New theory! Ubisoft didn't make AC3 about the French Revolution because they're a French company. In France, conservative historians usually lambast it for its excesses and obsession with violence, and liberal historians hail it as the end-all, be-all. I can see why a company would be rather hesitant to declare a position for one side or the other in the country. It's a pretty delicate subject, so... yeah...
For ever person that does not review, I shall behead a kitten! Their fluffy heads will be used to forge a new Bastille, mortared with the blood of Patriots, and then-!
I'm done now. By the way, I've still got to work on writing fluff – I'm way too methodical. It's like I'm a textbook or something...!
Chapter X: A Regretful Climb
"There is death in the folds of her skirt and blood about her feet. She is for no man."
~ Joseph Conrad, The Rover, 1923
Les Jacobins,
Paris, Royaume des Français
16 December, 1791
"We have nothing to fear from war, because it is only through war that France can free herself from the despotism that grips her by the throat!" Brissot, before the Jacobins. The blood-curdling cries of the Champ de Mars still rung in his ears, no doubt, and with good reason: Connor knew that it was at his directions the People had amassed before the Altar, to call for the King's removal from office. Brissot had not attended a meeting here in months – but now, with the King reinstated, and the entirety of the Assembly supporting the House of Bourbon, it appeared that Brissot was lashing out at the only people he could – Louis' foreign backers, the dukes and earls of Europe, the kings and tsars of the world. Surely, there would be no more monarchy if its allies were dismantled?
Now, the journalist's fingers clawed into the speaker's rostrum, like talons piercing the flesh of a rat. The Girondist's face appeared dark and terrible, and in his wrath he continued: "I have made an account of the enemies of the Revolution, and shall name them so: George; Carlos; Leopold; Friedrich; Gustav; Yekaterina; PIOUS! And there is more: the King's own brothers have declared the Revolution invalid. Even now, they are gathering an army of nobles at Coblence! They are aided and abetted by the Holy Roman Empire – this insult cannot stand! We must strike the first blow!"
The Jacobins burst into applause. Surfing on the tide of popular support, Brissot flung up his hand theatrically and cried, "A Revolutionary wave is gaining momentum! We must export the Revolution into these foreign lands, and the conquered peoples will rebel against the ancient lords of old! The time is now – war is at hand! À la guerre! À bas les tyrans! Vive la Republique!"
The throng cried in affirmative, and chanted similar slogans. One such, however, was soon heard above the others. "Paix! PAIX!" Gradually, the tide receded, swirling in confusion: what creature would dare to resist the waves? Only the Incorruptible, it seemed. Into the Jacobin refectory strode Maximilien Robespierre, newly arrived from Arras, and newly elected Jacobin President and Public Prosecutor of Paris. He came angelic as always, nary a stain on neither his suit nor a sin on his soul. His spectacles glinted ominously as he approached the center of the room, and, gathering himself, he looked up and demanded, "You all know why I was elevated, before others – I declare that I would rather die before I live to see the death of Liberté! That is all war will bring."
Curious. Connor glanced back to Brissot. Here, he was in Robespierre's territory, and yet he held the crowd – as if he had declared war on the Incorruptible already. He was prepared. Flinging his left hand to the left wall, he pointed to a framed copy of The Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen with his branded ring finger (a difficult task for any who attempts it), andhe asked, "Do you have so little faith in the Revolution, Robespierre? Do you wish to see Paris further degraded and ground into the dust? The tyrants of the world, they know to fear the Constitution. Let us bring it to them, and we may declare France safe!"
Robespierre smirked. "So! Now we see the irrefutable logic of the Gironde: War means safety." There were some scattered chuckles, and a wet snort here and there, but most were silent. "I tell you now, citoyen, that France is already at war. Is this the war of a nation against other nations, or a king against other kings-?"
"This will be a war of the people against kings!" Brissot now grasped the railing with both hands, as if to leap at the public prosecutor, his face flushed with emotion. The Jacobins rallied to his side, shouting for war against Europe.
