A/N
Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed/added this to their favourites!
Not every chapter will be updated as quickly as this one, but I'll do my best to keep them fairly regular.
Enjoy!
France's Narrative
Afterwards, I was confronted by a disgruntled king. He quite clearly could not comprehend why I had behaved the way I had. A century ago, I might have found this narrow-mindedness almost endearing, a trait to be tolerated; now, I thought, simpleton! Antoinette, I think, fathomed a little better, and resented me for siding with the Third Estate. But she also did not fully understand my motives – how could she, having been isolated from real life since birth? They were both frightened... but not nearly as much as they should have been. Still – it was too early to break from them completely – matters were not desperate yet, so they were to be tolerated. Such is the relationship between nation and monarch!
As for me – between May and June, I spent as little time with the royals as possible. Instead, I devoted all of my time to the Palais-Royal, owned by the Duc d'Orleans – the reason being that it was here that the radicals met. Normally, it served as a trading area – now it housed the opposition to the crown. It was here that I found Robespierre once more– and others.
(I had not been particularly apprehensive about losing sight of him the other day – nations always encounter those who will later influence them. I was reasonably certain that Robespierre was to be influential – and if not, I thought, let it be. Sure enough, I soon met him again.)
In fact, I met countless individuals, all of whom shared that same fundamental idea. The debates which took place in the Palais-Royal were constant, lively and delightfully haphazard, with all contributing at once. The conversation, as though in reflection of my own political position, was in an ever-shifting state of flux. Often in the morning I would find myself vociferously defending a view that in the evening I would just as enthusiastically condemn – literally, I grew more radical by the hour, and every hour I would wince when reflecting upon how unenlightened I had been the previous one. Leaflets proclaiming opposition to the ancien regime were to be found at ever corner, and the mood was one of spirited cooperation. Though the meetings were wonderfully chaotic, I was able to spend most of my time in the company of Georges Danton, Camille Desmoulins, Jean Paul Marat and, of course, Robespierre himself. Danton and Robespierre were both deputies for the Third Estate – the other two were journalists. With the uncanny knack that nations seem to have (whether it is cause or effect I don't know), I had chosen to spend my time with the four who were to become the most influential figures of the Revolution in later years.
Robespierre, I learned, was utterly single-minded when it came to politics, to the point where his reputation for humourlessness was not unfounded. That being said, he was far from the dry, emotionless figure which he is usually portrayed as. Poverty moved him deeply, but always he stressed reason over emotion –no, that is misleading, as he believed passionately in his ideals, and had clearly devoted his life to realising them. This suited me for the most part, because I was so wrapped up in my newfound egalitarian ideas that I never tired of talking politics, particularly with one who had made politics his masterpiece (some write novels; others write revolution). True, I was constantly shocking him by my propensity to flirt with everyone in a ten metre radius – but, generally speaking, it was Robespierre's designated fate to tolerate his far more outgoing companions, which he did, in all fairness, with a sort of long-suffering amusement. When I went too far and annoyed him, he had a tendency to become subdued – it was then that I sought the company of Danton, who would have struggled to come up with a definition for 'going too far'.
Danton was extroverted, extravagant and rambunctious - in later years, he stressed 'we must dare, dare again, always dare!'; it may as well have been his motto. Much is made of the contrast he presented when compared with Robespierre. However, this is inherently misleading; there was far more to unite them than to divide them. Petty differences in personality mattered little when compared to the similarities of their political ideals – and, thus, he and Robespierre were the best of friends. Character-wise, Danton and I had far more in common – at times, I imagine Maximilien felt extremely outnumbered – but we were all far too obsessed with events to irritate each other much. Danton gave the revolution some grounding through his ever-present humour and audacity. I later learned that on the day of the king's coronation, he had run away to Riems in order to see it – strange to think that, had circumstances been slightly different, I might have met another future revolutionary on that day...
Camille Desmoulins was a figure of contradiction and surprise. In normal conversation, he was plagued by a persistent stammer; all traces of this would vanish, however, when speaking in public, at which point he radiated strength and conviction. I'd imagine he would consider himself quite cautious, but when he allowed impulse to reign, as he frequently did, he could be more quixotic and fearless than any of them. He was frequently impetuous, at times bordering on childlike; it was difficult not to view him as an idealistic adolescent – in reality, he could display ferocity. There were times when he seemed to simply float effortlessly above the rest of us, aloft in some world of brilliance – though, of course, he would not stay airborne forever.
