Chapter 58: Poisoned Chalice (6) With a satisfied expression, Louis XVI stroked his chin and continued.
"Why are you acting like this? As I understand it, you came here to represent the people of France—and for their sake. Or was that talk about 'for the people of France' a lie?"
At the sentences Louis XVI suddenly appeared and spat out, the deputies couldn't keep their mouths shut.
'Has that man lost his mind?'
'The Duke of Orléans is becoming king, so he suddenly snapped?'
'Where am I? Who am I?'
But unlike the bewildered deputies, the Finance Minister acted as if it were nothing, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.
"…It seems some of you are confused, so we will take a brief recess and resume afterward."
In the end, the presiding officer said that and struck the gavel.
As the dull sound of wood hitting wood echoed off the walls throughout the Assembly and faded, the deputies each rose from their seats—gathering in little clusters to whisper among acquaintances, or clasping their hands behind their backs and stepping outside to get some air.
"If what the Finance Minister said is true, then doesn't that mean the finances are definitely solved?"
"Mm, you could see it that way, but my view is…"
"…Will it be confiscation without compensation, or with compensation? What do you think?"
"Well, to be honest, I can't really guess. If the Finance Minister weren't such an elusive, unpredictable sort, maybe I could guess at least something."
"Looking at him now, Finance Minister Guillaume is basically like Hébert—a red."
"H-Hébert? Come on. He's way better than that red! That lunatic Hébert said we should abolish property, didn't he?"
"Right! Those priests—do they even do anything!? Aren't they just people who pray all day and roll rosary beads!? One hundred fifty thousand livres—wouldn't that be enough money to build a small new road in a decent-sized town!"
"Yeah, does that even make sense! Ordinary people live on one livre a day, but a salary of one hundred fifty thousand livres—what, are they spending four hundred livres a day? Who are they, Erysichthon? It's not like they've got a hunger demon in their belly!"
"No matter what, would His Holiness the Pope really interfere in domestic affairs?"
"What, did you forget what happened under Pope Innocent?"
All kinds of voices quietly filled the inside and outside of the Assembly.
But some deputies wearing priestly robes stayed seated with faces twisted in rage, silently forcing their rosary beads to roll—one bead at a time—hard enough to make click-click sounds.
What broke that silence was the words of an old archbishop.
"…Come over here, all of you."
At the stern words of the archbishop favored by the Duke of Orléans, the clergy surrounded him—just like they had gathered at the lodging before.
Centered on golden silk, white and red velvet robes closed in.
The archbishop gently set the rosary he'd been rolling onto the table in front of him and slowly opened his mouth.
"…Right. Looks like we just took a hit. What do you all think?"
"Of course it's nonsense! We must drag down that Finance Minister immediately!"
The moment the archbishop finished, a young priest shouted. But the archbishop snorted—and, at the same time, stared coldly at the young priest as he spoke again.
"Hah. And it 'made sense' for us to have been pocketing massive wealth all this time?"
"T-that's…"
"Enough. You can't even persuade me, a fellow priest, and you're talking about dragging down the Finance Minister?"
At the archbishop's icy words, the priests could only cough out "ahem" and avert their eyes.
"Think carefully, all of you. Most of the people in that Assembly have long since been taken in by that Finance Minister's silver tongue—and he isn't even twenty."
The archbishop looked back at the young priest and asked.
"You."
"Y-yes! Your Grace."
The young priest, as if still shaken by what had just happened, ducked his head timidly.
"How many deputies are there in total?"
"I believe… a little over five hundred."
"And how many are we?"
"…Ninety, Your Grace."
"So you can count, at least. Did you all hear him? We're ninety. Ninety."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The archbishop took the rosary back into his hand and began rolling the beads again, slowly, one by one.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Each time a bead passed under the archbishop's thumb, a drop of sweat formed along the priests' sideburns and fell to the floor.
"…We have two remaining options."
The Papacy. His Highness the Duke of Orléans. The archbishop added.
At that, a middle-aged bishop beside him spoke.
"…Are you trying to reenact what happened at Canossa?"
"If necessary, is there anything I can't do?"
The Humiliation of Canossa.
That incident where the Holy Roman Empire's greenhorn emperor tried to mouth off about appointing clergy—then got beaten down by the Pope.
"Within France, with the king's support, we can try anything—but in the larger picture, if His Holiness exerts his power, there's nothing we can't stop."