Still, the Incorruptible shook his head. "No. It is a war of the enemies of the Revolution against the Revolution. Are the most numerous and dangerous of the enemies at Coblence? No – I declare that they are their most numerous within this very hall!" Dark murmurs broke out amongst the crowd – who was against the Revolution? Who among them supported war? "War is always the first desire of a powerful government that wants to be more powerful… Let us calmly assess the situation: the nation is divided into three parts; aristocrats, patriots, and the hypocritical in-between party known as federal ministers. And, besides all this, France is ill-prepared for a war: we have few weapons, and what little we do have are clutched in the fists of the aristocrats – Lafayette chief among them, as always. If there must be war, then we must beat our ploughshares into swords: we, who are gripped in the chains of famine, must abandon our citizens to the horrors of mutilation. Think on that, before you take another step towards chaos."
Marat,
You have trained your birds too well. Or perhaps too little...? In any case, this little dove had no new songs to sing. We may have taught her a few new notes, but you will be hard pressed to decipher them, We think.
Change is forever needed; but also prudence. One cannot leap from a cliff and be surprised when bones break. Our own brother, Josef, failed to realize this, and his gains were rolled back after his death. Take care, Prussian, to learn from his example.
Leopold, High Master.
Les Cordeliers
Paris, Royaume des Français
January, 1792
...Si on n' les pend pas,
On les rompra!
Si on n' les rompt pas,
On les brûlera!
Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
les aristocrates à la lanterne!
Anne Théroigne had returned.
A great crowd of women – already assembled and riotous over the price of bread – hailed her return to Paris in the darkness of the early morning. The pompa began in the Champ de Mars, the Campus Martius, well before the rising of the sun. Then, the march began – a slow, almost painful stroll through the city, winding across the Left Bank of the River Seine and planned stops were made at various locations – the Altar to the Fatherland, the Pantheon, until finally, the Cordeliers. She brought no captured enemies, no looted gold or silver, yet the presence of Anne Théroigne rallied the People nonetheless – Deputies from the Legislative Assembly preceded before her, bearing fasces bound in laurel. Workingmen and sans-culottes came behind then, bearing pikes impaled with busts of the King and of Lafayette, both them and their wielders wearing the bonnet rouge, the red cap of liberty. Next came their wives and daughters, the poissardes of the marketplaces, brandishing cleavers and skinning knives. Then came the lady herself – there were certainly no chariots to be had, not in this modern city, so she had had to make do with a sturdy warhorse. The streets were bombarded with clouds of incense and petals of flowers, their broken buds strewn all across the cobblestone paths, and all to the usual accompaniment of choir music and the shouting of "io triumphe!"
And then there were the whispers. "Did you hear? She converted Leopold to the Revolution!"
"That is several degrees of insanity, monsieur."
"No, no, it makes perfect sense! His own brother was an Enlightened Despot, after all!"
"The operative word being despot..."
Marat stood in the doorway of the Cordeliers club, a smug tribune ready to receive this new General's triumphus. His head was, again, shrouded, but not with a turban – instead, a simple veiled had been draped across his hair, before descending to the ground as if it were a cloak. Indeed, he looked the very part of an Augustus, ready to administer a sacrifice at the Altar of the Fatherland. None was planned as far as Connor knew, standing behind the Mentor nervously. He had not seen Anne in a year or so – and he did not dare contemplate the health she was in from her long incarceration. As her horse trotted up to the steps of the Revolutionary Cordeliers Club, Connor could see the damage done by Vienna – her hair, once buoyant and resplendent, was now frizzed and tangled. Her eyes, once shining with Revolutionary fervor, had dulled to a sharp glint, taking in her surroundings skeptically.
Connor thought that she had never looked more beautiful.
"Citoyen Théroigne de Mercourt – you have returned to us, triumphantly, from the cells of the German tyrant. May the name of Leopold be forever erased from our annals and tomes! But you, citoyen, shall outlive him, for you have endured many trials and hardships beneath the Teutonic yoke. The People of Paris rejoice at your homecoming, and I hereby name you la belle Liègeoise! Step forward, citoyen, and kneel."
A rather odd request, in Connor's view, but she did so, and as she went down to embrace the earth, Marat held a crown of laurel branches aloft to the sky, with both hands, and proclaimed, "See now, the conquering heroine returns!" Then, he placed the laurel on Anne's head, and the Parisians erupted into applause.