Then Jean-Paul Marat - Marat, Marat! For an estimation of his character, consider this: I generally hold Weiss' portrayal of him in 'Marat/Sade' to be tolerably accurate, but Weiss failed to illustrate the man's sheer craziness - despite the fact that the aforementioned play takes place in a mental asylum. All jesting aside, Marat was an unbelievable individual – the most radical of all of us. He was capable of proclaiming in one breath the most egalitarian convictions: 'let us tax the rich to subsidize the poor', and then in the next, of uttering the most virulent, bloodthirsty sentiments. Later, he would tell Robespierre: 'I am the anger, the just anger of the people'- indeed, he was the revolution's sense of anger, but also its sense of justice. Half of his invitations for blood and terror, he assured me were only made half seriously; it says something that I was disinclined to believe this.
I still miss those days in the Palais-Royal, surrounded by the most intelligent, dynamic and fascinating figures. We had all reached that rare stage in history where there was a general acceptance that not only should something be done; it was within the realms of possibility that change would occur – if we only yelled loudly enough, or were only daring enough. Too often do would-be social reformers struggle against fatalism; we soon-to-be revolutionaries had no such doubts.
Present Day
"France. You have been here for a day now. I tolerated you. I let you stay here. I even cooked dinner for you. You treated the food as though it was radioactive, but the gesture was made regardless. Now piss off, why don't you?"
With some effort, France lifts his head up from the ink-splattered page. "Once I start something, I finish it," he shrugs, lightly.
"Finish it, by all means, but get out of my house."
"How's the election going?" France replies with a grin, selecting the one thing guaranteed to provide a distraction.
"Judging by his look of despair... pretty well?" guesses America, popping his head in around the door, then bouncing into the room. "Oh, sorry England – just came back to see how France's biography was doing."
"Angleterre, do stop growling – it's disconcerting," says France.
"Oh, come on, it could be worse," America informs England, somewhat generically.
"How could it be worse?" enquires France. "Who wants a Prime Minister with a face like molten plastic?"
"Yeah, have you noticed his eyebrows?" asks America, with the air of one confiding a great secret. "Whenever they move, his forehead stays completely flat. No wrinkles whatsoever. It's unnatural."
"It's Botox," retorts France. They both shudder. England looks murderous. Eyebrows are perhaps a sensitive subject with him.
"Anyway," America attempt to change the subject, self-preservation kicking in for what is possibly the first time in his life, "Let's see what you've written now!" Before France manages to properly protest, America snatches at the various pages scattered around England's desk.
"I'd imagine we've reached the point where we are to be subjected to obscene tales of Francis' sexual exploits," says England, who has been subjected to many such stories in the past.
"If you're implying that I slept with various revolutionaries," says France, "I hate to disappoint, Angleterre, but no." He snatches the papers back from America and attempts to reassemble them.
"You cannot be serious. You? Did you take a vow of celibacy around the late 1700s, and none of us noticed?"
France merely looks scornful (though, in actuality, he is amused beyond words).
"Surely – Robespierre?"
"Was called L'Incorruptible for a reason."
"Danton?"
"Was happily married!"
"That has never prevented you. Desmoulins? Marat?"
France shakes his head. "This was revolution – kindly remove your mind from the gutter, Angleterre." Somehow, he manages to keep a straight face saying this.
"This coming from you?" England splutters. Clearly, he does not believe him. Overall, France can't blame him.
France
To continue with our heavily interrupted narrative... we return to 1789, after a gap of a month or so. Here, we witness a number of strange venues; revolution bred in a royal palace, and our first major seditious action took place in a tennis court.
Well, it did eventually. That day, on the 20th June, we had every intention of letting proceedings take place, as usual, at the Salle des Etats – the hall where the Estates-General met. It was Louis who had other plans.
My friends and I were approaching the hall – since that first day, I had always sat with the Third Estate – when we noticed a large group outside the doors, some pounding at the threshold, others yelling furiously. "We've been barred from the meeting!" yelled one. In actual fact, this was not quite the case – the king had motioned for the Estates-General to be closed and to annul the Assembly decrees, but the motive was the same, and it was an affront of the highest order to the Third Estate – or, as we had begun calling ourselves since three days ago, the National Assembly.
