I've been looking forward to this chapter for a long time… Things are actually beginning to happen! Also, college has begun. Yay~ -.-;
firelordzuko: Thank you very much for those corrections last chapter! Please forgive my American centricity. It's hard to shake out of one's head… However, I offer no excuse for that 'A l'Auditore' nonsense. That was just amateur!
Chapter IX: Fusillade
"What shall become of liberty? Some say it is finished..."
~ Revolutions de Paris, 18 July, 1791
Les Cordeliers "Citoyen!
Paris, France
Tuesday, 12 July, 1791
The regular crowds permeated the Cordelier Club in southern Paris, on the Left Bank of the River Seine. Connor – flanked by Marat and Stephane – was jostled to and fro amongst the compressed multitudes. Having to – frankly – shove his way through to a good view point, the Assassin peered up at the man that had sidestepped M. Danton in order to mount the speaker's rostrum in the center of the refectory. He had a long nose and a stern countenance, looking all the part of a harsh and unmerciful schoolmaster. His forehead was deeply lined, as if he had spent a great amount of time with his brows raised, contemplating some deep manner of philosophical importance. His dark, thinning hair had been forged into coils at the nape of his neck, to forego the wig famed throughout Europe (and it had been left unpowdered in support of the Third Estate, with flour being in such short supply in Paris.) Connor leaned over to Marat and asked, "Who is that, now?"
"L'Ami des Noirs: Jacques-Pierre Brissot." Marat smiled. "We have a mutual friend from Marseilles, but I can't say I'm too fond of the man. Politics, you understand…"
Brissot shuffled a few sheets of paper to his left and, grasping the rail with his right, glared down at the people below him. "No more! No more half-measures, no more compromises, in the face of the indecision, the hypocrisy, of the National Assembly! We are surrounded by enemies, all chomping at the bit whilst we dither away in our procedures and debates!" Brissot raised his left hand, and brandishing them like a baton, he proclaimed, "I have drawn up a petition demanding the removal of this supposed King of the French! It is now up to you, Cordeliers! With your support, this petition should be placed on the Autel de la Patrie in the Champ de Mars to be signed by the people of Paris!Let the General Will succeed where the Assembly has failed! Vive la Revolution!"
A man thumped his table in agreement. "Vive la Republique!" The crowd began to chant. "Vive la Republique!" Brissot's lips twitched in pleasure, yet they pursed in credulity, and as he stepped down from the podium, he was approached by M. Danton, arms folded behind his back, no doubt to discuss the arrangements to be made at the Champ-de-Mars in the next few days.
Marat snickered. "Ah, the bleating of the sheep." Turning aside, he headed for the exit, Connor right on his plagued heels. The journalist was given a far wider berth by the crowd than they had given Connor – nor could he really blame them for that precaution. "You will notice, Monsieurs, that Brissot never really called for a Republic; not that he doesn't want one, Brissot's a Republican of a different stripe. No, that petition likely calls for 'the constitutional accession for Louis the Umpteenth' or some nonsense… I say, if you're going to push for change, you should at least be forthright about it… and mow down en masse those that stand rooted before progress."
Connor asked, "And you support a Republic, do you, Marat?"
The journalist replied, "Actually, I'm for a dictator – one who can lay hands on the known traitors of France, one who could rid us of our mortal enemies-"
"A dictator?" Connor blinked in confusion. "Do you mean to paint yourself as a Templar?"
"You purposefully misunderstand me. We Assassins safeguard Liberty, yes; but Liberty must be defended, by blood; else she holds no bite. Hence, we give ourselves free reign to murder Templars, those cretins that would steal away our rights. A dictator, in the vogue of Philippe le Bel, would have similar reign – and I assure you, Free Will would be forever beyond the Templars' reach under such a regime. But a Republic is the next logical step in that process. And the biggest roadblock to the FrenchRepublic is, of course, M. du Motier. The National Guard was established to put down these sorts of populist movements after the fall of the Bastille. We can be certain that he will disperse the People at the Champ de Mars on the day of the petitioning." Marat frowned now. "You superseded my orders once, Connor, in saving him. Then, Riqueti was Mentor; now, I am. My orders to you: do not interfere."
Stephane spoke up then; likely still scathing from his demotion after his failed mission last month. "You know, with all this talk of rolling heads and ruling despots, I cannot help but wonder: Was there ever a moment when you weren't a poisonous toad, Marat?"
The physician laughed. "Oh, yes, far back in my infancy, I too suckled from the teat of supplication! Yes, I was a moderate for a time, M. Stephane; this was back during the early days, when the Estates-General had first been called and I assumed tutelage under M. Riquetti. I then entered into a dialogue with him and his colleagues. The grievances of the People, I exposed to them, and their responding silence spoke volumes. Ah, but the opulent ignorant are willfully so! So, I became the People's Friend. I maintained a severe but honest tone, never breaking one of society's conventions. I whispered; I was ignored. I spoke louder; I was heard. I shouted; I was obeyed." He twirled back to the two, eyes blazing. "And that, Monsieurs, is why I am so 'poisonous'. Why I renounced demureness for castigation. Why I will continue to do so. In moderation, there is weakness. In radicalization, there is power. Take Brissot's petition, for instance. It is weak, moderate. It will accomplish little, in truth. The laws of this Nation have only ever been designed to oppress, and the Assembly will continue as it will, signatures or no. I must now appeal to the Sovereign People."