Of course, they then burst into more bloodthirsty lynching music, but there's always a low point for every public event.
The lady then stood and turned to face the crowd, her frizzled hair dancing as lightning, and her hand grasping the hilt of her poignard. She then raised herself to her full height (still not quite reaching Connor's shoulder) and proclaimed, "My solitude has not been easy. High in the Alps, I more than once mulled over releasing myself from those torments. When brought before the Imperial Throne, yes, I quaked. But I remembered my beloved Paris, and the men and women that were chained in a prison that could not even be fathomed. By the gracious will of His Imperial Majesty, Leopold II of House Habsburg, I am free! His reign, already made illustrious by various acts of justice and humanity, is made now self-evident. The connivance of the French nobility has come to naught. Therefore, I remain tranquil.
"I speak now to my fellow women citizens – we, who have not been received a single gain from the Revolution. We have been promised bread, but have received none. We have not even been promised our rights as humans! Why should we not enter into rivalry with the harsher sex? Today, I have proven it possible to earn a civic crown, and to grasp at the train of glory! Let us raise ourselves to the height of our destinies; let us break our chains! O Amazons, the Fatherland calls you into service! Remember the October Days, remember the Bastille! Let no tyrant ignore our cry any longer: Vive la Republique!"
-AC3-
"Absolutely not," Marat ground out, his eyes flashing. They had retreated within his press in the Cordeliers district, the doctor threateningly inching towards his metal plates, whilst Théroigne menacingly sharpened her stiletto against another of the plates – and Connor was stuck uncomfortably in between the two. So far, the argument had been mostly conducted in German – a language that disturbed Connor more than it should have, and indeed appeared to have been constructed on the sole premise of sounding menacing – and he consistently had to remind himself that the two were of Germanic descent; Marat of Prussia and Théroigne of Austria. "I will not have the Assassin Order become a King's Regiment. There will be no war."
"How else shall the Revolution be spread through Europe? The Templars, as you know, are no more – at least in France, since de Medici's death - and their successors have little teeth. We have neutered the Lazarenes, at home, and the Hospitallers are quarantined in their tiny island – all that remain are Knights of the Teutonic Order. Let us strike hard and fast, and the world shall at last be free from tyranny!"
The history of the French Templars still eluded Connor. Apparently expelled from France by Philippe IV, they had never ceased in their attempts to regain control of the country. Many of their nobles – particularly Catherine de Medici – had been Templars, and their horrid plots had stained the furthest reaches of Gaul for nearly half a century before they had been thwarted by the ascension of the first Lazarene King of France: Henri IV, of the House of Bourbon.
"So ein Beschiß!" Great, they had reverted back to German. "You know very well that we are unprepared for war! The Vendée is practically in revolt, the executive power is actively conspiring with foreign agents, and Paris is on the brink of civil war! Face the facts, mademoiselle; this is just the manifestation of your vengeful spirit."
"You were not held by those foppish bastards for nigh on a year! You did not undergo their questioning! The émigrés have declared themselves enemies of the Revolution, and I intend to put an end to them and all of their diseased progeny!"
"Trust me, Théroigne, Stanislas and all the rest are already on my list." Marat's List was a legend in and of itself; indeed, he could probably floor his press with the names of his enemies, and the gruesome details of how their demise should come about. "But there is an important difference between our Revolution and the Americans' – the colonial rulers did not collude with the British. Here, in France, our King and Queen actively plot with the Holy Roman Emperor. Do you even know what war would mean? Troop movements would be leaked, strategies given, strongholds and fortresses compromised, and all for the sake of you and your thrice be-damned pride!"
"Not that it will change much..." began Connor, rallying to Anne's defense, "but the Assembly is supposed to vote on an ultimatum calling for Leopold to announce his support for France in the coming months. Is it wise to simply ignore this issue? Would it not be better to prepare for the worst?"
"I have made my preparations, Connor. We are probing for volunteers in the departments, iron bells of the Church are being melted into cannonade, and very soon we shall have the Tuileries within our grasp. But, if it be within my power, I will not have war, not from you, not from Brissot, not even from the Almighty Deity Himself, should He deign to descend into my bathtub this very evening! Now get out!"Her eyes narrowed and, gathering her coat, she surged out the door. Connor followed. "Anne... If you aren't busy, perhaps..."
