My only defense for this abomonably late entry is that I've just begun to transition into college… where I have learned that 'self-taught classes' are a thing. DO NOT TAKE THEM UNPREPARED.
firelordzuko: Don't worry, it all serves a purpose... Eventually.
Chapter VI: It'll Be Fine!
"The National Assembly recognizes and proclaims, in the presence and under the auspices of the Supreme Being, the rights of man and of the citizen."
~ Declaration of the Rights of Man, 26 August, 1789
Champ de Mars
Paris, France
13 July, 1790
Tomorrow would be the first anniversary of the fall of the Bastille, the great fortress of despotism, toppled by the General Will. Ever since Louis XVI had agreed to limit his role in government within the confines of the Constitution in 1789, so-called Festivals of Federation had begun popping up throughout the country, from the high courts of the Nobility, to the vast a disparate conscripts of the National Guard, all of whom jubilantly swore patriotic oaths to the Revolution, happy for any excuse for a party as optimism swept all of France. Reflecting this, Paris itself was teeming with positive, upbeat energy – a grandscale Fête de la Fédération was planned to celebrate Bastille Day, on the Champs de Mars parade ground, a vast open space on the Left Bank of the Seine, not far from the city's center. The plans were made just three weeks before Bastille Day: a grand amphitheater with tiered seating for Paris's citizens, a triumphal arch at one end, and an Altar of the Fatherland in the center. With so little time left, it was a wonder that a single brick had been laid. Yet, the Parisians, still teeming with goodwill, devoted all their time and energy into clearing debris and leveling the parade ground.
The same calloused hands that had torn down the Fortress of Despotism now united to construct the Altar to the Fatherland. Commonfolk trotted through the parade ground, loading great wheelbarrows with cluttered wooden debris and shifting great piles of earth with similar methods. Monks with cockades pinned to their cassocks – recently freed from their dynastic obligations by the Civil Constitution - trampled the earth alongside soldiers, laborers, and well-dressed women. Excitement, cooperation, and holiday spirit would accomplish the they worked, the People began to sing a martial, fast-paced song that urged them on in their work. Immediately, Connor recognized the theme of the refrain: a common phrase used by Benjamin Franklin, envoy of the Continental Congress, and fan favorite of the French; ça ira. The message of the Revolution was clear – hope:
Ah ! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète,
Ah ! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
Malgré les mutins tout réussira.
Nos ennemis confus en restent là,
Et nous allons chanter " Alléluia !"
Stephane chuckled joyously as the song progressed. He and Connor were helping raise the King's pavilion on the opposite side of the amphitheater from the Arch – the pavilion, naturally, was gilded and layered with gold and lilies. A great azure canopy had been draped over the impromptu shelter – the meteorological authorities had deemed Bastille Day as a day for dispersed, periodic rain. Indeed, although the day had begun as a sweltering, it had eventually given way to wispy gray storm clouds that blotted away the sun. Such was the transient wiles of summer. "Ah, Franklin is surely smiling in his sleep, mon ami! I must say, we've had a rather hard time of it, but that song is dreadfully catchy."
"…" Still, Connor could not particularly focus on the festivities and merriment of the moment. Anne Théroigne had left Paris back in May, penniless and hounded by the Royalist papers, which had exposed her past career as a wandering courtesan, and her numerous clients besides: a poor landlord in London; the Marquis de Parsan; an Italian singer in Genoa (who, it was said, was a terrific, world-renowned soprano); and, of course, there was the time when, as a newcomer to the Capital, she masqueraded as the downtrodden Comtesse de Campinado (a place which certainly had never existed until that point). This was the sort of thing done when times were hard. She had broken no laws, or stirred any riots – yet they had ridiculed her all the same, and had practically ridden her before them from Paris.
"Name one human," she had asked as she did her packing, ferociously flinging her unnecessarily vibrant coats past Connor's head into her travelling case, "one creature on God's green earth whose reputation would shine intact through the scrutiny I have endured! Robespierre, perhaps, but I'm half sure he's cheating, somehow…" After Connor had expressed interest in her trip, she had simply sighed said, "Oh, I'm just visiting Mercourt. I mean to be back in a few months – the vultures will have flown to fresh carcasses by then. You won't miss me too much, will you? Don't worry; I'm sure Stephane can entertain you while I am gone (although not too much, mind). And keep Danton on his leash, would you? He wasn't too thrilled by my speech at the Cordeliers."
