A/N
Here's the next instalment – albeit after a reasonable amount of delay. Enjoy!
France
The battle was over – for the Bastille, that is. Sadly, as it turned out, there were few prisoners to liberate. One of whom was mad, believing himself to be Julius Caesar. "Of course, that's all relative," I later remarked to Robespierre. "After all, on the throne is a man who believes himself to be God's representative on Earth and a woman who buys extravagant jewellery whilst the country starves. Is that not mad?" At any rate, the newspapers were jubilant – this was, after all, the demise of the very icon of autocracy. Seeing how Louis' life centred so firmly around tradition and decorum, how else could we force him to hear us but on a symbolic basis?
The next day, I trod the road to the Bastille (having left Robespierre at the National Convention meeting) with a vague desire to witness the result of so much conflict minuscompany. As I approached, the rubble on the roads increased and the path itself grew precarious – most of the paving stones, I noted, had been torn from the ground (ha! See how they undermine the very foundations of the past?) to construct the barricades. The residual smell of gunpowder clung to me, cloying and persistent.
The dull, aching dizziness had all but ebbed away, leaving my perception sharp, yet brittle as glass; at every sound, I felt ready to shatter. There was clarity, but it was fragile, much like the weather, which consisted of transient sunshine and unexpected gusts of wind. I felt as though I was on the cusp of some major shift; whether it signified sun or storm, I was unsure.
As the breeze toyed with my hair, I shivered. With greater foresight than I had realised at the time, I had taken the opportunity to don workmen's clothing.
(In accordance with that age-old staple of adventure novels, I had approached a young worker in the street and paid him to exchange clothes with me. To my amusement, we had both been wearing green cockades to show our support for a constitution – mine had been duly swapped for his markedly more frayed ribbon. It would not do to be seen in my usual garb; I had no fear for the youth, who would hardly be mistaken for an aristocrat, and would in any case have had the sense to disguise the clothes with dirt. I hoped he would be able to sell the various jewels adorning the outfit for a decent price.)
It certainly would not do for the nation to appear to side with the aristocracy – I was eager to renounce all of that, even in terms of dress. I resolved to purchase new, sober attire at the first opportunity. Well, perhaps not sober. Less expensive, at any rate. At least my current clothing was lighter – the heat had been growing unbearable.
I suppose these were the clothes he had worn in the cold, too. Like something out of my old dreams...
Still, all of this had an odd feel – I could not shake off the impression that I was play-acting, despite the fact that the gestures were all made in earnest. Mending my ways was going to take considerable effort. Hmm. Somehow I could not see myself as the ascetic; no, rather that everyone be able to enjoy material pleasures. They should not be the perks of the privileged few, certainly, but no need to abolish elegant clothing or rich food – simply let it become accessible to all.
I then remembered with a pang that whilst this maxim had its hypothetical merits, many people would be happy simply to have enough bread for a week – luxury did not enter the matter. Again, indignation and guilt coursed through me – how dare the rich shape society so that only a handful amongst millions may enjoy life to its full potential!
Well, let them try to withstand the inevitable backlash. The confines of a rigid social structure could not protect them, once seen for what they were: illusions conjured to perpetuate the status quo.
The previous day, after the winning of the Bastille, there had been tours open to the public – an invitation for people to marvel at the horrors within. The torture equipment. The cells. For a fortress with so very few prisoners, it was remarkably well stocked (and racked, for that matter).
Today, on the 16th, the building was being demolished, brick by brick. I stood at a distance, watching the group of 500 dismantle the Bastille. On the way there, I had entertained some notion of joining them, to literally take my own future into my own hands by physically seizing parts of this building, this horrific creation... however, I found I could not bring myself to disturb them. Why take action myself when the people were already taking charge?
Sometimes a nation takes an active role in events; sometimes we are nothing but slaves to those in power. This was neither; it astounded me. There was no need for leadership now, or if there were to be leaders, they would be elected of the people's own volition.
With the shifting of every shard of rubble, I felt liberated.