Champ-de-Mars
Paris, France
Thursday, 14 July, 1791
'Lafayette intends to fire on the people; therefore, I intend to have the general assassinated.' ~ L'Ami du Peuple, J.P. Marat, editor
"Ah, Marat," said Danton wondrously. "The man scorned by Lady Subtlety! Or was it the other way 'round?"
He, Connor, and Stephane were currently lounging in the famed wine-shop of St. Antoine, run by the Defarges (a rather peculiar locale that – where there had once been a great bloody fortress in the center of the district, now was a monstrous gaping square that not a single person had the slightest idea to do with.) It was a fair enough establishment, nary a leak nor louse to be found. Granted, they were competitors with Santerre, but Danton had recommended the Defarges, saying that they were "slightly more fun" than the Assassin lieutenant (the Defarges themselves were not too impressed by this assessment.)
The Second Fête de la Fédération had been the opposite of the first, just as Lafayette had predicted. First off, where there had once been scattered rain, there had now been gleaming sunshine. Secondly, where a festive unity had permeated the first Festival, it had been nowhere in evidence in the second. Despite being expanded to hold more participants than before, the original crowd had dwindled. The Royal Family had declined to attend – feigning, perhaps, sickness or just disinterest. The National Constituent Assembly, instead of turning out in force to view the ceremony, had only sent a token deputation of twenty-four deputies, Robespierre among them. There had been no foreign dignitaries to report the proceedings back to their home nations. Gilbert had been prominent on his gleaming steed, but there had been no cheers to greet him on the Champ de Mars – only a bleak and defiant silence. Finally, when the General had retaken the Oath to the Constitution and the King, the crowd turned sour, proclaiming "No more King!" "Vive la Republique!" The only man happy with all of these changes was Thomas Paine – he had described it only as 'a grand occasion, with nary a blue-blood in sight.' Connor was not sure how Gilbert had reacted to that, but the Hotel de Lafayette must surely be a more awkward abode by now.
Stephane frowned at the paper. "Is there any truth to it, do you think?"
Danton shrugged and leaned back in his seat, rocking to and fro, despite it being a four legged chair. "Who knows? Marat is half-mad, half-genius; but, as it happens, we have been tipped off – the Cordeliers battalion has been confined to our district for the weekend. That does not bode well, in my opinion."
Connor stared out into space, thinking. Then, "Can't you stop it? Stop the whole thing happening?"
"What, the crowds? They wouldn't listen. They've all turned out for Bastille Day. For them, the petition is just another addendum to it. And I can't speak for Lafayette." Danton looked pointedly at Connor, at this.
The Assassin sighed. "… I will try to reason with him. He's my friend; that must count for something." Yet he could not help the feeling that he was less than able for the task set before him.
Hôtel de Ville
Paris, France
Friday, 15 July, 1791
General Gilbert du Motier, ci-devant Marquis de La Fayette, and Commander of the National Guard, addressed the Paris Commune the very next day. "I am informed that an irresponsible group of citizens from the Cordeliers section plan to march on the Champ de Mars to proclaim a republic!" The Paris Commune burst into outrage, a hundred or so infuriated voices, each clamoring to be heard, each vowing to their colleagues that it is they who seek to defend the Nation, not them – Mayor Bailly rings the ceremonial bell, and the chimes echo throughout the hall, summoning the Communards to silence. Gilbert, gratified, continued. "I must therefore ask you to pass a decree of martial law to suppress all illegal assemblies! Do not forget the men that were hung on the footsteps of this very building! The success of the Revolution depends on the safety of Paris!" The prospect of an armed suppression of the people does nothing to faze their own representatives, it seems – they even deign to give the good General a standing ovation.
"Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine!
"VIVE LA FAYETTE!"
Mayor Bailly called for the votes to proceed to the floor – a plurality, no, a majority was in favor of martial law. Turning to the rostrum, he said, "We have entrusted our General with sweeping powers, for the moment being; let order be swiftly restored to Paris, in the name of the Constitution and the King! Vive la Royaume des Français!" With that, Bailly rung the bell a second time, and the Communards stood as one, all of them clamoring for the exit, eventually congesting the flow of movement through the outer halls.
Gilbert, however, had not yet left the podium before he spotted a white robed man storm up to him at the rostrum. The Assassin asked, "Is it true?"
The General asked, calmly, "Is what true?"
Connor's eyes narrowed. He was not in the mood for word games. "Do you plan to fire on the people?"
"If they insist on forcing a confrontation, yes, I must. I swore an oa-"
"To hell with the oath!" His voice echoed throughout the Commune chamber, resonating with the voices of Paris. He pushed on. "These are your people, your fellow countrymen! Would you mow them down en masse just to protect your cowardly King?"
Gilbert coldly replied, "His Majesty was ill-advised, when he escaped Paris. It will not happen again."
"How many times must this man fail for you to recognize that he is the problem, not the advisors?"
"He has discarded countless royal privileges, emancipated the Clergy, abolished the Nobility, and even now wears the patriotic cockade before the National Assembly. And you accuse him of conservatism?" Gilbert shook his head, disgustedly. "I have had enough of this; I have drilling to conduct. Adieu, Connor." And with that, the former Marquis de La Fayette took his leave.
Grinding his teeth in rage, Connor stalked through the halls of the Hotel de Ville, unimpeded for a great while, before he ran across a pristine politician – a rare sight these days. It could only be Maximilien Robespierre, and it was; he had attended the appeal in an olive green jacket and his wig was rolled back in that tight bun, as usual. He had just taken off his glasses in the center of the hallway when he caught sight of the Assassin and nodded his head, saying, "M. Connor. May I speak with you a moment?" After he nodded his assent, Robespierre joined Connor in his rutmaking, pacing about the Hall. "So, what do you think? Will the General fire on the people?"