"Perhaps what, Connor? That we could continue a half-formed liaison whilst our city falls apart?" She rubbed at her temples in exasperation. "I've a great need for a rest, Connor. Prison is very hard on the psyche, as I'm sure you know."
"Yes, well..." She's right – there is no time, and nothing is ready. They fell into an awkward silence. Sighing, Connor offered her his hand and said, "At least allow me to escort you home. We can't have you getting snatched up by Leopold again, can we?"
"No, I suppose not..." Rolling her eyes, she placed her hand in his and led the way. "You're far too polite for your own good, you know that? It makes it unbearably hard to crush your spirits. Now, where was Stephane? I was expecting more backup when I faced the People's Friend."
"Britanny, I think – Marat wanted him to train in Frontier combat." He was still rather focused on her hand – heat radiated up his arm. Hmm, he probably should get out more...
"Well, I do hope he escapes the squirrels alright. Breton rodents are notoriously vicious."
"I've trained him better than to fall victim to rabid squirrels," said Connor, more than a little insulted on behalf of his pupil.
"Well, leave their nuts alone, and he should escape Nantes with his life." Her eyes danced for the first time since she had arrived in Paris – she was obviously laughing at the two Americans, but Connor pushed the indignation aside. Anything that got her to recuperate from her ordeals was fine with him.
Eventually, they arrived at Théroigne's salon on the rue de Tournon, just to the northwest of the Cordeliers, on the Left Bank of the River Seine. What the Assassin knew of salon life revolved around the discussion of social, political, and literary topics, usually dictated by one of the salonnières. He had attended more than a few of these events, but rarely did he participate himself – it was yet more reconnaissance to him. Still, Anne's salon did have a certain charm to it. The lights guarding the door's fanlight cast a radiant glow about the lady's hair, giving her still laurel-crowned head a unearthly radiance. Connor released the courtesan's hand – only somewhat reluctantly, to his credit – and delivered a sweeping bow., exposing his left calf. "Au revoir, mademoiselle."
Anne smiled. "Your French has improved... You're no longer pronouncing those particular end consonants. But do try to break that bowing habit, eh? In our new Republic, such archaic rituals will only hinder your climb to eternity – and it would be a shame, for you to lose your head so early on. We've barely even begun..."
St. Antoine
Paris, Royaume des Français
20 February, 1792
Maréchal de camp Gilbert du Motier, ci-devant Marquis de La Fayette, had returned to Paris.
With war in the wings, and the border with Austria being refortified daily, the young General had been recalled to service in the French Revolutionary Army. Now compelled to wear his own Tricolor cockade (for his own safety, at least) he marched along the small regiment of horse he had brought with him from his home in Chavaniac. The beasts stood at attendance near the ruins of the Bastille fortress in the eastern district of Saint-Antoine. There were rumors that the fallen prison would soon be cleared away and replaced with a public square, surmounted by a column or fountain or some other token monument. As of now, however, the cavalry shifted under their commander's review before the deconstructed Fortress of Despotism, ready to 'spread the Revolution' into the Archduchy of Austria.
Gilbert had settled his affairs for the moment – his wife and children were safe in Chavaniac, his Parisian estate had been placed in the American emissary's care, and he had written to his old Commander Washington across the Atlantic. But still, he felt that he still had business to attend to. Ordering his men to stand at ease, he strolled down the roads and paths in the revolutionary district, the denizens giving him blank and confused looks – not sure how to receive this counterrevolutionary soldier. It was, when passing by a fairly well-attended wine shop that he heard a low voice call, "Je suis ici, la Fayette..."
"Connor." Gilbert marched over to the alley bisecting the establishment. The Assassin was clad in his usual white, and leaned against the brick wall of the Defarges'. "You have heard? I am given command of an army at Metz. I don't suppose you have come to wish me well?"