Her absence was noticeable, naturally. She'd been a very active member of the Parisian Assassins – a frequent at the RidingSchool, viewing the madness in her scarlet coat, a small claque orbiting her; patrolling the Palais-Royal at night, pistols cocked and ready, within arm's reach. Earlier that very day, another Assassin, a brewer and National Guardsman named Santerre, informed Mentor Riquetti that they'd received word from the Austrian Brotherhood – that, after visiting Marcourt, she'd gone home to the breakaway Belgian Republic of Liège; and, after more than a few pointed inquiries from her brothers, rumors emerged: that she'd been abducted, that the Austrians had got her, on the grounds that she had been engaged in a plot against the life of Her Majesty, Marie Antoinette, the Emperor's sister.
So, as events stood, a fairly high-ranking Parisian Assassin was in the custody of the Teutonic Knights of the Austrian Empire – and not just any Teuton, for the Emperor was also the Hochmeister of that Knightly Order. Their Mentor, Riquetti, had not seemed too concerned – he had, infuriatingly, responded to Connor's concerns by shrugging it off and, with a cheeky grin, declared, "Ça ira!" Indeed, Riquetti had been overtly cheery these past few days, despite his failing health – he now had greater trouble walking the palatial grounds of the Champs de Mars, panting with effort whenever circumstances required him. Whilst Connor, Stephane, and the Parisians worked on erecting the pavilion, Riquetti and other members of the National Assembly were stationed in the École des Cadets-gentilshommes to the south, a fairly recent military academy, along with their families.
By the end of the day, a great depression had been hollowed out of the earth, framed by a pair of 400,000 spectator earth steps built on each side of the field. The pavilion was raised above the southern terrace, for Their Majesties' comfort. A triumphal arch beckoned the National Guard to its rightful place amongst the People. The Seine was crossed by a bridge of boats leading to the Altar of the Fatherland in the center. It jutted from the center of the amphitheatre like a great tower, a new Fortress of Liberty. Climbing the steps to the Altar, Connor read the inscription: "All mortals are equal; it is not by birth but only virtue that they are distinguished. In every state the Law must be universal and mortals whosever they be are equal before it." A curious statement to emblazon on a religious devotional, especially given the Catholics' devotion to their Heavenly monarchs; but the phrasing was certainly inspiring to all who read it. As the sun set on the Journée des brouettes, the people of Paris continued to sing into the night, welcoming the new dawn and the happy conclusion of the French Revolution:
Ah ! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
Sans craindre ni feu, ni flame,
Le Français toujours vaincra!
Hôtel de Lafayette, 183 rue de Bourbon
Paris, France
14 July, 1790
"Connor, wake up! I am not going to suffer through this alone!"
Immediately, Connor's eyes snapped open, reaching for a missing tomahawk. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light of his room – there, standing in the doorway, was Thomas Paine, newly returned from the United States. He was comically dressed in a striped sleeping cap, and he bore a candle in his hand. Outside, the Assassin could hear a heavy deluge of rain battering against the roof of the Hôtel de Lafayette.
"What time is it?"
"Four in the morning; just enough time for the French to show off to the world. Lafayette's already assembled the National Guard. They've invited delegates from other nations – Swedes, Spaniards, Poles, Turks, Chaldeans, Greeks, and all the rest of the human race (though why they'd bother to get up at this hour is beyond me). We've been invited as well – the States, that is. You should come along too, if the Iroquois League is to be represented in any capacity."
Swiftly throwing on his white robes (as Paine rolled his eyes to the ceiling, attempting to some form of modesty and humming 'Ça ira' softly to himself), Connor asked, "Why?"
"Because your race, no matter what the detractors say, is mortal as well – the Rights of Man belong to you as much as any son of Europe. That aside, your own laws inspired the American Constitution, so, by extension, you've inspired the French one as well. It's a pity the Iroquois couldn't send their own delegates – ah well, c'est la vie." Seeing that Connor had finished, Paine grabbed his arm and dragged him into the hallway, heading towards the door. "Now, there's someone I want you to meet - he'll be leading the delegation, and you might find some common ground with him..."