Connor had no answer for the deputy. Instead, he said, "When I first came here to France, all Lafayette could speak of was transforming Paris. He spoke of liberating the city and restoring it to its former glory; what that glory is, I cannot say. It certainly is not this current state of affairs: the King, gone, his relatives, scheming, and Lafayette… well, he's supporting a rotten mast. He can stand by it all he likes, yet I fear he will only be crushed by it."
"A rather astute observation of the man – but you would know him better than I." Robespierre smiled at the Assassin. "So, the Revolutionary became a Reactionary? Well, you say he began on a high note – and there are many who wish to rid France of her ailments, with virtue in their heart and justice in their hands. Perhaps the General simply lost sight of the main objective? Perhaps he could be persuaded, at the very end? If anyone can change his opinion, M. Connor, I do think it could be you. My advice would be to go to the Champ de Mars early on and convince him that his dream – Rosseau's dream - is still alive – we can transform Paris. Why, we can even transform the world!" This seemed to be a rather passionate topic for the young lawyer, as his eyes acquired a childish gleam and his smile became genuine. However he frowned and looked away from Connor, saying, "I supported the petition early on, and I still do, morally; however, tomorrow, the Assembly plans on declaring the King inviolable, and the Jacobins will want to retract their support of the petitioning. I plan on spending Sunday trying to convince them otherwise. Would you please deliver my regrets to Camille? I know it means very much to him."
"I would be honored to, yes." That was one thing about Robespierre – despite his cold diffidence, he genuinely cared for his childhood friend. It was almost enough to calm Connor down from his black mood. Almost. "I will try to reason with Lafayette once more… But I fear I have less influence on him than most…"
Champ-de-Mars
Paris, France
3:00 p.m., Sunday, 17 July, 1791
The day before, the King had been declared inviolable by the National Constituent Assembly. The Jacobins, as Robepsierre predicted, withdrew support of the petition. The Cordeliers, however, were not so easily swayed. Even without the Jacobins, they had roused the sleeping giant. Up to ten thousand souls gathered on the Sunday after the Fête de la Fédération on the Champ de Mars. The petition had been posted on the Altar to the Fatherland – which had been 'remodeled' sometime during the last few months. The year before, 1790, it had read, "la Nation, la Loi, le Roi"; now, 1791, the dedication read, "la Nation, la Loi, le -"; the last word had been effaced. The King had fled. There was no King. From the Altar to the Fatherland, the physician scanned the crowds in the Champ de Mars, muttering to himself and noting distinguished Revolutionary patriots amongst the throng. "Hebert. Brissot. Desmoulins. Barbaroux." Marat frowned – he had come up short. "Where is Danton? And Robespierre?"
"The Jacobins withdrew their support for the petition, not two days ago. Robespierre said he would be at the Club today – he's trying to change their mind before the Assembly meets again. Danton…" Connor trailed off meaningfully and Marat cursed.
"Marat! Mentor Marat!" A pair of Assassins rushed up to the Mentor. "We've disposed with a pair of spies! They had been hiding beneath a platform, just this morning!"
"Were they, now? Show them to me." With a determined stride, Marat sprung towards the center of the Champ de Mars, followed sluggishly by Connor and Camille. There, hanging from a few scattered posts beneath the shadow of the Autel de La Patrie, were two ragged men, likely homeless from the looks of them, all whiskers and dirt. Staring up at them dispassionately, Marat smiled and said, "So, is this what these Lazarenes think of us? Unwashed, huddled masses too simple to hide in plain sight?" Marat turned to Desmoulins and said, grinning, "I believe this is your department, Prosecutor – they have been killed a la lanterne. Was this your doing?"
"Non; I was here, but this was the will of the Sovereign People. Who knows what mischief these traitors could have undertook if-"
"Did you have any proof?" Connor's tone had turned icy, yet his incendiary gaze scorched a path to Camille's. "Were these men, in fact, Lazarenes?"
"What does it matter? They certainly did themselves no help by cowering in the dark. If they did not care to come out into the light, then they are better strung up, don't you think?" By now, tocsins and bells had begun to ring in the neighboring districts; all of the Left Bank had to have heard of the lynchings by now, and it would only be a matter of time before the Garde National brought its celestial fury down upon the protestors. However, since it was Sunday, the petitioners likely just assumed this was the letting out of the General Mass – indeed, the crowds were peaceful, festive, and – perhaps for lack of a better word – loiterous.
"You have doomed us all, Desmoulins," Connor spat hatefully. "What you have delivered onto these two will be brought down around us tenfold."
"Well, we needn't hold our breath, M. Connor," said Marat, quite unhelpfully. "Here they come now."
Into the vast Field of the Federation marched the National Guard of Constitutional Kingdom of the French. There were three contingents of soldiers that entered the area – one, from the southeast, surged around the military school. Another came through a lower area, and a third opened the northwestern gate and marched down from the Grande Rue de Chaillot, which let out near the River Seine. General du Motier was instantly recognizable on his white charger, and there was a new element as well – where once the National Guard proudly flew the Tricolor of the French Kingdom, now they only absconded with a red banner, which violently snapped in the breeze, abandoned by its brother colors and calling for blood.
Jacques-Pierre Brissot, L'Ami des Noirs, stood and rested his right hand on the Autel de la Patrie. With a booming voice, he appealed to the National Guard. "Citoyen! You have no right to be here, under arms! Join us, and sign my petition! The King has betrayed you, just as much as he betrayed us!"