"This is a plot against the Third Estate!" someone yelled.
As I had avoided speaking with the king for weeks, I was just as ignorant of what was going on as the rest of them. Consequently, I was equally devoid of a logical plan. Thus, I settled for an illogical plan – namely, I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and began pounding on the door with all my strength. "Let us in, you brainless tyrant!" No response. I continued to attack the threshold, with no small amount of frustration. So he wanted to get rid of opposition, did he? Well, it would take more than a door to subdue us -
"Francis, you should stop that," said Robespierre, who had followed me. "It isn't helping much. Also, I don't think the king is actually in the room."
"Quiet, you. It isn't hindering, is it? Look, we've come too far to sit here obediently whilst he ignores us again. I won't let him. I intend to make as much noise as possible, to remind him – to remind them all."
"You've scraped your knuckles."
"Damn. Ow." Sure enough, little rivulets of blood now decorated the back of my hands. This considered, I settled for kicking the door instead, which made a much more satisfying thunk noise anyway.
Robespierre winced.
"Well, what else can we do?" I growled.
He shrugged, with equal parts hopelessness and exasperation. "I have no answer. By all means continue your fight to the death with the entrance."
Truly this acceptance denoted a victory for my superior debating skills. "Thank you. I will." I duly recommenced kicking the door and cursing.
I heard Robespierre whisper to Danton: "What do you suggest we do now?"
Danton's encouraging response ran something along the lines of a suggestion that they sell tickets.
"Open this door, you pathetic excuse for a... a monarch!" I yelled.
"Ah – excuse me?" This came from the back of the crowd, almost drowned out by the deputies' angry yells. I ignored it. Mirabeau, however, went to investigate. Robespierre and Danton stayed where they were, the one looking slightly bemused, the other looking more inclined to laugh.
"Excuse me; I think I might have a solution." A deputy elbowed his way towards me.
I looked up. "Of course. What we need is a battering ram!" I exclaimed, with wild sarcasm. I'm fairly sure it was sarcasm. "You're a genius, Citoyen...?"
"Guillotin." Do not be alarmed; this man was a simple deputy, and had not yet achieved infamy – though, yes, it was only a matter of time. "B-but, that's not what I was going to suggest." I might have actually looked disappointed; he turned instead to the deputies, who obliged him by falling reasonably silent. "I know the manager of a nearby tennis court. He is somewhat sympathetic, so I imagine he could be persuaded to... to let us in."
"Excellent!" cried a voice from the crowd.
"We can't be sidelined or attacked like this; we'll hold our meeting!"
"To the tennis court!"
I had to admit, it seemed the most appealing option. Once more, I allowed their enthusiasm to envelop me; despite my previous frustration, I felt the old optimism return. And so, we walked to the tennis court – all five hundred and seventy seven deputies, plus me. As for the rest – consult your history books. An oath was sworn: 'never to cry to the King, and to meet quietly when the circumstances demand, until the constitution of France is happily singing'. Well, I felt inclined to sing that day – all the representatives but one signed. All in favour of a constitution - a new order; or we would never disband. The experience was breathtaking. We were all but unanimously (Martin-Dauch notwithstanding) opposed to the current state of affairs. It seemed to me that nothing could hamper us; not only was I convinced that revolution could be achieved, I knew that it would be. So did we all; and to be there was pure elation.
Subsequently, chaos broke loose.
Present Day
"The good kind of chaos or the bad kind?" America queries. England snorts.
"Good... and bad," answers France. "Is there ever such a clear distinction?"
"Yes," asserts America, baldly. "There is. All the time."
"Tch. I can't imagine you'd be able to understand complexity," mutters England, in an offhandedly insulting manner. Then, he realises the implication of such a statement; namely, that he is essentially agreeing with France, albeit indirectly. "I mean. Um. America's right. Wait – no – fuck – that is to say – uh, you're both... wrong."
"You were quite enamoured with my ideas of revolution at the time, if I recall correctly," France all but purrs.
"That is a poor, poor choice of words, frog."
"Fine. Intoxicated, then."
"I was not. At all." England is, as always, obdurately stubborn. France decides that now is the time to deploy his most effective weapon – namely, the Romantics. Accompanied by the most expansive of gestures, in impassioned tones, he quotes:
"For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim
I dimmed thy light or damped the holy flame;
But blessed the paeans of delivered France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name."