"No. Nice cockade." Lifting himself from the wall, he walked on down the alley, Gilbert following. It reminded him of their wintry stroll in the Frontier – a simpler time for them both. "I am, however, here to wish you luck. There is a small difference, or so I'm told. From what I hear, your men are ill prepared. I fear you may soon be trapped in a Valley Forge of your own making. But that's how life goes, doesn't it? A grand cycle?" He paused outside the entrance to the Defarges'. Turning to the General, he raised his brow inquisitively and asked, "How good are your odds at victory, do you think?"
"Our odds are not good. Six thousand officers – two-thirds of the corps – have fled to join the enemy at Coblence. Their replacements will have to be vetted by the troops – fifty thousand in total. Inflation is up, food shortages run rampant on the Belgian border... Nothing is ready."
"If anyone could fix them into line, it would be you." Faint praise, Connor knew, but perhaps the Revolution would succeed if Gilbert were more motivated. "I presume you've already written to President Washington?"
"Oui. I feel lost, without his leadership... but I shall fight with the same spirit, with God a-"
The Assassin interjected quickly, warning; "Take care of your oaths, General. You may regret them later. 'Do not be too hasty with your mouth, or to make vows you won't keep; for God is in Heaven, and you are on Earth."
"Ecclesiastes?" Suddenly, la Fayette laughed; an honest one, he could tell. His eyes squinted with the action, and lines appeared at the frontiers of his brow. Composing himself, the former Marquis asked, "Connor, when did you become a student of the Scriptures? That wasn't to impress Adrienne, was it? You ought to know that's falling out of style, nowadays. If you aren't careful, the mob will confuse you for a non-juring priest and hang you off a bridge or something. After stuffing you with hay. Burning hay. That's two weeks old."
Connor shrugged. "I'm not a follower of Catholicism, but perusing the texts during Mass keeps me awake."
"Oh, do give the poor Clergy some credit - they haven't raised too much fuss about the progress we've made so far, aside from the Civil Constitution - and really, only the Provincial elites have any real quarrels with it. They fear the loss of power that would follow an oath to Their Majesties." Gilbert du Motier grew solemn again, as he furrowed his brow in thought. "Ah, the oaths we make... My King may not be the best, but he is still the King. I owe him my loyalty... And I owe my loyalty to you as well, mon ami. I have not forgotten the Day of Daggers. You saved my life from the assassin, remember?" Connor's answering grimace was answer enough. The officer nodded and said, "Whatever lies between us, or what paths we have trodden, you will always have my dearest love."
The Assassin rolled his eyes amusedly at that. "Of course. Now..." Unsheathing a hatchet from his worn belt, he eyed a nearby column, and with a primordial cry, sunk it into the fertile wood, chips rebounding off the wall from the blow, and as Gilbert blinked in confusion, Connor turned to him and said, "I shall withdraw this blade upon your return, my friend. Bon chance, General – and remember to keep a dress close at hand."
That was an old joke; still, it did have Gilbert crack a smile before leaning in and whispering, "Here is my final warning: beware the Jacobins." Then, disregarding the Assassin's curious look, he quit the alleyway for good. As he made his way past his men to the front of his small battalion of guards, Connor could only wonder how the events of the coming months would unfold – would there be war? Would there be more blood? He was broken out of his reverie by the straining call of trumpets and the clumsy booming of drums, as Gilber du Motier cried, "Allons, enfants de la Patrie! Vienne qui voudra!" The Hero of the Two Worlds was off to war, once again astride his white charger, and as the small detachment of horse readied themselves for departure, Connor raised a final hand in farewell. La Fayette had not seen it. "À Metz!" As one, the Chavaniac cavalry trotted out into the streets, sending wary pedestrians gravitating towards their perspective alleyways, all respectfully giving ground to the former Marquis de la Fayette.
Les Cordeliers
Paris, Royaume des Français
1 March, 1792
The Emperor was dead.
The Throne of Charlemagne was now occupied by Leopold's son, the Queen's nephew: Franz II von Habsburg-Lorraine, Roman Emperor Elect, Archduke of Austria, Apostolic King of Hungary, King of Bohemia, Croatia, Dalmatia, Slavonia, Galicia, Lodermia, etc. By the time the titles had been fully listed, relief had already flooded the streets of Paris – there might be a chance at peace after all. The fact that the old Emperor had died the very day of the Assembly's ultimatum did little to quench the jubilations of the masses.