The beat of drums and of marching feet clashed against the merrymaking. The National Guard formed ranks before the Altar, Gilbert du Motier leading them from atop his snowy charger. Gilbert trotted up before his ranks and glanced up at the ceremonial column at the side, from which the two men had been hung. They now swayed in the breeze, like some ghastly spectators to the events unfolding below them. The General's mouth pursed in disgust, then turned back to the crowds and proclaimed, "In the name of the National Constituent Assembly, and the Commune of Paris, I order you to disperse!"
Shouts of, "Traitor!" and "Lazarene!" burst from the crowd – as did a volley of stones. The former Marquis' horse shied away, whinnying in fear as rocks fell around it. "Keep ranks!"
"Gilbert!" Connor quickly ascended a few steps to the Altar, and said, "You must not do this! Please! Give up this madness now!"
The General's head tilted slightly in his direction, his plumed hat bowing to the Assassin; but he did not look directly at him. Instead, he addressed the crowd, ordering, "Go home quietly, all of you. The Revolution shall reach its conclusion at the appointed time, with His Majesty's blessings. You have my word! You all know me, you can trust me!"
It was then that Marat made his voice heard. The People's Friend sauntered up to the edge of the Altar to the Fatherland and gestured at the General, crying, "Join us, Lafayette! Join us! Then, and only then, will we trust you!"
"I beg you, do not make me use force!"
Marat snarled, "Traitor! You wouldn't dare!"
The General was not impressed. He cried, "Gentlemen, make ready!" and bayonets were leveled at the people. "Take aim!" cried Gilbert. At this, the multitude surged forth, and stones were flung once more. Ducking his head under one such projectile, he added, "Above their heads!" The tips were aimed to the heavens. "Fusiller!" The guns discharged into the sky, smoke bursting from their carriages and thunder cracking in the fields. The crowd recoiled, tightening against the Altar for protection.
Desmoulins pointed at the Guard and yelled, "They want to frighten us! They're shooting blanks!" However, the distinct pinging of metal unveiled this as a falsehood, but this was (fatally) ignored. As the butts of the rifles were prodded into the ground, and the long process of reloading was begun, powder rammed back into the barrels, the crowd laughed and jeered at their ordeal.
Stephane cursed. "For the love of Christ, if that boy doesn't shut up…!"
Suddenly, Connor was a boy again – the open field of the Champ de Mars transformed into a broad boulevard - King Street. High colonial buildings framed the street, and the Autel de la Patrie became a towering red brick building, a lion and a unicorn supporting the roof; symbols of the British monarchy. In the shadow of the Massachusetts Town House, Redcoats were again showered with stones, and from some deep place within the crowd (or was it from atop a ceiling?), a man fire a shot at their commander at point-blank range, but unaccountably missed. Captain Preston (or was it General du Motier?) set his jaw. "Take aim!" The rifles were again lowered. He did not call for them to aim higher a second time. "Fusillade!" Bullets were jettisoned into the crowds – where there had once been stones, now lead ruled the skies. One of them pieced Connor in the chest – a ripping sound was heard, and, gasping for breath, his white robes now stained with blood, he collapsed.
The people had called for the end of Louis' reign.
Now, Terror reigned in the streets of Paris.
Above the gunfire, Marat called for women and children to flee first. They hardly needed any more encouragement than that – a child was already among the first victims, followed by at least a score of wives. Within minutes, only a hundred of the petitioners remained on the Autel de la Patrie, the rest having scattered throughout the adjoined districts and roads, crashing through gates and pouring over crates in order to escape the massacre. The volunteer soldiers of the National Guard – distinguished by their shabby uniforms and dark leers – gave chase, pelting across the field into Paris proper, eager for plunder and slaughter, despite the protests of their commanding officers, heralds blowing futilely on their horns the command to regroup. Stephane, dumbfounded, had watched as Connor collapsed into the ground – and how Lafayette, dispassionately, had ordered another reload of the Guardsmens' musketry. Falling down on one knee beside his Mentor and propped him up against his shoulder. The Guardsmen were advancing on the Altar, Lafayette still astride that damned horse, calling for the cavalry to seal off the trio of exits and take the petitioners on the Altar into custody.
Mon Dieu, they actually brought in cavalry? We'll all be slaughtered! It was true: the terrible splintering of hoof on bone was the first portent of the horsemen's' arrival. Off to the right side of the Altar was a regiment of horse, most likely brought in from the French Army on the Austrian frontier. Shaking his head, Stephane slipped Connor's arm over his shoulder and followed his fellow Assassins down the steps and towards the eastern sections of Paris; Lafayette had taken the north of the Field, and the horsemen had quickly barred off the western gate. They rode across the Field of the Federation bearing the red flag of martial law at its head. Flying beneath that flag was another banner – a tricolored cross, inscribed with the motto, '6e Régiment de Dragons'. Dragons. They bore no resemblance to their mythic counterparts; these were simply men, mounted infantry or light cavalry in fact, swiftly borne into battle on the backs of their equine steeds and either dismounting to fight hand to hand, or conducting hit and run tactics on their routed enemies. In this case, however, the Dragoons seemed remarkably restrained compared to Lafayette's pouring infantry. Stephane wondered why they were not immediately charging after the fleeing citizens into the city – but then he noticed their commander. He was a tall man, about six feet was his estimate, and from the saddle of his ebony steed, he towered over the bloodbath. Tricolored feathers sprung forth from his bicorne, and a pairing sash served as a belt. He was also a dark skinned man, a métis by the look of him – his hair was black and frizzy, his bushy eyebrows sticking out from the brim of his hat. Combat saber drawn, he held it aloft before swinging it down, urging his men to rout the protestors from the field.