As the pair stepped over the threshold into the storm, Paine stopped: thunder rolled across the sky, and in answer, cannonade cracked to greet the Constitutional Kingdom of France into being. A strong downpour fell from a gray sky, the storm clouds having congregated in the night. Glumly, Connor was reminded of the prelude Bastille Day itself, when the old prison fell; and also of the October Days, when the road to Versailles had been soaked through to the earth and the poissardes had had to dry themselves off in the Estates-General. In the rue de Bourbon before them, a small delegation of emissaries and sailors awaited them, the Stars and Stripes folded to protect it from the rain – yet still piercing the early morning. They continued to the front of the congregation. "Ah, and here we are!" Paine stopped again before a sailor leading the column in soaked, ragged attire, topped off with a splendid bicorne hat. "Connor, this is Captain John Paul Jones."
"The John Paul Jones? Commander of the Bonhomme Richard?" Connor was suddenly very excited to have met a fellow nautical mind – and indeed, there were few greater than the Scotsman before him. Whereas Connor had stuck to the Caribbean, Jones had boldly sailed to Albion itself and attacked British shipping from their home ports – raiding merchant ships in the Irish Sea, besieging Whitehaven, and dueling with HMS Serapis in the North Sea. He had even been knighted by Louis XVI, given the now-defunct title, 'Capitaine-Chevalier'. Afterwards, he had served Catherine the Great in the Imperial Russian Navy. Now, more than any other time in his life, Connor felt a great sense of honor in meeting such a distinguished person.
Jones smiled and offered his hand to Connor, who took it (perhaps too eagerly). In a slight, Lowland Scottish accent, he asked, "You are Captain Connor, yes? Of the Aquila? Paine tells me you served in the Battle of the Chesapeake. It's a shame I couldn't make it, but I hear you certainly did a number on those Sassenach; I'm obliged to acquaint you now."
"Oh, and I you!" As they marched through the city, Connor and Jones fell into an engaged discussion about nautical affairs and skirmishes – Connor's escapades in the West Indies and Mexico were matched by Jones's short sally East, into the Black Sea, and his battles against the Turks. From what little Jones said, his Russian service had not been particularly fruitful, despite the Empress's confidence in him (he had certainly not gotten to Constantinople!) They soon joined up with 14,000 Fédérés, their bayonets clinking in the rain, all arranged according to their respective départements, under 83 National Guard banners; snapping above them all was the tricolore, a red band at the hoist, joined with white and blue, fluttering sharply in the savage winds. Accompanying them were musicians and instruments of all stripes – pipers from Brittany playing the mad music of the Celts, horn blowers from Marseilles echoing the clarion call of the Revolution, and three hundred drummers from the west, underscoring the martial melodies. Crossing the Seine, they come to the rue Saint-Antoine, to the place where the Bastille had once stood. They then marched on to Saint-Denis and Saint-Honoré before crossing the boat-bridge to the Left Bank, where they faced the triumphal arch of the nation. As they marched into the Champ de Mars, artillery planted on the heights fired to welcome them, booming the tidings all over France. It was then noon.
The crowd clapped hysterically as the American delegation crossed under the arch. It was then that John Paul Jones gave the order to fly the Stars and Stripes. As the American flag was raised for the first time on foreign soil, the Parisians cheered and called out, "Vive l'Amerique!"
Following the Americans, other foreign delegations arrived, and it soon became clear to Connor that, just as the French had set up their ostentatious display, so too were their honored guests determined to put on the grandest spectacle. Paine looked past Connor's shoulder at the approaching dignitaries, grunting in recognition. He nodded and said, "Those will be the Swedes, lead by Count Axel von Fersen – no, don't make eye contact," said Paine, jabbing Connor lightly in the side. All he could make out between the Norsemen was a young nobleman astride a destrier, bearing a yellow cross on a blue field, hanging limply from its pole. He was followed by the royal anthem, the Gustafs skål, pounded out by horns and harps, ironically celebrating the return of Autocracy to the North.
Next came the Turks. Now there was a study in the exotic! The bugle horns and stringed harps of the Swedes were jarringly transitioned towards echoing lutes and booming, thunderous drums. They came astride swift and nimble steeds from Arabia, eagerly tossing their manes in the rain, and on stranger beasts still – tall, spindly creatures with high backs and long necks, almost loitering into the amphitheater, chewing as they came, their saddles enveloped by heavy furs and exotic rugs (already sagging with rainwater.) The Ottoman delegation was among the largest; their crimson banners sodden, star and crescent piercing the twilight. That peculiar alliance of Francis and Suleiman still stood – Capet and Osman remaining on good terms, despite the misgivings of France's new Hapsburg Queen. Connor had a feeling that there was a good reason for the Hapsburgs to distrust both them and the French. Paine nodded his head at their leader, a Turk robed in white and grasping a sword in his right hand – his finger was branded also. The Turk grinned fiercely at Connor and assumed his delegation's position.