I knew that this was by no means the end. Oh, there were to be many more challenges on the way – I was well aware of that. I was equally aware of the number of people on both sides who had been killed during this venture. Revolution was an explosive process. To expect a bloodless victory was... unrealistic. This rotten, archaic regime had painfully deep roots. Yet if it was allowed to remain for much longer, like any disease, it would consume me. By that, of course, I mean that the suffering would continue. The starvation... the oppression... the poor left entirely without support; the idle rich without a care in the world. These hellish images, which may not resonate with such horror for the 'developed' nations amongst us now, constituted reality for me and my people at the time: a reality both sadistic and tyrannical.
This must be kept in mind.
I watched this relic of my past disappearing before me. This, I thought, was but a prequel: how glorious it would be to watch all other institutions of the monarchy dissolve similarly! But would we be forced to fight for every last building in the city?
Perhaps not. The people were with us; or, more appropriately, we were with the people. That mattered. That counted for everything. Such unity of purpose would ensure a speedy victory. Now to see how Louis and Antoinette would retaliate. I was jubilant, but still somewhat uneasy. Apprehensive was the word I had used, wasn't it? It was idiotic to imagine we had gone too far, though – the danger really lay in not going far enough. At this point, few wanted to dispense with monarchy altogether; they aimed for a democratic constitution. I, however, was beginning to see that monarchy was a festering symbol of this social disease which gripped me. Chained, enslaved – use whatever imagery you like – how could the people remain loyal to that which bound them? How does one attempt to reform a slave owner? To persuade a shackle to serve some other purpose?
Present Day
"So, for the sake of what's becoming tradition, I have to ask," grins America. Hands held up in mock surrender, in anticipation of attack: "How's the election going?"
England looks prepared to garrotte someone. Anyone. Nonetheless, he answers – albeit in clipped, succinct statements. "Nick is still talking with the Labour party. Brown is going to be axed either way. There's talk of a rainbow coalition." The last statement somehow undermines said clipped effect.
"Rainbow coalition?" America splutters in disbelief. He manages to stifle his laughter and maintain some composure. Gravely, he says: "Rainbows. Huh. OK. Tell me. Will there be unicorns too?"
"I'd imagine that both are equally illusory," France comments.
England's glare, if liquefied, could feasibly fuel a chemical warfare – yet one would imagine its use would immediately be prohibited, for reasons involving crimes against humanity.
"It just occurred to me," muses France, "that you've been here all this time-"
"- Oh, well done, frog. A stunning piece of observation."
"Silence, stupide – I hadn't finished. If you've been here all along, how have you been receiving all this news of the talks between Clegg the Messianic, King Toff and 'Never a Frown' Brown? Magical scrying?"
To France's annoyance, instead of goading England about magic and fairies and such, America stares at the former pityingly, whilst England... grins.
"France. Stuck in the eighteenth century for good, are you?" America snickers.
"What?"
England pulls a mobile phone from his pocket and tosses it casually from side to side.
"Oh." France shakes his head as if to clear it. "Oh yes. Of course." For the first time that day, it is France rather than England who buries his head in his hands. Briefly. With, naturally, the utmost elegance and poise.
"And to think – you accuse me of living perpetually in the past," crows England.
France heaves a gusty sigh. Perhaps he has been reliving the events of 1789 a little too... vividly.
"What is it they say on the Internet?" says England. "'Epic fail'? 'Facepalm'? Both would suit this occasion."
America winces, heavily. "Never say that again," he admonishes England. "You were doing quite well up till now."
"Quiet, you."
America chuckles. "Let's face it – if France lives in the eighteenth century, you're forever in the sixteenth."
"And I suppose you are utterly up to date, by contrast?" inquires England, acidly.
"Of course," replies America, ingenuously, either oblivious to the sarcasm or, more likely, actively ignoring it. But then, with America, it is, as always, nearly impossible to tell. France retreats to his pen and paper instead.
France
Events after the fall of the Bastille were more chaotic than ever before. Nonetheless, it was accepted – even, eventually, by the king himself – that matters had moved from just sporadic bursts of rebellion to outright revolution. Lafeyette became Commander of the ever-expanding National Guard; Necker was reinstated; royal troops were withdrawn from Paris; Louis accepted a tricolour cockade. I'll admit, that last action reconciled me to the king somewhat – at the least, he had accepted the inevitable, and symbolically abandoned his absolute power. At the time, I almost admired him for that – nevertheless, though I could forgive him as a man, I could not sit easy with his existence as a monarch.