And then—glancing once over the gathered priests—the archbishop added,
"Send word to His Highness the Duke of Orléans—no, to 'His Majesty the King'—at once. This is a race against time.
If 'His Majesty the King' enters Versailles from Reims within a few days, we win without even truly fighting. If not, we'll have to borrow His Holiness's power and face the Finance Minister and his pack head-on."
Send the courier. Now.
"…You got yourself a hat that says 'inspector' and now you think work is a joke?"
"No, Chief Superintendent!"
"Is it that hard to manage a single checkpoint?"
"No, Chief Superintendent!"
"Is it that hard to ask someone in a passing carriage where they're going, why they're going, and what their name is?"
"No, Chief Superintendent!"
"Fine. Let's say you missed them. Then why didn't you even try to chase? What are you saving that healthy body for? You're lacking upstairs—lacking! Huh? You can do it, you do it no matter what!
That's the mindset you need to be an officer. Honestly. Can you even be called French if you've got no willpower like this!?"
"I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent!"
"Hah… Enough. Get out."
"Damn it. If it's that easy, he should stand watch himself. He pays peanuts, but he sure loves showing off."
Paris Police Inspector Patrick, stuffing tobacco into his pipe, recalled the morning he got chewed out because of what happened on night duty a few days ago.
To ride him this hard over missing one carriage—wasn't that too much? If they'd at least given him a horse and told him to catch it, fine—but how was he supposed to chase a carriage on foot?
"Willpower this, willpower that—sure, you bastard. All mouth."
Hsss—phoo…
"Haa. That's better."
After drawing in the smoke deep, Patrick leaned all the way back in the checkpoint chair, savoring the feeling like the tightness in his whole body had been pleasantly pierced open.
As he sat there with the pipe in his mouth, staring outside the checkpoint, his ears caught the sound of someone riding hard from far away.
Patrick swapped the pipe for his whistle, put on his police cap, opened the checkpoint door, and went out.
"Pweeeet! Halt! Halt!"
"M-move! It's urgent!"
The man on horseback shouted at Patrick, brows drawn tight.
"Man, you're in a hurry. Where are you headed, and where are you coming from?"
"No time for that!"
"Hey now. It's a simple procedure—let's not make this exhausting for both of us."
Patrick spoke softly, smiling.
"H-hey! Wait! Hey!"
But the rider snapped the horse's head around—whip!—then struck the reins hard and bolted.
"Y-you crazy bastard!"
Only one thought flashed through Patrick's head.
'If I let him go… I die.'
Inspector Patrick flung off his police cap and sprinted, blowing his whistle with all his strength.
"Pweeeet! Suspicious person spotted! Pweeeet! Suspicious person! You son of a bitch! Stop right there!"
But no matter how hard Patrick ran, arms pumping, the horse was far too fast. The man and horse shrank from a fist to a thumb, receding.
'Fucked.'
Patrick thought as he stared at the rider's back disappearing into the distance.
But then—
"Huh?"
In that moment, the horse flew.
A few hours later.
"…What should we put as the cause of death, Inspector?"
An officer who had come at the sound of the whistle said to Patrick before the cold, stiff corpse.
"…Do we really need a 'what'? The horse slipped on the ice, and he died from bad luck."
"Right? Still, his neck broke, so he probably didn't go in pain."
"Luck that awful. Even if you fall off a horse—why land neck-first?"
"Seriously."
The two policemen shifted their gaze from each other to the patches of ice still remaining here and there on the road, even after the soldiers had cleared it.
He really was an unlucky man.
At the same time, the Palace of Versailles.
The resumed Assembly was plunging back into a cauldron of shock.
"Next, I will speak myself. I hereby hand over all military authority held by the king to the Assembly and the National Guard, and I request of the Assembly that I control only the Guards stationed at Versailles."
"Then I, Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon, will speak. Earlier, some clergy said, 'If you take everything, what will we live on?' In that case, the government will pay you salaries from now on.
Of course, the salary will… well. It won't be as much as before, will it? From now on, when you use luxury goods, you may need to make 'careful choices.'"
So what.
If you don't like it, go earn money.
'Keh-keh-keh! Finance Minister—how was it?'
'Heeheeheehee! Your Majesty! I believed in you!'
Louis XVI and I twitched our eyelids and traded praise with each other through our eyes.
?
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