Finally, there came the Hapsburgs. Feeling rather upstaged by their Ottoman enemies, the Austrians arrived with much fanfare and musical accompaniment, horns blowing into the storm and drums clashing in tune with the thunder and their own footsteps. Their golden banners were branded with a black, two-headed eagle, the sigil of the Holy Roman Empire – their millennial struggle with the preceding infidel had given them a divine purpose as the Bulwark of Europe. Still, Connor felt an immense fury at the German lines as they marched primly and methodically onto the parade grounds. The Austrian leader – a Belgian diplomat called Florimond Claude, ci-devant comte de Mercy-Argentau - saluted the Queen smartly and took his place closest to the side of his Emperor's sister, nearest the Royal Pavilion. Their Majesties were seated in makeshift thrones to direct the event, tricolor cockades haphazardly pinned onto their hats – Antoinette, dressed rather modestly in linen and unpowdered hair (which would no doubt be criticized later), whilst her husband grasped his royal scepter, the Hand of Justice, in his left hand – his right was thrust into his navy military jacket. It was then that Connor finally located the Assembly's delegates – deputies sent to represent the Nation as a whole. They stood proudly – and drily - behind their King and Queen: Riquetti and Robespierre, Sieyès and Guillotin – they, at least were safe from the rain. Such were the privileges of politics.
There were many more foreign arrangements aside the ones mentioned – Russians and Prussians, Spaniards and Britons, Venetians and Persians – but they were all upstaged by the Commander of the National Guard, the General Gilbert du Motier, ci-devant Marquis de Lafayette, and Hero of the Two Worlds. Following after his white charger was his young son, ten-year old Georges Washington de Lafayette, astride a young colt – a junior marshal-in-training. Surrounded by mud-splattered regiments of the National Guard, the General cantered below the triumphal arch, entering the amphitheatre. At the King's answering rap from the Hand of Justice, Lafayette raised his hand for silence amongst the crowd. In the respondent deafness, a priest in rather muted robes limped up the steps to the Altar, wearing a tricolor sash over his golden vestments, signifying him as a juring priest, having already sworn an oath to uphold the Constitution himself. Connor was surprised that no one moved to help the man – but he looked like the type to refuse such aid, if offered. Leaning heavily on his crosier, and surveying the crowd beneath his enameled mitre, he stopped beside the Altar and held up his hand in benediction. With rain still pouring from the heavens, the priest began his Mass at the open-air altar and blessed the Tricolor flapping hard against its pole like a great wet towel. At Connor's raised eyebrow, Paine said, "That is Deputy Talleyrand, the Bishop of Autun." Smiling, he identified him further with the title, "'Le diable boiteux.' I would not have chosen him to bless the occasion – or anyone, for that matter – but there's statesmanship for you. The people enjoy hearing stories."
After the Mass ended, General Motier took over the proceedings. The sun burst through the clouds, and the rain miraculously ceased as Gilbert, looking down his long nose, surveyed the motley ranks below him from his high white charger: forty thousand National Guardsmen, a vagrant battalion of children and youths, another of grizzled veterans, companies of professional soldiers and sailors of His Majesty's Armed Forces, delegates from the new departments of France, and embassies from all the nations of the Earth. Trotting past the Altar to the Fatherland, he turned his steed toward the pavilion – the French Guard parted to let him through, and as he arrived at the feet of the King, he dismounted to receive his permission to administer the patriotic oath to his subjects. After a nod from Louis, the General marched back down through the rows of bayonets and, as he climbed the steps to the Altar, Talleyrand directed him to the inscription on its side. He drew his saber and raised it to the brightening sky, declaring, in a loud voice, the patriotic oath: "I, Gilbert du Motier, as Captain of the National Guard of Paris, do, on behalf of the People, swear forever to be faithful to the Nation, to the Law and to the King, to uphold with all our might the Constitution as decided by the National Assembly and accepted by the King, and to protect according to the laws the safety of people and properties, transit of grains and food within the kingdom, the public contributions under whatever forms they might exist, and to stay united with all the French with the indestructible bounds of brotherhood."