Meanwhile, mid-July saw the beginning of the 'Great Fear' – namely, countless urban revolts against feudalism. Even to walk in the streets became an overtly politicised action – for instance, to show support for the common cause (at the prompting of Desmoulins), one had to wear a green cockade, usually pinned to the hat. Naturally, my own headgear was adorned accordingly with the brightest of emerald ribbons.
The apprehensive aristocracy, rather than accept the new order, as the king had - by all appearances - done, began to immigrate to more conservative shores. They mostly uprooted to England, where those who cling perniciously to the status quo find company.
(Of course I jest, Angleterre. Nobody is more forward-thinking than you. Now please stop glaring; if I am turned to stone, it will somewhat hamper the writing of this tale.)
Amidst this turmoil, events were taking place in rapid succession. Complete social upheaval loomed – and I welcomed it with defiance.
Present Day
"But, Angleterre," remarks France, offhand, "this does raise the question, why aren't you actually sitting in on these talks? Don't tell me we're keeping you from them. If so, don't worry, you don't have to stay; America and I will entertain ourselves."
England almost guffaws. "You must think I'm deluded. Do you think I would ever leave you two here unsupervised? America would end up being molested. That, or I'd return home to find a pile of rubble and all of my citizens running riot, building barricades out of the remnants. Anyway, it's beside the point. I'm here because, comparatively speaking, I want to be. I'm sick of their faces, their voices, their policies, their lack of policies... and, above all, I'm tired of this bloody election that's managed to outstay its welcome by far. At this point, I'm almost indifferent as to who wins."
"So you'd be here moping even if we hadn't shown up?" summarises America.
"... That's about the long and short of it, yes."
"Ah, mon petit chou!" France waxes lyrical. "You would be here languishing all alone had we not intervened and rescued you from the depths of despair!"
"I don't languish – did you just call me a cabbage?"
"It was a term of endearment," France assures him. England's current expression looks somewhat less than endearing.
France
It was soon after the fall of the Bastille that Robespierre led me down the Rue Saint-Honere, where I was to become acquainted with yet another keystone in history; yet another piece of this familiar story slots into place. One of the most integral pieces, as I was later to realise. At the time, I was happy to go wherever the nearest revolutionary led me – at this point, no new ideology seemed barred to me.
Of course, I was quite fond of knowing at least vaguely in which direction I was to be led. "Maxime – not that I dislike your company, but where exactly are we going?"
"I am taking you to meet the Society of the Friends of the Constitution."
"Sounds intriguing. Although I've yet to meet a group with the audacity to call itself enemies of the constitution." Not in this current political climate, at any rate.
"It's a political organisation for National Assembly representatives," he elaborated. "Ones who – loosely, at any rate – share our beliefs. Friends of liberty and equality." Ah, the new political buzzwords. Rather than today's pathetic substitutes – change, fairness – we had the far more impressive liberte, egalite et fraternite. Words which resonated with the very essence of revolution. Even today, they retain the power to send chills down my spine; to turn my vision momentarily red.
"Will I be welcome, as a non-member of the Assembly?" I smirked, teasing.
"Don't be ridiculous. But, Francis – behave, will you?" Robespierre warned, with endearing sternness.
"Do I ever not?"
"Sometimes you poke fun at people, or try to shock them, for the fun of it I think. Promise me you will be friendly."
"I'm always friendly," I protested. "And I never deride the things that matter."
"You are answering in generalities. A thoroughly bad sign," he noted, with an exasperated smile.
"You began with a generality, if it comes to that," I retorted, persistently.
Robespierre shook his head, as though shaking off the quasi-conversation. But then he smiled again. "Let us go."
I think that was the first time that he actively tried to shape my behaviour. In hindsight, it is easy to mark that as the beginning of... well, of what happened later. In reality, it was utterly harmless – after all, how often had I chastised him for being a prude? This was simply banter between good friends – and, as I have continually stressed, Robespierre was never a dictator. It is so dangerous to attribute superfluous meanings to small incidents simply because they fit in with the overall pattern. But enough of the defensive running commentary! I included this conversation only to illustrate what I loved about L'Incorruptible; namely, that his unwavering belief in the possibility of change was such that he could attempt to sway the behaviour of a nation, whose attitudes are shaped over centuries.
