Chapter 133: The City of Light, Paris (3) "Hey, look who it is! Florian, isn't it? I heard you made it big—look at you now, all polished!"
"Haha, that's only because you all looked after me back then."
"You brat. Now that you're mixing with important people, you've gotten pretty slick with your words."
"You should try being slick too, sir. If you didn't keep yelling at the factory manager all the time, you might've stopped turning valves under the machines by now."
"You rascal. I was worried about you when you quit the factory. But it's good to see you're doing well."
"Thank you. Ah, by the way, how is your daughter?"
"How could she not be? Who do you think is her father?"
Wearing a suit, Florian shook hands freely with the workers whose palms were stained with coal dust.
The workers greeted their former colleague—now a successful man—with bright smiles.
"It feels like only yesterday that we were all here together, faces black with soot while running those machines. Yet it feels like it's been so long since I've seen you."
"Yeah, kid. Come by more often or we'll forget what your face looks like."
The foreman lightly slapped Florian on the shoulder.
"But what brings you here? A busy man like you doesn't find time easily."
"I'm actually looking for someone. I was wondering if you or any of the other men might know him."
"A person? Well… alright. What does he look like?"
Florian pulled out a sketch and showed it to them.
"Do any of you recognize someone who looks like this?"
"…I'm not sure…"
"Feels like I might've seen him somewhere…"
Tch. Not that easy after all.
"…Wait. Isn't that the man who runs the spinning machine at the textile factory next door?"
"What? Sir, are you sure?!"
"Yeah. Looks just like him to me."
"Do you know if he came to work today?"
"Well… I don't know that much. I don't work at that factory."
"Thank you, sir! Please buy your daughter a dress with this."
"H-Hey! Why are you giving me so much money?"
Florian tossed the worker a pouch heavy with gold coins, then hurriedly left the factory.
"I'll come back later with wine!"
"W-wait—alright! Take care!"
If the assassin currently held in the detention center truly worked at the textile factory next door, then there was no way he had shown up to work today.
"Mr. Nicolas Oudinot."
"Yes, Vice President."
"That textile factory nearby is suspicious. It's worth investigating."
"I'll prepare immediately."
The grim-faced new recruit set off with several large men following behind him, their expressions cold.
"A textile factory worker… Are you certain?"
I asked Florian.
We had to verify everything again and again.
If we arrested the wrong person, the consequences would be disastrous.
But Florian nodded firmly.
"Yes, boss. The day he was absent from work exactly matches the day the assassin was arrested."
"You confirmed the sketch as well?"
"Yes. The workers and the factory manager both say it's definitely him."
"Good."
Now we just had to eliminate suspects one by one.
I turned to Mayer Rothschild.
"Did you find anything?"
"Yes. After investigating the coachmen's guild and nearby banks, we discovered that the money used by the assassin consisted of silver coins."
"Silver?"
"If we assume he used silver instead of gold—despite gold being easier to carry and more convenient—then…"
"His income must come in silver."
"Exactly, boss."
Mayer nodded.
Someone whose income came in silver coins rather than gold.
And someone capable of organizing people and stirring them up.
…A magazine seller?
I turned to Alexandre Pétion, standing beside Mayer.
"And you?"
"Yes. The pistol used was a British naval officer's pistol manufactured in Norfolk, England. We don't know the exact production date, but it appears to be equipment captured by the French during the American Revolutionary War."
Captured weapons…
"Then it's military surplus, isn't it?"
"Yes. It seems to have been one of the weapons looted by citizens from the Les Invalides arsenal during the storming of the Bastille in 1789."
"I see. Good work."
After the Bastille fell, the revolutionary government had collected weapons from the people.
But anyone who secretly kept one despite that would have been among the radicals who led the Bastille attack.
"Jacobins."
Danton. Robespierre. Desmoulins. Marat. Hébert.
Not Robespierre, Danton, or Camille Desmoulins—they already wielded influence in the Assembly.
And Jean-Paul Marat's newspaper The Friend of the People was funded by Danton.
Which left only one.
Jacques René Hébert, editor of the magazine Père Duchesne.
So it was you.
"Brother."
"I'm listening, Guillaume."
I turned to Grouchy, dressed in a dragoon cuirass and officer's uniform.
"Can you divert about thirty cuirasses for me?"
"…Thirty? Planning to fight a war somewhere?"
"So—can you do it or not?"
"…Sigh. Use them and return them immediately."
"Of course."
I stood and approached the bald, rough-looking man.
"Mr. Oudinot."
"Yes, boss."
"Are the men ready?"
"All former grenadiers under my command. Big, solid men."
"Good. Arm them and have them ready."
"Yes, sir."
"Yaaawn."
In front of the Père Duchesne office, a man who appeared to be a guard stretched and yawned while looking up at the sky.
"Huh? Who are those people? Going to enlist or something?"