"Chapheau, wake up! Par ici, tout de suite!" The barkeep shook his head again; Marat's voice could shake a man out of any stupor. The petitioners had already gone on before them, Guardsmen herding them through the streets as a shepherd would his flock – if the shepherd were a wolf. Up ahead was Marat, followed by Camille, Hebert, and Barbaroux – he was semi-conscious of Brissot helping him with Connor, his arm slung over the journalist's shoulder and hurrying to catch up with the others. The fleeing crowds and the pursuant riot police had left a trail of devastation in their wake – carriages had been overturned, shops dismantled, flour and jewels strewn onto the streets, and everywhere, blood, more blood. At last, Marat halted before a bank and squatted in the middle of the road. At first Stephane supposed that he had finally lost his mind, but then the physician shoved aside a pothole and gestured for the rest to enter. Slinging Connor across his neck Stephane grabbed hold of the ladder and descended into the darkness.
Les Catacombes, carrières de Paris
Barrière d'Enfer, Paris, France
5:30 p.m.
They went south. They had had to enter the Catacombes from within the city – the gates had been barred shut. As he shifted in and out of consciousness, Connor saw familiar statues lining the inner sanctum of the Assassins' Guild. There was Voltaire and Rosseau, alongside Damiens and Philippe IV. He almost thought he could see Mirabeau as well, standing in front of his predecessors and pondering the path the Revolution had taken him, lambasting the stone figures as silent witnesses and accomplices to a preventable tragedy. Walking behind them was Barbaroux, who dutifully pulled all the gates trailing them closed and bolted. As Connor bled onto the dusty floor of the tunnel, arm slung around Stephane's shoulders, the barkeeper glared pointedly at the journalist. "Aren't you a doctor, Marat?"
He was answered by a snort. "Yes, I am – but I'm not a surgeon. Those are two completely different occupations. Besides, do you really want M. Connor catching whatever I've got?" Marat's face, still oozing with moist sores, gleamed hideously in the dim torchlight. Stephane was quiet.
There was another statue, however, that he had not taken notice of since he had last been there. Stephane looked at a statue hidden away within a deep recess of the Catacombes. The marble figure had been dressed in ragged clothes, and long, unkempt hair. His face could not be discerned, for it had been covered by a mask of black velvet cloth. "Who was that man?"
Marat glanced at it and shrugged. "The unknown Assassin, perhaps? The fallen, forgotten masses? He's been theorized to be some relative of Louis XIV as far as I know, but don't hedge too many bets on that – we know more about who he wasn't than who he actually was. Barbaroux, if you would please alleviate Chapheau there…" Connor's arm was then wrapped around the Provençal's, and he was dragged into a nearby corridor. The echoing splashes of heavy footsteps put Stephane on high alert. Smirking, Marat turned around and stared up at the great figure of Danton. "There you are. Why weren't you at the rally?"
"There was… another case." Danton, as always, failed to provide a good excuse for past deeds. Still, he was not without his own plans for the future. "Lafayette's got the entire city under lockdown – the gates are closed, obviously, and all shipping has been recalled to port. Word is there were fifty civilians killed. Once the National Guard snap out of their bloodlust, they'll want a scapegoat; the authors of the petition. That is, us." He glanced meaningfully at Brissot, who leaned against Voltaire's statue, and continued frantically. "He'll be marching into the Cordeliers Section within minutes. I'm planning on running down to Arcis-sur-Aube, and then I plan on staying in London for a few weeks or so."
"And what damned good will that do, M. Danton?" Marat's voice was suspiciously quiet, yet his eyes had grown hard; he appeared as if her were a bull frog eyeing a particularly scrumptious fly, yet not moving in fear of scaring his quarry.
"It's just until the furor dies down. In these dank tunnels, we'll be sitting ducks for the Royalists! We're no good to the Republic dead, Marat!"
His opponent's eyes were narrowed dangerously now. "Actually, we are: it's called martyrdom, Danton."
Danton scowled at Marat. "You do have that luxury, I agree, and that's all very well for you; but as for me, I have a wife, and children; I must settle my affairs, and then-"
"And then what? A little jot across the Channel, and then a civic banquet with the Hanoverian on the Cliffs of Dover, serenaded by piping Highlanders? Fine then; go! Flee, and be known as an Apostate of Liberty!" Having unleashed his fury, Marat proceeded to pacing within the limited confines of the Parisian Quarries. Danton, taking this as a dismissal, sniffed and stormed out of the rough tunnel, escorted by Hebert. The journalist sighed. "'We live at a time of great events and little men,'" he quoted, disgustedly. "There is no hope now in the law; fifty citizens of the French Nation have fallen, blindly trusting in it, and that fool decides now to be the time to slip from Their Majesties' leprous fingers!"
"I'm surprised he came when he did," said Brissot, amenably. "He'd been antsy even before the King was declared inviolable. Thought he'd be hiding at the Jacobin Club…"
"Ah, that reminds me - has anyone seen Robespierre?" Heads were shaken. Marat's teeth ground in irritation, until his face lightened suddenly, as if some grand conundrum had been solved at once. "Stephane!" Marat pulled him aside. There was that dastardly glint in his eye again – the barkeep was not sure if he should be anticipatory, or anxious, as to its meaning. "Connor vouched for your rabble-rousing before. Now, I have a task more suited to your… abilities…"
Jacobin Club, rue St. Honoré
Paris, France
7:00 p.m.