The heady blend of religious sentiment and militarism went down well with the crowd, and in this symbolic way the whole of France gave its support to the Revolutionary actions of Paris. As one, the multitude affirmed the patriotic oath by declaring the national motto of the Constitutional Kingdom: "La Nation, la Loi, le Roi!"
Lafayette was followed by the President of the National Assembly. Eventually, His Majesty extracted his arm from within his embroidered jacket and, standing, raised his hand skyward. The King took his oath: "I, Louis of House Bourbon, the Sixteenth of My Name, do, as King of the French, swear to use the power given to me by the constitutional law of the State, to maintain the Constitution as decided by the National Assembly and accepted by myself, and to enforce the laws and uphold its decrees."Immediately, a ripple effect coursed through the crowd – mostly thankful murmuring that his regnal style had been shortened, but the people also expressed amazement. The title Louis had given himself - "King of the French" – was an effort to create a new type of monarchy: one which based its right to rule on the support of the People, rather than the sacred right of royal blood, and his descent from Henri III of Navarre, who had ruled as Henri IV of France, as illustrated in by his old, dynastic title – "King of France and Navarre."
Suddenly, Connor noticed Riquetti sidle next to Her Majesty and bend down towards her, murmuring in her ear. She frowned, but nodded to the deputy and, as the Mentor subtly retreated, the Queen rose and grabbed the hand of the Dauphin, the future Louis XVII, and raised them both to the Altar, crying, "This is my son, who, like me, joins in the same sentiments." This, apparently, was the end of the day's oath-taking – and Her Majesty's subjects, their grievances against her seemingly forgotten, burst into acclamations and applause, many even bursting into song. The instruments that had been paraded in by the French now began to play in earnest, underscoring the singing and jubilations of the crowd with the royal anthem to the Green Gallant:
Au diable guerres
Rancunes et partis!
Commes nos pères
Chantons en vrais amis!
Vive la France,
Vive le roi Henri!
Vive la France,
Vive le roi Louis!
"'Long live King Louis?' That was more than a little shoehorned in. Couldn't have been more overt, could they? Well, that nonsense is done," said Paine, gruffly. "Come on John, Connor – the madness now moves to a feast at the Château de La Muette. I hear the Mongolfier Brothers have set up another one of their hot air balloons in the garden – have you ever been in one, Connor? It's worth the jaunt for that alone!"
Le Marais,
Paris, France
26 July, 1790
IT'S ALL OVER FOR US! Five or six hundred heads lopped off would have assured you repose and happiness; a false humanity has restrained your arm and suspended your blows; it will cost the lives of millions of your brothers. ~ 'L'ami du peuple'
"Six hundred heads?" Connor blinked rapidly at the flyer Marat had just nailed to a post in the Marais quarter, not quite comprehending the depth of his ferocity. Marat had asked Connor to join him on a mission, yes, but this was a tad too extreme, for his tastes."Surely you jest, Marat! A few Germans at the border won't plunge the country into anarchy quite yet! And anyway, after the beheadings, where on earth would you put the damned things?!"
Almost two weeks after the grand-scale Festival of Federation, word reached the Assassin Order regarding Anne Théroigne – the Austrians had interrogated the Assassin fiercely, and now they had asked permission from the 'King of the French' to cross His Majesty's border (presumably to search for her accomplices). The Emperor Leopold II was doubtless concerned for his sister's safety, and was ready to pounce on the divided Kingdom - and if the Holy Roman Empire happened to gain some new territory in the endeavor, well, that would only be a happy accident! Marat – recently returned from hiding in London, and still a wanted transient - had, as usual, quickly escalated the situation, far beyond what was probably required. A few more patrols, perhaps hastened recruitments along the border with the Austrian Netherlands were called for; but the brutal execution of so many innocent people was simply madness to Connor's ears.