I have little to say for now on the Society of the Friends of the Constitution. Back then, it was comprised evenly of both radicals and moderates; I made some acquaintances; I behaved very well. I had been to various political clubs before with my other friends – and this particular society was yet to attain great significance or distinction. For now, suffice to say that we met in an old, Jacobin monastery.
Present Day
"We do get the message," says England. "You've hammered it home sufficiently for even a nation of America's intellect to comprehend. Robespierre was not as villainous as history paints him, and all that. But you've yet to prove anything; we're nowhere near '93." America looks as though he is considering retaliation at the former affront, but France intervenes.
"If the events of the Terror are described out of context, we'll never get anywhere," he says. "What comes before is more important."
"Or perhaps you prefer reminiscing about a time in which all was happiness, liberty and light?"
Gaining animation, France rises from his seat at the desk, suddenly aware that he has not stirred for a number of hours. "Fine. If you want the short explanation. The revolution has been characterised by handfuls of caricatures, out-of-context garbage, cut-and-paste clichés, banal ironies... and downright inaccuracies. The myths: Marie Antoinette never said 'let them eat cake'; probably she knew too little about the outside situation to come up with so astute a policy. Doctor Guillotin was never guillotined himself. The caricatures: Danton and Robespierre were not diametrically opposed in character. Marat was not motivated by bitterness, or some sort of accumulated misanthropy, but by genuine solidarity for the poor. The Girondins were not moderate because they somehow predicted the Terror, but because they sided with the propertied classes. The context: yes, many were killed during the Terror, but nobody ever laments the greater loss of life under the ancien regime due to poverty, starvation and oppression – or remembers that it would have meant the reinstating of the monarchy had the Jacobins relented in '93. Also? Robespierre did not personally try and condemn every single individual executed." France has ample material to add to this list, but, upon reflection, concedes that he is doing little but ranting. Instead, he falls silent – if smouldering defiance can really be considered silence.
"History is what people make of it. Written by the victors and all that," comments England, gently, but firmly enough to convey his customary amount of scepticism. "Things are bound to get distorted." What he leaves unsaid is 'really, must you be so incessantly dramatic about this?' but then, after years of habitual verbal abuse, there are various barbs which can be taken for granted. France has always grudgingly admired England's ability to simply imply insults without troubling to voice them. Nevertheless, for England, the tone actually borders on sympathetic.
"So you think the Terror was necessary?" scoffs America.
France stares at America in disbelief (to which America shrugs). "Of course not! How could I when I lived through it? But for the Terror to be denoted as one of history's greatest atrocities is simply unjust. So many are willing to overlook or excuse the monstrosities committed in the name of kings – but should ordinary people take matters into their own hands, they will never be given a sympathetic hearing!"
America blinks at this further outburst. "... I get that. Sort of." Visibly, France relaxes. Slowly, he takes a seat once more.
"It boils down to fear, I suppose," he says, calmer now. "Today, there are few who fear monarchy – in fact, Angleterre is still unfathomably fond of his own – but an idealistic, revolutionary mob?" France's smile is piercing as direct sunlight. "That is terrifying, no matter what the era." If sunlight ever managed to look so roguish. "Also – when things do go wrong, people accentuate the bad and ignore the good altogether," he adds, as something of an afterthought.
"But there was a lot of good stuff mixed in with the bad stuff, right?" says America, tentatively feeling his way around the issue (recalling particularly the words of Jefferson on the matter, but also keeping Adams in mind). "Because –" here he gives a snuff of laughter, acknowledging the contradiction "- things always are complex." He realises that this entails agreeing with what England said earlier, albeit in a somewhat disjointed manner. "Sometimes," he stresses, lest England become aware of this.
"Sometimes, yes," France smiles back. "I suppose it's time to continue writing?"
England shrugs, with what seems to be feigned disinterest. "You may as well."
America peers thoughtfully at France through his glasses. Tilting his head slightly, so that they briefly catch the light (France thinks of the fire at the Festival of the Supreme Being) he says: "Yeah. Do."