From the sewers of Paris emerged Stephane the Incendiary.
Darkness had fallen on Paris. In the early evening, like a hurricane, he roiled through the streets, flooding the avenues and plazas with righteous fury. He had already decimated the shops of the Quai d'Orsay; and now, he was followed by a dozen of the dreaded fishwives of the markets, the poissardes, all shrieking and cleaving through the alleyways, falling upon any National Guardsman in sight, eviscerating and decapitating, mauling and tearing. There may have been a time when such wanton death of Lafayette's men would have given him pause, but no more; the people had been fired upon, and now, blood roiling and vision reddened, he carried out the Creed, meting out justice to the oppressors. There would be time for contemplation – and perhaps even grief – later. Now, the People's work needed doing. "À LES JACOBINS! À ROBESPIERRE!"
They had churned past the River Seine onto the Right Bank of Paris; now, beneath the shadows of the Tuileries Palace, the King's guards fled into the building itself, fearful of the wrath of the people. But the King was not their target; the gates to the palace remained bolted. Instead, Stephane led the poissardes to the rue St. Honoré just to the northeast. As they entered the street, shots rang out – shouting and clash of arms had preceded them to the convent. Howling with fury, the poissardes found themselves confronted by half a dozen of the National Guard – with their uniforms were covered with dust and tricolored sashes sat askew on their waists, they were scarcely a better sight than their feminine adversaries. The waves clashed; poissarde pitted against garde, woman versus man, Revolutionary opposed to Reactionary. Stephane allowed himself some small pride in this; but this was hardly his only task. Standing away from the ensuing brawl, he scanned the door to the Jacobin Club, and by activating the Eagle Vision of the First Civilization, he located a golden figure being grasped by a red one, and the golden one being cast into the street.
Returning to his normal sight, he saw the immaculate deputy, clothes already torn and blood-stained, being encircled by a quarto of National Guardsmen; their clothes were similarly adorned, although for some reason their leader wore a bonnet tied haphazardly beneath his chin. Three other Guards leveled their bayonets at the radical deputy. Stephane cried, "Robespierre!" and barreled into their leader, cleaver slashing at skin. From behind him, the Assassin thought he saw one of the poissardes jerk Robespierre back to his feet, but he had not time to waste on that. Bayonets were discharged – bullets pierced uselessly in the walls of the Jacobin Club. There were curses – his target had knocked the cleaver from his hand. Still, Stephane fought on. Curling his right hand into a fist, he summoned all his strength and pounded it into the Guardsman's face, resulting in a sickening crunch of the man's nose. Recoiling in shock, the man grasped the injured area – blood was now streaming into his mouth, and as he dislodged a pistol from his belt to fire at the disarmed Assassin before him, his trio of followers suddenly collapsed into the ground. Standing in their places was a trio of Assassins, shrouded in white hoods that had been striped with a navy color. As one, they sheathed their Hidden Blades and readied themselves for open combat, one pulling out a crowbar of all things, another a rapier, and so on. Stephane whirled around – standing at Robespierre's side, her shriveled hand grasping his shoulder, was an old woman, similarly attired, bearing a long staff. Her wrinkled lips had been split, and blood had stained her robes a stark red and violet mix.
The woman smiled kindly at Stephane and said, "M. Chapheau; Marat sends his regards. If you could please take this young man with you to shelter, I'd be much abliged."
Dazed, Stephane bent down and retrieved his cleaver, then reached out and took Robespierre by the arm. The deputy followed, bound in the same trance – the deaf leading the blind. Behind them, a spit was heard; the Guard had pelted the woman with blood and saliva. "So, aristocrats bleed red like us, eh? Well, we'll see your King's blood soon enough! Robespierre!" she cried, "if we must have a King, let it be him!"
"Roi Robespierre!" the poissardes shouted, having routed the National Guard. "Roi Robespierre!"
Chuckling to himself, Stephane led Robespierre down the rue St. Honoré. After a time, the lawyer recovered his senses and said, "That woman mentioned Marat. Was this his doing? Did he rouse the people to our defense?"
"Your defense, and yes, most likely; but then, it wouldn't take much to rally Paris to defend the Jacobins." Stephane frowned, then, as he heard the sound of running on cobblestone behind him. He whirled once more, ready to defend his charge if need be.
However, the man following them was no Guardsman; it was a tall, balding man, with a bloodied calico apron and a steel hammer clenched within his fist. "Paix, citoyen!" he cried. He held up his free hand in a welcoming gesture. "I am Maurice Duplay – a Jacobin! M. Robespierre, every member of Les Jacobins fears for your safety. Let me spare you a long, dangerous walk home and offer you the hospitality of my house."
Robespierre blinked rapidly; then, shaking his head, he said, "I… yes, of course. It is a rather long walk back to le Marais. What is your profession, M. Duplay?"
"I am a carpenter, good citoyen – I live at #398, St. Honoré."
Pursing his lips, the deputy shrugged his shoulders effortlessly. "Well, it would be closer to the Assembly…" Robespierre turned back to Stephane and shook his hand tremulously, saying, "You have my thanks, M. Chapheau. I don't know how I could possibly begin to repay you or M. Marat, but you have my assistance if you ever you require it."
"Simply stay as you are now – represent the Nation. Represent the People." With one last shake of his hand, Stephane let Robespierre go, and as the lawyer followed the carpenter to his new home, the Assassin let out a long-held sigh of relief. The two men stooped through a miniscule door cut in a high solid gate, and bolts slammed home – the National Guard would not find them this night.