About twenty sturdy young men were approaching him.
"Hey, the recruitment office is two blocks down."
"This is the office of Père Duchesne, right?"
"Yes, but why—ghrk!"
The guard was suddenly kicked in the stomach by the man who had asked the question and collapsed to the ground.
"Stay still, bastard!"
"Ugh… ugh…"
"Rope! Bring rope! Tie his hands so he can't run!"
While the guard lay dazed, the men bound his hands behind his back.
"So this is Père Duchesne. Gentlemen, move in! Capture that rat Hébert!"
"Yes!"
Oudinot kicked the door open with the full weight of his body.
Several men who looked like stenographers sprang up in shock, as if they had been writing.
"W-who are you?!"
"What the hell are you doing?!"
"W-wait! We've done nothing wrong! We only write articles!"
"Really? Then tell me where your boss Hébert is—"
Bang! Bang!
The stenographers drew pistols from their coats the moment they heard Hébert's name and fired at Oudinot.
Oudinot and his men dropped low instantly, avoiding the bullets by a hair's breadth—like soldiers hardened on the battlefield.
"Are these lunatics insane?! Captain Oudinot! I thought they were just writers—why are they carrying pistols?!"
"Shut up! Men, do you want to lose to a bunch of scribblers?! We are grenadiers! Charge! Charge! Charge!"
"The captain ordered a charge! Draw swords!"
Thirty burly men pulled out swords and pistols.
The silver cuirasses they had borrowed from the dragoons flashed in the light.
"Advance! Advance! Advance!"
"Surrender now and you'll live! Drop your weapons and lie on the floor!"
"Ghk—!"
The clerks who tried to fight back were quickly shot or slashed in the arms and legs.
How could they possibly fight men over 180 centimeters tall wearing armor?
In the end, the employees of Père Duchesne raised their hands and fell to their knees.
"S-surrender! We surrender!"
"Hands up, you bastards!"
"W-who are you people?! Police?!"
"Us? We're not police. We're security officers of Isaac's People. Shut up and keep your hands raised."
"Boss, the interior is secure."
"Any injuries on our side?"
That was what worried me most.
"Everyone's fine! We even borrowed armor from the cavalry. If someone died after that, we'd be too embarrassed to face them!"
"That's a relief. And Hébert?"
"Yes, he's tied up upstairs."
"Good."
Following Oudinot, I climbed the stairs into the office.
Two grenadiers were pressing Hébert's neck to the floor with their knees.
"Long time no see, Mr. Hébert."
"Spit. I have nothing to say to you."
"I'm not particularly eager for conversation either."
My hands trembled slightly as I placed a cigarette between my lips.
Don't kill him. Don't kill him.
"So tell me—why did you do it?"
"Why? Because of my mission—to build a republic of workers and peasants in this land. A mission a blue-blooded bourgeois like you could never understand."
"A republic of workers and peasants. Very noble. Yet instead of changing the world through speeches in the Assembly, you stage a terrorist attack in the middle of Paris?"
"Hah. You think I'll play along with your nonsense?"
"You misunderstand something."
Bang!
I drew Oudinot's pistol and shot Hébert in the right arm.
"Aaaagh!!"
"I'm the one playing with you."
Running your mouth like that…
"Why? Does it hurt? If you're willing to put bullets into other people, you should expect bullets in your own body."
"You… what would you know! You aristocrats who were born privileged—what do you know about workers?!"
"Fine. Let's assume you're completely right. Then let me ask one question. Have you ever held a shovel or pickaxe in your life?"
"What?"
"Have you ever held a farmer's tools or a blacksmith's bellows?"
"…."
"You spent your whole life never touching a shovel, living off others, and now you talk about workers?"
"And what about you?! You sit in a chair and wiggle your fingers!"
"Bullshit. The dirt I dug in the army could fill the first floor of this building."
I glanced sideways at Florian.
He silently handed me a document.
"Name: Jacques René Hébert. Editor and owner of Père Duchesne. Survived by relying on a barber friend on Rue des Noyers. Attempted to write plays for the Théâtre des Variétés, but none were accepted. Afterwards he was caught pickpocketing customers inside the theater and was expelled… Aren't you ashamed to stand before the people who follow you?"
"H-how did you find that…"
"I know someone in military counterintelligence. You know him too—Commander Lafayette of the National Guard."
I handed the document back to Florian.
"I won't kill you. Instead, I'll wrap you up nicely and send you to the police and the courts.
And for wrapping paper… tomorrow morning's newspapers and magazines should work nicely.
'The Past of the Righteous Journalist Who Claimed to Speak for Workers—In Reality, a Pickpocket Who Never Held a Shovel in His Life!'
Sounds like it'll sell well, don't you think?"
"You… you bastard—!"
Thud.
I kicked Hébert in the jaw with all my strength.
And just like that—
it became pleasantly quiet.
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