Chapter 143: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity (7) "Sergeant, what will you do for lunch?"
"Ah, lunch? I'm planning to use that coupon thing I got the other day."
"A quick meal isn't bad, sir."
"Hey, look over there. I think a petitioner just arrived."
Unlike the judges whose bodies were being ground down day after day by the two raging storms that had swept through the Revolutionary Tribunal, the guards merely stood watch outside the courthouse as usual.
They couldn't read in the first place, so even if they wanted to help, there was nothing they could do. Besides, it was quite entertaining to watch those lofty judges—who normally put on airs—running around in a frenzy.
"What business brings you here?"
Well, what could possibly happen anyway?
"Ah, sentry! Would you gather all the judges here?"
"…Excuse me?"
Who was this old man—who looked old enough to have grandchildren at home—calling the honorable judges as if they were neighborhood dogs?
"Um… pardon me, but could you identify yourself?"
"My identity? Ah, of course. Roland de La Platière. A citizen of Paris's 2nd district—and the Minister of Justice."
"M-Minister…?"
Well, something is definitely happening. First the Finance Minister, then the leader of the Mountain faction, and now the Minister of Justice?
What a spectacular military service this is turning out to be. I should've applied for reserve duty like that bastard Philippe who went back to his hometown. Damn it… I curse my past self endlessly.
"S-Sergeant, may I go ask my superior first?"
"Mm! Go ahead! I'll have a puff of tobacco while I wait. Hahaha!"
The self-proclaimed Minister of Justice said this while pressing tobacco into his pipe, a strangely chilling smile on his face.
"Um… Sergeant?"
"What? Who is it?"
"He says he's the Minister of Justice…"
"…Heh heh heh. First the Finance Minister, now the Minister of Justice? This is ridiculous."
All you can do is sigh. You can't just quit the job that feeds you.
Next time I submit a posting request, I'll transfer to the field. Rolling around with those Russian Hunnic bastards would be hundreds of times better than suffocating here as courthouse security.
"Good. Is everyone here?"
""Yes, Minister.""
"Of course you are! Naturally! After causing such a disaster, where would you even run to?"
""...""
It was cold.
Each word from the senior figure—delivered with a friendly smile while laced with biting sarcasm—struck like a dagger. The junior judges could only break into cold sweat.
If something like future weather forecasting existed, the rainfall in Paris that day would likely have been significantly higher than usual.
"Haa… well then… the brave warriors of our judiciary who managed to stir up the Finance Minister—the head of the executive branch—and even both leaders of the legislative factions! Why don't you all open your mouths and start spouting—… no, speaking."
The Minister of Justice, who had served thirty years as a chief prosecutor, added another mouthful of nicotine to the bright summer air of Paris before continuing.
"By the way, I find it quite puzzling. Brave heroes like the crusader Godfrey—why are they not out fighting counterrevolutionaries at the front, but instead playing word games in the courtroom?"
Just how much torment must he have endured to say something like that?
The newly appointed judges could only lower their gazes toward the floor.
So that's what the courthouse floor pattern looks like.
How many times would you have to strike marble with a chisel and hammer to carve it like that?
Oh my, the wood grain is lovely. What kind of tree is this?
Everyone suddenly became fascinated with the floor they usually stomped over without a second thought.
"Well? Why is no one speaking? Like sacks of barley tied up together?"
""...""
"You stable-manure bastards!!"
Seeing the silent, suffocating junior judges, the Minister of Justice packed more tobacco into his pipe and said:
"I won't waste words. The judge who presided over the trial of the black man named Toussaint Bréda—step forward."
"Y-Yes…"
Like a student at a boarding school summoned for punishment by the dorm supervisor, one of the judges stepped forward hesitantly from the line.
"Was it you?"
"Yes… it was…"
The next moment, a dull cracking sound echoed as the judge collapsed clutching his head.
"Ahhh!"
"Even during the rotten feudal era, judges had a sense of morality! Yet after the Revolution succeeds, you become corrupt like this—does that make any sense?!"
Half-burned tobacco ash scattered through the air, and the expensive oak pipe cracked.
No one was asking them to play saints like Robespierre of the Mountain faction, who lived on nothing but black bread and milk three times a day.
But at the very least, people called the intellectuals of this age—judges—should be able to distinguish what they should accept and what they shouldn't.
That day at the Paris Revolutionary Tribunal, the Minister of Justice only left in his carriage after breaking three tobacco pipes.
July 19, 1792.
Paris Revolutionary Tribunal.
"Deputy Robespierre—…no, rather, Attorney Robespierre. Please speak."
At the judge's words, the lawyer stood.
"Your Honor, and members of the jury. One of the most foolish ideas we can entertain is the belief that citizens may take up arms and attack other citizens in order to impose their beliefs. No one likes armed missionaries.