Salle du Manège
Paris, France
30 September, 1791
It was safe to say that Stephane had totally redeemed himself in Marat's eyes. Still, his second attempt on Lafayette's life still grated on the journalist, and for good reason – failing to find his press, the National Guard had begun tearing down copies of L'Ami du Peuple wherever they had been posted (quite in contradiction to his earlier stances regarding freedom of the press, he had been quick to point out.) Then, the Guard had marched down the rue des Cordeliers. Warrants were issued for the irritators of the Champ de Mars. One Danton, advocate; Desmoulins, journalist; Chapheau, barkeep; Kenway, assassin. These persons were not to be found, either. Danton had arranged his affairs and fled to London in early August. Desmoulins was somewhere in Paris, staying out of principle. Chapheau had gone to visit his cousin in the west, hoping the holiday would take the sting from Lafayette's betrayal.
And Connor… he was stuck at Marat's bathside. Their excursion into the quarries of Paris had not exactly been to Marat's good health. Indeed, more sores soon made themselves evident, and, fearing Lafayette's reprisal against him, Connor, the bullet painstakingly excavated from his chest, was confined to limited action until his recovery – indeed, his every movement set his upper torso aflame. And so he roomed with Marat for convenience's sake. The result had been less than had come to visit him outside an open sewer. The propagandist was still in Gilbert's good graces, and so he had come to extricate Connor from the deep places of Paris just for a single day – in disguise, of course. "And besides, the Constitution is fully implemented today – you must at least come out and see what your works have wrought." Connor had been cleverly disguised as a Corsican merchant – his dark skin more or less emulated the tone of the Mediterranean. As they made their way through the busy Parisian streets into the Riding Hall, Thomas Paine decided to fill him in on all he had missed in the past two weeks. "Danton's back, you should know. He's still keeping quiet, and he's doing his best to stay far away from Motier and Marat – between a rock and a hard place."
"I had heard that Austria and Prussia declared their intent to invade France, last month. Is there any truth to this?"
Paine's mouth twisted. "Yes, it was done at Pillintz. Robespierre would believe otherwise, but I'll be damned before I ignore any royal house of Europe. Brissot is calling for the Legislative Assembly to declare war once it convenes. And there's treachery afoot, too boot: the émigrés have settled in Coblence; the Comte de Provence, d'Artois, and the Princes de Conde have all announced their decision to invade France and restore their ancient privileges."
"Why settle in Coblence?"
"The archbishop-elector is Louis Capet's uncle. It's a family affair, as usual. Indeed, history's most brutal feuds have occurred between siblings and cousins. That they have been given complete control of entire countries is the greatest sin humanity has committed: a cementation of eternal war. But no matter! Here we are; and here is one of these petulant children, ready to plead his case." Gripping the railing of the upper galleries, Paine gazed down dispassionately on the King of the French.
Louis Capet before the Assembly. With his left arm thrust into his jacket, and his right 'lovingly' rested on top of the French Constitution, he began his last address to that body. "I, Louis, King of the French, on the 13th day of this month, did ordain and accept the French Constitution. In accordance with the Constitution, I hereby declare the National Constituent Assembly to be dissolved on this, the last day of September, 1791; and I would like to remind its members that, in accordance with M. Robespierre's Self-Denying Ordinance, none of its members will be eligible for election to its successor, the Legislative Assembly. Voting for representatives to the Legislative Assembly has already concluded, and they shall convene tomorrow in this very room. The end of the Revolution has come! Let the Nation resume its happy nature! Let God bless their endeavor as they set about the work of governance, and may the Constitutional Kingdom of the French prosper! Vive la Nation! Vive les Français!"
The deputies stood and cheered for their flighty monarch (some more subdued than others), but especially for their colleague, Robespierre. Even Connor had been shocked – that a politician would deny himself an opportunity at consolidating his power seemed contradictory to everything he had ever learned about that decrepit race of man. Speaking of which, he thought bitterly, as General Gilbert du Motier approached the rostrum. Their eyes met – and, without even raising an alarm, the General continued up to the podium. "The Constitution has been put into effect. There is now no further quarrel between King and Assembly; so, I am bound to resign from my command of the National Guard! But, if it please the Nation's representatives, I shall continue my public career in their midst – I am come also to announce my candidacy for Mayor of Paris!"
Connor scoffed as the Assembly burst into yet another round of applause. The spectators from the theatrical boxes, however, were notably more reserved in their congratulations of the Hero of the Two Worlds. Scowling in fury, the Assassin whirled on Pain and demanded, "How could they cheer him?! He mowed down their friends and family not ten miles from here, and they heap praise after praise upon his bloodied head!" He instantly found himself wanting his Hidden Blade – but that had been taken from him, until he had fully recovered from his bullet wound. It burned now more than it had at any other time in the past two , however, did not seem to be in too argumentative a mood. He said only this: "The man is a soldier, and, under fire, only did his duty. His poor, deluded duty. 'Did you expect that he should act like a stoic philosopher, lost in apathy?'"
The Assassin blinked at the propagandist. "… Did you just quote John Adams at me? I thought you'd be more in Samuel's camp."
