Chapter 62: A Strange World (1) January 17, 1790, Autun, south-central France.
La Fère Artillery Regiment.
"Loyalty. Did you sleep well last night, Captain?"
"I always sleep well. Did you sleep well?"
"Haha, yes, sir. What brings you to regimental headquarters so early this morning?"
To the officer dressed neatly in full uniform, the Non-Commissioned Officer seated at the desk asked politely. The officer shrugged and spoke.
"It's been over a year since I last took leave, so shouldn't I show my face back home at least once? Besides, you know my last leave got cut short, right?"
"Ah, it's for a leave request? Haha! Leave can't be helped. Please fill out the reason for your visit in your own handwriting here, and have a seat and wait a moment, Captain."
While the officer scribbled a few items onto the form he'd received from the Non-Commissioned Officer, the Non-Commissioned Officer stood up from the desk, knocked on the regimental commander's office door a few times, then opened it slightly and whispered briefly.
Closing the door gently, the Non-Commissioned Officer sat back down at the desk and spoke to the officer who had been waiting.
"You may go in now, Captain."
"Ah, I can go in? Thanks."
"Haha, you don't have to do that. It's my job."
The Non-Commissioned Officer replied with a smile at the captain's words.
Knock, knock, knock.
Now the officer passed the desk, knocked on the regimental commander's door a few times, and said loudly,
"Excuse me, Regimental Commander. Acting Company Commander of the 2nd Artillery Company, Captain Napoleon Bonaparte—may I enter?"
"That's fine. Come in."
The voice, muffled by the wooden door, reached Captain Napoleon Bonaparte's ears.
Captain Napoleon Bonaparte opened the door, entered the regimental commander's office, saluted, and spoke in a loud voice.
"Loyalty! Captain Napoleon Bonaparte has come on business, sir."
The regimental commander, a man in his forties who had been seated and opening what looked like an official document, set the papers down on the desk for the moment and stood as Napoleon entered.
"Yes, yes. Don't just stand there—sit down and let's talk."
The regimental commander walked over to the table where Napoleon sat, took an empty chair, faced him, and spoke.
"Have a drink while we talk. What will you have—coffee? Black tea?"
"Ah, I'd appreciate coffee, sir."
"Ah… you're a coffee man too, are you? I prefer black tea…"
"I-I'm fine with black tea too, sir!"
"Haha. I'm joking."
The regimental commander grinned at Napoleon's answer and rang the bell on the table, ding-a-ling-a-ling. The Non-Commissioned Officer outside opened the door gently and peeked in.
"Regimental Commander, do you require something?"
"Sergeant, bring one cup each of coffee and black tea."
"Yes, understood."
A little later, after taking a mouthful of the drink the Non-Commissioned Officer brought, the regimental commander looked into Napoleon's eyes and asked.
"So. What did you come for?"
"Ah, well. Could I possibly receive leave, sir?"
"…Leave?"
At the single word "leave," the regimental commander frowned.
"You… aren't you planning to desert?"
"N-No, sir!"
"If you're going to desert, don't make excuses about leave. I'd rather you just walk out right now. Honestly, I don't feel like stopping anyone anymore."
"No, absolutely not, Regimental Commander!"
At Napoleon's frantic waving of both hands, the regimental commander pressed one hand to his head and let out a sigh.
"As you know, the position you're holding right now—company commander—and even your battalion commander above you are both acting appointments. Because the original company commander and battalion commander both ran off."
"…That is correct, sir."
"We finally managed to stitch this torn-apart regiment back together in a year. If one more company commander—one we even promoted two ranks—deserts, I'll end up bedridden with sheer stress."
The regimental commander began tapping the table with his free hand.
"…All right. Setting that aside. Captain Napoleon Bonaparte, why are you applying for leave?"
"Well… I wanted to go back to my hometown once, so I applied, sir."
"Hm."
"As you know, sir, the situation's been unstable lately. I'm worried about whether my family is doing well…"
A year had passed since the so-called revolutionary army attacked and seized the Bastille fortress, and since they confiscated nobles' lands, calling it feudal remnants, but the world was still in turmoil.
Just recently, hadn't the king changed as well?
"…How old are you?"
The regimental commander removed the hand that had been propping up his chin and sat upright.
"Yes, sir. I am twenty-one."
Sweat beaded on Napoleon's hands as he answered.
"…Hm."
Hearing words from someone young enough to be his son, the regimental commander lowered his head and kept tapping the table for a long while before looking back into Napoleon's eyes and speaking.
"Fine. I'll give you exactly one month. Fifteen days for the round trip, fifteen days at your destination—shouldn't that be enough?"
"Yes! That's enough, sir!"
Napoleon nodded vigorously, his face bright with excitement.
"Good. Go safely, and be careful on the road. Maybe it's because the weather's turned cold, but there have been a lot of accidents. What was it—someone in Paris slipped on ice not long ago and died unidentified, or so they say."
"Yes, Regimental Commander! Thank you very much, sir!"
"Extra! Extra! Everyone, buy a copy of the magazine!"
A fourteen-year-old boy in Autun, Soissons, stuffed his arms full of magazines and ran all over town again today.
"Hey, kid. Give me one copy."
"Yes! Here you go! It's ten sous!"
"What date is that issue?"