What did we bring to Saint-Domingue?
Guns and swords!
Not law books or morality—but bayonets and muskets!"
Standing in the center of the courtroom, the lawyer waved the documents in his hand and shouted with all his strength to the audience surrounding him.
"As proof, I will present the quantities of gunpowder, muskets, and cannonballs requested by Saint-Domingue from the homeland over the past ten years! Toussaint Bréda fought against oppression, not for personal gain!"
The presiding judge in the center of the bench silently looked at the judge seated beside him.
—Should we accept this as evidence?
—What do you think will happen if we don't?
—…Yes. That's probably right.
"This court will accept the defense's evidence as legitimate."
"Thank you, Your Honor."
Unlike the first trial, the defense now had a lawyer—and not just any lawyer, but one who had achieved a ninety-percent win rate in Arras. The defense's evidence was now being accepted.
"Members of the jury, crime slaughters innocence in pursuit of its desires, while innocence fights with all its strength against crime. I find myself deeply curious as to why Governor Blanchelande and the Saint-Domingue Governor's Office conducted the first trial with such haste."
"Objection! Defense counsel! That is clear defamation against the Governor's Office of Saint-Domingue!"
"Order! Order! The defense counsel has not finished speaking!"
Damn it. Does it make sense for the judge who swallowed all that bribery to suddenly take leave and hide at home?
In truth, he had been forced to remain indoors because of a large blue bruise around his eye—but Governor Blanchelande, unaware of that fact, ground his teeth in frustration.
"Very well. The Governor's Office may present its argument."
"Thank you, Your Honor."
Damn it. If things continue like this, we're dead.
But the Saint-Domingue Governor's Office had no intention of simply letting it happen.
The Ministry of Finance might be examining the Saint-Domingue financial report, but uncovering the embezzled funds hidden here and there would take time.
Before that happened, they had to send that black bastard beneath the guillotine.
"Our Governor's Office position is firm! The defendant Toussaint Bréda is a black man of slave origin who incited other slaves like himself and plotted acts of terror against France. As a result, many innocent white citizens living in Saint-Domingue lost their lives. A dog that bites its master—should it not be put down!"
"Your Honor, members of the jury, the Creator bound all mankind in an endless chain of love and happiness. We must strike down tyrants who dare break that divine chain! Purifying and restoring the earth they have defiled is a duty that I, we, and all of you must carry out. Freedom and virtue are born together from the heart of God. Virtue cannot exist without freedom. Then what is a slave? Does a slave possess freedom? Virtue? Slavery itself is nothing but a symbol of oppression that must disappear!"
No matter what arguments the Governor's Office presented, Robespierre calmly countered them.
Compared with his days in Arras defending the Third Estate against the First and Second Estates, this kind of trial was little more than child's play.
Just as he had done years before, Robespierre shouted again and again toward the audience and the bench.
"Citizens! Tomorrow I will once again fight against tyranny that is as evil as any other! Until when? Until the day we all vanish from this world! Until the day when our sons and daughters, our grandchildren, can run freely across this earth! Let us stand together until oppression disappears from this world!"
"'Slave' or 'black'—do you truly think such words will stand before the Absolute One in heaven?! Do not expect victory without struggle, nor place your hopes on luck or on the vices of others!"
""Robespierre! Robespierre! Robespierre!""
It took barely an hour for the court that had been convened to execute a single black man to become Robespierre's stage for proclaiming liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Damn. As expected of Monsieur Guillotine Robespierre—he completely overturned the stage.
Thanks to Robespierre, we managed to secure a postponement in the second hearing.
Of course, it's a bit disappointing that we didn't get an acquittal, but the fact that the court postponed the trial means they're under considerable pressure.
So how should this precious time be used?
"So the West Indies situation is unusual?"
"Of course it is, sir! I felt it clearly during the voyage!"
"What exactly seemed unusual?"
"Normally the cargo holds would be packed full of coffee or tobacco. But recently, the cargo loaded onto ships sailing around that area has been cut in half. Ah—and…"
"Is there something else?"
"The number of soldiers and people at the colonial governor's ports has dropped a lot. Normally there are dozens stationed there for port security, but on this voyage there were only seven or eight in total. And there were barely any people around…"
"Mr. Oudinot."
"Yes, boss."
"What do you think it means when the sentries and people have decreased?"
"It likely means there is something they don't want outsiders to know."
"Probably something dirty?"
"What else could it be, boss."
"…Excuse me. How long does it take to reach Saint-Domingue?"
"Well, it depends on the ship, but by cargo vessel it usually takes about two months for a round trip."
I looked at Mr. Oudinot and spoke.
"Mr. Oudinot. I'll contact the navy and have a corvette prepared. Why don't you take a business trip to the warm resorts of the Atlantic?"
I'll cover the travel expenses.
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