"Oh, I am, and I shall forever view the House of La Fayette through tinted eyes – and his talk of 'sacred oaths' is a load of bull, as is usually the case with such 'holy' matters – but he's far too likeable to completely despise, eh?" He stepped away from the gallery and headed out the door. "Besides, it's still a beautiful day, and there are some far more worthy of praise at the moment…"
Outside, another demonstration had coalesced, clustered beneath the foliage of the Tuileries garden. Connor stood in awe as the deputies of the National Constituent Assembly were released from the building and exited, in procession, to the cheers of the crowd – liberty caps were hoisted on pikes, and triumphant orchestras played to their triumph. Suddenly, the crowd erupted – Robespierre had just set foot on the Royal terrace. The people swarmed around the egalitarian, whooping and weeping, embracing and entrancing. In the midst of the chaos, a crown of oak leaves was placed on the flustered lawyer's powdered head, and they proclaimed him as the true champion of Liberty – not Lafayette, not the King, but Robespierre. He was baptized in tears, anointed with adorations, and when he sought to hide from his victory, they followed him still. When the day ended, he would finally be released from this awkward circumstance and be fittingly rewarded with some peace and quiet at the Duplays', but for now, he was the Peoples'. Eventually, the poor fellow was obligated to make a speech, and when it was done, they people had found a new rallying cry, one that all of Paris would eventually find to be very agreeable to them:
"VIVE ROBESPIERRE! VIVE L'INCORRUPTIBLE!"
Les Cordeliers
Paris, France
28 October, 1791
"Robespierre," began Marat, "has returned home to Arras. Brissot leads the Legislative Assembly. And here I am, reading correspondences in a bathtub."
Marat pored through the papers and letters he had laid on the wooden beam that had been laid across his medicinal bath; Lafayette's resignation from command had freed up the Cordeliers press, and he was back at work - not even his physical ills would keep him from knowing the world's every movement. "Ah, what's this now?" Marat scanned a sheet of paper, one stained with sea salt and sealed with the colonial sigil of the French. "There's been a slave revolt in New France - St. Dominique…"
"Really?" asked Connor. He had sailed the Aquila through the West Indies several times, yet he had never bothered to make port at the French colony. Still, he had heard of it from someone in recent memory. Aveline de Grandpré, he thought. "Go on…"
"'The entirety of the Northern Province is in rebellion… In the streets of Le Cap, les blancs and les gens de couleur libre slaughter one another… without, the country is in anarchy… les noirs have broken their chains… they pillage, rape, torture, mutilate… Le Cap Français is besieged, our plantations burn…' Ha! They enslave an entire people, and they still care only for their damned profits! Les aristos sont adorables!" Marat was practically convulsing in laughter at this.
Still, Connor was not too amused at the moment. "What is to be done? Will the Assembly try to quell the rebellion?"
Marat read on through his notes. "The slaves outnumber both whites and free men of color ten to one. Naturally, the whites have refused to allow freed blacks any of the justice - that is already theirs, mind you…Brissot and Les Amis des Noirs are filibustering any troop movements from the Assembly until the free men of color are granted equal rights. This whole document reeks of suspicion: is this the King's doing? Does he hope to send troops across the seas and establish a refuge for himself across the Atlantic?"
"That sounds comically outlandish, even for you, Marat."
"Oh, there are times when I can surprise even myself, these ideas of mine…" He suddenly seemed very amused. "Heh, you know what Riquetti said about it? 'The whites sleep at the foot of Vesuvius.' I almost feel sorry for the poor wretches… Well, the slavers have made their bed; it is now for them to sleep in it." Marat read on, shuffling through more of his sources, growing less and less interested as he skimmed. His dim expression suddenly alighted, and he gleefully turned his gaze to Connor, a horrid grin splitting his face like a wound. "Here, now; your dear General has lost to Pétion in his bid for Mayor. He's retired to Chavaniac. Let us hope that we hear no more from this 'Hero of Two Worlds!'"
Autel: (French) 'Altar'.
Fusillade: (French) Concentrated gunfire.
Les blancs: (French) 'The whites', here referring to white colonialists in St. Dominique.
Gens de couleur libres: (French) 'Free people of color'; includes freed slaves and people of mixed ancestry, métis.
A glimpse into the mind of Marat; a champion of Liberty, yet a proponent of Dictatorship. If there is any link to be found, it is that of Free Will. Typically, the Assassins only ever defended Free Will from the Templars, who sought to dismantle it using the Pieces of Eden. In Marat's perfect society, an Assassin would rule all, yet allow his subjects to practice Free Will – which I suppose would include religious freedoms?
Like father like… adopted son, eh? Washington and Lafayette, stirring up trouble wherever they go! The day of this event, three days after the second Bastille Day, was ever after known as the 'Fusillade du Champ de Mars', hence the title of this chapter.
Tonight's cameo courtesy of Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, the highest ranking person of color in a continental European army in all of forever! (And the father of a rather famous author…) TA Dumas was, in fact, present at the massacre, but more on that later… Fun fact: the word 'dragoon' does not exist in the French language. They're just referred to as 'dragons'.
The Declaration of Pillintz was made on 27 August, 1791 by King Friedrich Wilhelm II of Prussia and Holy Roman Emperor Leopold II, declaring their support for Louis XVI and promising military aid in the event that the other European Powers did so (the assumption was that Britain would steer clear, and so nothing would be done – the only reason it was made was to appease the King's brothers in Coblentz. But Brissot, of course, interpreted this differently.)
Finally, there's my footnote on Aveline! Around this time period, I imagine her sailing to St. Dominique close to the beginning of the Haitian Revolution –August, 1791. News of the uprising only reached Paris in October, and a debate on slavery ensued. To this day, it remains one of the only successful slave revolts in history, as it resulted in the establishment of the independent nation of Haiti.