"What? Me?" Marat blinked innocently at Connor – or, at least, he tried to come off as innocent; the open sores and inflamed rashes on his face terribly undermined that effort. "Connor, I am surprised at you! I would never call for any actual bloodshed! I'm just trying to make a strong impression – this is simply journalistic integrity, or creative license, if you will, never mind what that censorious Malouet would have you believe. We must destroy the nation's fatal sense of security! Counterrevolution is stirring within the Provinces, and all over Europe – CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" His sudden proclamation made Connor jump, surprised by his vehemence – though he really shouldn't have been, by this point. "Just a week ago, Austrians were prancing through the streets of Paris, and now they amass on our borders in droves, at the behest of l'Autrichienne – soon, they will spill over, silencing the People's Revolution for the rest of time! Besides, what are some hundred aristocrats to the citizens of Paris? Should the Austrians decide to march on this city, they will find it divided amongst itself – the Third Estate will be leveled, and their bones shall lay the foundations for a New Bastille. The King will then reign, triumphant, on the ashes of Liberty."
Connor restrained himself from raising his voice in protest – as Marat had been the one to do most of the dividing, in his view – yet he simply said, "Let us suppose the nobility have conspired with Austria. What of it? We need only be more vigilant, and persecute these Teutons more fiercely. Do you have so little faith in the Brotherhood?"
"Yes." Marat's wide mouth scowled, as if he had smelt a soured egg. "You might not be aware of as much as I, mon ami. Our good Mentor Riquetti, ci-devant comte de Mirabeau, is no stranger to debt – yet he has suddenly come into a great deal of money, and he's been far from discreet with it. Now doubtless, you've not taken a look at the Order's financial log, but I've made it a tendency to do so, and I have made a discovery. Two years ago, Riquetti was obliged to send his breeches to the pawnshop to get six francs; today he swims in opulence – he even has three mistresses, whom he showers with gifts! I did warn you, you know – he's a nobleman, a blue-blooded leech, through and through. No doubt, he's secured promises from Leopold and his sister, that despicable woman… I've connected the dots, you see. They are rather glaring in hindsight, they always are! It was Riquetti who informed on Mlle. Théroigne de Marcourt, that she was visiting Belgium, that she was plotting against the life of our glorious Queen, and that the Austrians were welcome to her. It was Riquetti who informed the Queen on our movements, and that we have a great many of our number patrolling the Tuileries – that's why she was so eager to flee to Saint-Cloud for the spring. It was Riquetti who opposed the abolition of titles and who advocated the retainment of his feudal holdings. In short, our Mentor has abandoned the Brotherhood; he has made himself a friend of the Queen, and any who befriends the Queen makes himself an enemy of the People. Doubtless, he fancies himself a new Al Mualim; but, by the precedent set by Mentor Altaïr, the punishment for treachery – even by a Mentor - is death."
Marat's mention of Théroigne certainly caught his attention. His mind was doing cartwheels as he tried to fill in the puzzle the good doctor had laid out before him. He remembered the comte de Mirabeau lambasting Stephane and he, ordering them to show restraint in the streets. He remembered the same comte, ordering them both to save the Queen. He remembered asking the Mentor about Théroigne's well-being, and he remembered Riquetti smiling, mockingly, and his only reply had been, of course, 'It'll be fine!' Still, Connor was not one to betray the trust of his tutors, based on the accusations of another, no matter how shady their dealings or actions. "You speak of treason."
"Treason?" Marat actually stopped and looked incredulously at Connor. "Ah, but you are truly wedded to that precious honor of yours! Well, I hope that honor warms you in the grave, for that is the only place it will take you!"
"Truly, Dr. Marat, there is no warmer place than the Earth's warm embrace, no? One would hardly need to cuddle with honor, in that case." From a side alley stepped what Connor almost took for a blind woman, ragged and wrinkled, her long, pale hair hanging limply along her shoulders – yet she still gripped her staff stiffly and resolutely, and her eyes were too directed at Marat to be blind. It was then that he noticed a Star of David amulet clasped to her neck, and a glimpse of white beneath her soot-stained attire.
"Madame Berr," croaked Marat, respectfully slipping off his shoddy, mud-encrusted hat. It was a surreal sight, to see the short, poisonous man before him acting the gentleman. Still, the Assassin got the feeling that this gesture was more out of respect for the woman's advanced age and experience, rather than her station in life. The Nokmim smiled at the doctor and, taking his arm, began to walk with them. "You have news regarding our belovedMentor?"
"Oui, Doctor." The old Jewess's eyes darted about vigilantly, as if Mirabeau's spies would leap upon them at any moment. She pursed her pleated lips and said, morosely, "I will be plain with you, Marat – I do not like this. Riquetti, for all his faults, has fought well for our rights as citizens of France. He has led us ably, since the Twins died – and I do not think now is the right time for new leadership. France is too volatile for such a transition. A single spark and the powder keg will explode."
