind of lawyer was he?
If clinging to the powerful and sucking the blood of the poor was what an intellectual was, then what was the point?
It was miserable.
A world where even after achieving everything, you aren't given the chance to defend a single innocent person—it was too miserable.
Maximilien Robespierre, the famous lawyer of Arras, could only sit at the defense bench with his head bowed.
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