England groans. "Coleridge," he mutters, defeated.
"That, I think, speaks for itself. Of course, I could remind you of Wordsworth, too. And Byron. And Shelley. And Blake. And those are just the most famous examples –"
"All right, fine, you've made your point. But one group of poets does not reflect the mood of an entire nation!"
"In this case? It really did. In between the fawning over flora and fauna, revolution was all you could write about... speaking of which, I shall now return to doing so myself."
France
Suddenly, a mass movement emerged.
That sentence is a wholly inadequate description.
A mass movement barged its way in. A mass movement that was inexorable, unstoppable, and seemingly inevitable steamrollered everything within its path. They had, after all, declared themselves effectively the government of France (my government) – this gave people hope, and the sense that what they did mattered. There were protests; there were lootings; there were demonstrations in the streets. Louis was forced to open the Estates-General once more.
The mood amongst my friends? Nothing short of elation. There was a half-guilty, but nonetheless powerful sense of defiance that was growing with them – I swear, they thought themselves invincible. Certainly Marat and Desmoulins made up for their not being members of the Estates-General by actively immersing themselves in the protests – and, occasionally, bidding me to join them. I would lose myself among the crowds, marvelling at the triumphant ferocity of my people.
The next week, Louis sent a messenger to the National Convention to close their meeting for the day: the Marquis de Breze. A relative hush fell over the room, muting its usual impression of bustling activity. Mirabeau, who was, in effect, our leader, glanced at me. I wondered -how far could we feasibly go? Was this to be no-holds-barred rebellion, or were we to comply with Louis' demands? I gave him a small, one shouldered shrug in response: your call. Clearly this would set a precedent for the future behaviour of the National Assembly.
Mirabeau aimed at the Marquis the most withering of stares, and then slowly stood. "Sir," he said, deliberately, "you are a stranger in this assembly, and you have no right to speak here." I almost chuckled out loud at the Marquis' expression. "Return to those who have sent you," said Mirabeau, gaining in confidence, "and tell them we shall not stir save at the point of the bayonet!"
Following this – loud cheers! The decision had been made. We had refused to obey – once again, we emphasised the message that the order of the day was no longer deference, but open defiance.
On the 12th July, I was with the King when he made the decision to dismiss Necker, the one minister who we felt was halfway on our side. Granted, I had been dismissive of him in the past – yet there were many who felt him to be the only man close to the King who cared about the poor. Personally, I had more faith in the National Convention. Nonetheless:
"You cannot do this," I informed him.
"I will, if it will restore order!" Louis said, almost pettishly.
"They will not stand for this. I will not stand for this."
"Francis," Louis half choked, weak-willed and watery-eyed. Honestly, he seemed to me nothing short of pathetic. "What is happening to you? Surely you know that it is my right to make... any... any decision I see fit..."
I laughed, and it reverberated across the room, like the memory of my footsteps at the meeting of the Estates-General. "I don't think you understand," I said. "I do not answer to tyrants. I answer to my rightful government, the National Assembly, and they answer to my people, who elected them. Neither nobility, nor clergy, nor you command me any longer." Poor Louis. He looked desolate. "You are no more than a man," I marvelled. "L'Etat," I said, jabbing a finger at my chest, "C'est moi."
As predicted, the people did not stand for Necker's dismissal.
Again, that description is ridiculously inadequate.
But, again, you are surely aware of what followed. For my part, I was at the centre of events to begin with – namely, outside a cafe in the Palais-Royal, watching with pride as Camille Desmoulins delivered his immortal speech, using a nearby table as a makeshift stage. With a clear, resounding voice (no sign of his habitual stammer; I smiled at that) he yelled: "To arms!" I could not help but join in the cheers of the crowd – at that moment, I was simply one of many.
"I am ready to die a glorious death!" pronounced Camille. With that, he jumped down, and the crowd surged forwards to embrace him.
"Better to live a glorious life, my friend," I told him, when I was able. "Don't go dying on us yet. After all, the people need their leaders, if they are to rebel."
"The people need no such thing," he answered. "If we succeed, everyone here –" he gestured to his audience "-can, and will become great."
Yet it was partially due to Desmoulins' eloquence that the riots intensified – the next day, a militia, the National Guard was formed. Here, you may recognise the beginnings of a pattern – events which form the foundation of revolution...