"King Louis also emancipated the Jews, up to a point – and that is all we shall ever get, so long as the current government remains in power. As for the nation's volatility - all the more reason to expose him for the fraud he is! The Brotherhood is at stake, Madame! Liberty is at stake! Remember the Creed!"
She drew a breath and let loose a long-suffering sigh, well befitting her age, and then, grudgingly, lips pursed, she bobbed her head in affirmation. "He has purchased a large property in le Marais – quite close to M. Robespierre's second-floor flat, conveniently enough. This brings me to why we asked you here, M. Connor…"
Apparently, he had only been chosen for this reconnaissance mission due to his youth (Madame Berr's leaping days were long gone, sadly) and silence (Marat, perhaps justly, thought himself too loud to undertake most of their covert operations.) So it was that Connor found himself perched on a branch beside the a third-story window at Riquetti's new estate in the Marais district. From what Connor could make out from this tentative position, Gabriel Riquetti – or Mirabeau, as he was being referred to in the conversation - was receiving last-minute details from the court favorite of Her Majesty, Comte Axel von Ferson the Younger. "…Louis-Philippe d'Orléans returned to Paris earlier in July, M. Mirabeau."
"Well, that is very fortunate! Now he can move to the Tuileries, and the Bourbons can all stew together, one unhappy family, hated by the Mob!" He snorted. "For the Revolution to succeed, the King must escape this city. His Majesty is a prisoner in Paris; have him relocated the capital to the Provinces - best of all to Rouen – once there, he should appeal to the Nation at large and summon a great convention. When the People have gathered, the King must recognized the great changes that have swept across France, that feudalism and absolutism have forever disappeared, and that a new relationship between King and People must arise. To establish this new Constitutional Kingdom will not be difficult; the People do not want a Republic – those jackaknapes in les Cordeliers might, but France – the Bocage, the Marais Charette, Anjou and Brittany - will always answer the call of her King."
"A fine plan, Monsieur; now, regarding that Assassin recently taken into custody-"
Mirabeau interrupted the Swede. "I've already sent word to the Hochmeister regarding Mlle. Théroigne: if he does not find any evidence for a plot against the life of Her Majesty, the Queen, then Théroigne must be returned to the Brotherhood immediately! There's no sense in keeping her without cause. And I won't brook any of this border-crossing nonsense either! The boundaries of the Constitutional Kingdom of the French are inviolable, and shall remain so long as I live! The Queen does not need any more protection from the Teutons - any more, and the Brotherhood will become suspicious."
"I shall relay this information to Her Majesty and the Austrian ambassador. It shan't be a long drive to the Tuileries." A chair scoot. "One last word, M. Mirabeau… You do know there's a gland popping up on your neck, yes?"
"Oui, oui, that's very interesting," said Mirabeau, dismissively. "Now remember, it's six-thousand francs per month. I shan't accept any of those damned assignats from Their Majesties – only gold, or I expose this entire arrangement to the National Assembly, the Cordeliers, and to the Brotherhood, and we shall all dance from the Lanterne together!"
After making his report, Connor stood before Marat as he said, practically oozing with satisfaction (and other liquids besides), "Well now, it appears we can make a case for his treachery – he has broken all three Tenets of the Creed: he has compromised the Brotherhood through Théroigne de Marcourt; he has revealed himself to the enemy, the Order of St. Lazarus; and he has, through his actions, brought death upon millions of innocent men and women. By allying himself with the corrupt, he has made himself an enemy of the peace we have striven so hard to obtain in the world. Riquetti has purchased himself many fine things of late, but they will cost him far more than gold or assignats – if you would learn anything from the Assassins of Paris, Connor, learn this: to break the Creed is death."
"Be'ezrat hashem." Madame Berr nodded, resigned to the present course of action. "Shall I gather the Nokmim? I've set them on various paths of patrols around Robespierre's flat, but I can have them all rallied and within Riquetti's new estate by the stroke of midnight, if need be – it would be a simple matter, and I'm sure we could eventually find a Lanterne sturdy enough for him..."