"It's a fresh new one—published in Paris three days ago!"
After crisscrossing the city all day, from the carriage stand to the lawyer's office, Soissons jingled the thicker pile of silver coins in his pocket with his hand and hummed.
"Wow, today's earnings aren't bad at all."
By now, only one magazine remained in Soissons's arms.
"If it sold this well every day, I'd eat meat at least once a month."
People who read the magazine said that in Paris, the king and those high-and-mighty people—deputies or whatever—were fighting like hell.
What did it have to do with him, who couldn't even read?
Soissons sniffed hard and spat onto the ground, his nose reddened by the cold, then spoke.
"Hmph. Better if they just keep fighting and sell me more magazines."
If the king or the deputies kept fighting, wouldn't people buy more magazines?
Thinking hard, Soissons pulled out the last remaining magazine and unfolded it.
A huge illustration was printed across it: inside a room with desks and other furniture completely overturned, a giant of a man was grabbing a young man by the collar and lifting him up.
"Hooh?"
"W-Whoa—! W-Who are you?"
Soissons startled when someone spoke from behind.
When he turned toward the voice, an officer in full uniform, mounted on a horse, was looking with interest at the magazine in Soissons's hands.
"'The Friend of the People,' huh."
"…Do you want to buy it, mister soldier?"
"Sure, kid. Give me one."
Soissons held out the last magazine to the officer, who spoke in such a strange dialect it barely sounded like French.
"It's fifteen sous."
"What? Fifteen sous? Why's it so expensive?"
"Then give it back."
"I didn't say I wouldn't give it. Here, take it. And give me proper change."
The officer flicked a single gold coin toward Soissons with his gloved hand.
Soissons took the gold coin, opened his pocket, and pulled out five silver coins, handing them to the officer.
The officer spread the silver coins in his gloved hand and muttered under his breath.
"Let's see. One, two…"
"Wow, you really look like a country bumpkin."
At Soissons's words, the officer stopped counting and glared at him.
"…What did you say?"
"I didn't say anything."
"…"
"…I'm serious, though."
Even after the boy's remark, the officer kept staring for a long while, then shook his head side to side and urged his horse forward down the road.
"What an ill-mannered little punk. Kids didn't act like that in my day."
Napoleon stuck out his lips and grumbled atop his clop-clop-stepping horse.
Seriously—how on earth are kids being raised these days, for rude little brats like that to come pouring out one after another?
After muttering for a while, Napoleon pulled out the magazine rolled at his waist and read the cover.
"'The Friend of the People.' Author: Jean-Paul Marat. The magazine name isn't bad."
He turned to the next page and continued reading.
But at an article where a large illustration filled one whole page, Napoleon doubted his own eyes.
"…Have I been so tired lately that my vision's gone blurry?"
Napoleon rolled the magazine up in his hand, rubbed his eyes with his other hand, then looked again.
"…I didn't misread it… did I?"
How was this real?
Captain Napoleon Bonaparte could not understand the headline printed in large letters beside the illustration of a giant man grabbing a young man by the collar and lifting him up.
[The Revolutionary Bond Between His Majesty King Louis XVII and Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon!]
He already knew—he'd heard plenty—that Guillaume de Toulon had risen to the position of Finance Minister.
What he couldn't understand was something else.
"…Wasn't the Duke of Orléans on the revolutionary side…?"
Then why, in the illustration, was the Duke of Orléans grabbing Guillaume by the collar?
"…His Majesty King Louis XVII, curious about the great revolutionary enterprise promoted by His Excellency Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon, visited His Excellency the Finance Minister and, with respectful words, demanded an explanation."
What the hell was this supposed to mean?
Napoleon added to that thought.
In the illustration, Louis XVII was grabbing Guillaume by the collar, but the article claimed he spoke respectfully?
At that moment, a single thought flashed through Napoleon's mind.
"…Censorship?"
Frowning, Napoleon brought the magazine closer to his eyes and kept reading.
"The series of events that occurred on December 31 was a very slight divergence. The relationship between His Excellency Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon, the National Assembly that realizes the will of our people, and His Majesty King Louis XVII can be said to be more harmonious than ever.
We will steadily crush all counterrevolutionary actions…"
As Napoleon kept reading, his hands and the back of his neck gradually tightened, growing stiff with tension.
In a dark interior lit by a single lamp, several people stared with sharpened eyes at the piles of magazines stacked in the center of the table.
"Threatening to bring in deserter officers and terrorize journalists! This is worse than press suppression!"
Flipping his brown hair as he rose from his seat, Camille Desmoulins, editor-in-chief of the revolutionary magazine Free France, shouted in a voice full of rage.
"How—how could you betray us… no, betray the citizens! Danton!
S-Say something! You're the only one among us who met His Majesty Louis XVII—no, O… Orléans, that bastard!"
Desmoulins yelled toward Georges Danton, the electoral commissioner with a fierce face seated across from him.
"…"
Even under Desmoulins's gaze, Danton kept his head lowered in silence.
In the end, Jean-Paul Marat, seated beside Desmoulins, stood up and restrained him.
"Mister Desmoulins, Commissioner Danton must be deeply confused right now as well. We didn't gather here to argue among ourselves."
But the Paris journalists, shaken to the core, could not bring themselves to say another word to each other for the rest of that night.
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