Marat paused; lips twisted in thought, then shook his head, shrugging. "No, no… Riquetti has long been afflicted with recurrent afflictions. Why bother risking everything in a single night? If he is half dead already, then we shall simply add another half: the old methods will do. They're not quite as fun, but they're just as effective, all the same." Marat smiled. "And, of course, a successor must be chosen for the task of Mentor – I have several candidates that might be worth your consideration. Now, whilst we depose Riquetti, another blow shall be dealt against the Regime elsewhere. I will send word to Colonel Santerre in Saint-Antoine…"
Connor grasped his way into the conversation at that point. "So, are you going to disappear after this meeting as well, M. Marat? Where can I find you after this?"
The physician scowled. "Doctor Marat! I didn't go through all those years of medical school – in damned Scotland, of all places - to have Monsieurs thrown at me… Anyway, I set up shop in the Cordeliers district back in January – Danton has been quite accommodating, and the neighbors are all suitably Revolutionary. It's right on the rue des Cordeliers, in fact. We shall begin our plans there; it's not as bourgeois as the Hôtel de Lafayette, but-"
Connor interrupted him. "You are not suggesting that I join you in this operation of yours, are you? I am not a Frenchman – I have no say in your choice of leadership. Nor do I want it." The Colonial Brotherhood, while less traditional, had also been much more honorable – there had been none of this skulking in the dark and grandiose power plays on the part of its individual members. For all of its faults, he desperately desired to be home again, at the Davenport Homestead, with all of its rough charm and open honesty.
"You are the Mentor of the American Assassins, yes? Well, here it is – the perils of leadership!" Marat spread his arms wide and, mockingly, twirled before Connor, cackling, appearing as a ragged specter foretelling his doom. "Whenever there is a man with power, there are so many more that covet it – for good or ill, oui, they covet it. Ever since the Rebellion of Adam and Eve, when we became aware of the power lorded over us, we have wanted it for our own. That is why I wanted you to come here today – to learn, to abide, and to keep the Assassin's Creed. That, not your fledgling honor, is how you survive the position. Oh, but don't you worry yourself, Connor. You are only a French Novice, after all – we certainly cannot involve you too much in this sort of scheming. Besides, it is tedious work, staging a coup; not the sort of party you'd be interested in. Run along, now – we will take care of everything. Ça ira!"
Journée des brouettes: (French) 'Wheelbarrow Day.' The demolition of the Bastille and the construction of the Altar to the Fatherland was done all by hand. Buncha lazy kids nowadays, with your bulldozers and your easy access…
Sassenach: (Scots Gaelic) 'Anglo-Saxon,' a derogative phrase used by the Scots for the English.
Vive l'Amerique: (French) 'Long live America!' Heh, probably a rare saying in Paris, nowadays…
Gustafs skål: (Swedish) 'Toast to Gustaf,' a salutatory song to King Gustaf III of Sweden, who ended the parliamentary Age of Liberty in his country and became an autocrat.
Le diable boiteux: (French) 'The lame devil,' a popular title for Talleyrand. I'm not sure when he received it, so I just slid it in there. His cameo shall be brief, sadly…
Be'ezrat hashem: (Hebrew) 'God willing.'
Ah! The exposition! It burns! Ah… I think I just turned Connor into a naval fanboy. Should I be laughing, or screaming?
John Paul Jones – along with John Barry – is considered the Father of the United States Navy, and then went on to briefly serve Catherine II the Great in the Russian Imperial Navy. (He was also one of the first American citizens to be implicated in a sex scandal overseas, but that's another matter entirely~!)
Count Axel von Ferson of Sweden was known womanizer, and a court favorite of Marie Antoinette. He was also said to be the clandestine lover of the Queen. I'm not sure as to the validity of those rumors, but all of the Queen's children shared traits with that of the King.
Robespierre had once kneeled before Louis in the rain – now he stood behind him out of the rain. We're makin' progress, people!
The Franco-Ottoman Alliance was formed by King Francis I and Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent to combat the growing power of Hapsburg Austria. In response, the Austrians allied with the Safavids of Persia, who frequently clashed with the Ottomans over territory in Mesopotamia. It never ends, does it?
The École des Cadets-gentilshommes accepted Napoleon Bonaparte back in 1784, who graduated a year early. He's not in this chapter, sadly, so here's Talleyrand for you! (Danger: Fragile! *kneeslap*)
The Montgolfier brothers performed the first manned ascent in recorded history (or Templar history, rather.) This feat was performed via a device called the 'globe aérostatique', the modern hot-air balloon, and was witnessed by Their Majesties and by Benjamin Franklin. I figure this contraption will make future appearances…