Connor, however, was not so blind. For what now seemed the fifteenth time, he asked, "So, was this your doing, Marat?"
Once again, the People's Friend blinked rapidly, feigning complete ignorance. "Now Connor, you ought to know that Austria has its own Brotherhood; I can hardly control their actions, can I? Neither of us wants a war."
"Brissot wants it. What can you tell me about him?"
"Ah, Brissot of Chartres... If Robespierre is Incorruptible, then Brissot is Intolerable. He is apprenticed to chicanery. He is a would-be wit, a scandal-sheet writer, a fraudulent speculator, a crook, police spy, municipal inquisitor...! and finally, henchman of the despot. Brissot wants power; a war is just his stepping stone. Regardless, Leopold's death has only postponed his plans. You can be sure that his warmongering will continue, and Franz will have to react at some point."
"How will he do that? He has support in the Assembly, certainly, but can he move the mind of Louis?"
"Have you not heard? The King's thrown out his entire cabinet! They've all been replaced." Marat looked down at his notes, jaw grinding in frustration. "Foreign Minister: Dumouriez. Interior Minister: Roland. War Minister: Gerbey. All of them little horns of Brissot. The King wants a war. Brissot wants a war. Though they each desire opposing ends, they share the means. This war will change the face of Europe as we know it – nay, the face of the entire world."
"Well, why would Louis support a war against his own brother-in-law? Is that not why he agreed to marry Antoinette to begin with – to unite Lazarene and Teuton?"
"It is simple: If the foreign powers succeed in their aggressions against France, the ancient regime will undoubtedly be restored, and the patriots of the nation will be put to the slaughter." Now the journalist looked Connor directly in the eye. If the eyes were the window to the soul, then Connor felt that Marat's was particularly dark. "You now have a vested interested in our success, Connor. Never mind your American escapades! You have assassinated de Launey. You have supported la Fayette. You have stood defiant on the Champ de Mars. You'd be hung on the spot, should the Kaiser enter Paris! Revolution is in your blood, boy, so you had best own it."
Connor frowned. Now he saw the trap open before him – if he were a patriot, then he should oppose war. If there was a war, he should support the Revolution. There was no way out for him, except by sea, and even then... "How many must die before this sorry enterprise is at an end?"
"I'm glad you brought that up..." Now the physician released a cold smile, one that spread slowly across his flat face. "The Assembly has just adopted a new means of execution – one that will forever secure the equality of the Nation..."
Salle du Manège
Paris, Royaume des Français
20 March, 1792
"... Trials of a prototype of M. Louis' decapitation machine have already been performed on fresh corpses at Bicêtre hospital, with satisfactory results. Neither I, nor my distinguished colleague, M. Robespierre, is at all in favor of capitol punishment; but if it is to be the law of the land, should it not be as quick and painless as possible? Let me assure the Assembly: this method is swift, practical, and humane. 'The mechanism falls like thunder. Blood spurts. The man is no more.'"
Joseph-Ignace Guillotin gazed benevolently at the assembled deputies, his sharp features contrasting with his genial smile. Then, the physician continued, but Connor drifted off from the speech – he looked askance at Théroigne de Mericourt, who seemed to be hanging off the former deputy's every word, fingers grasping at the railing of the public box. No doubt, she was busy envisioning Habsburg necks stretched and at her mercy. The Assassin could sympathize, somewhat.
"Decapitation, as you all know, is the sole privilege of the Nobility. They had devised the most gruesome tortures for their own subjects, whether for some macabre entertainment for the masses or to sate their own spite. As far as I know, the machine of which I speak will do away with all spectacle -" here, he paused – "though I am told Sanson's assistants still have to find a way to prevent the onlookers from being drenched with blood."
"I object." Robespierre, again. "Death is not the Realm of the State. That belongs to a higher Power. By what right would the Assembly presume to send even the most twisted criminal into the Beyond?"
Guillotin nodded placatingly, and turned back to the grandstands lining the Hall, hands shuffling through some rather pertinent death records. "We all remember the Bastille, oui? De Launey was beaten and stabbed in the streets. De Flesselles was shot on the steps of City Hall. De Doué was hung thrice from the lantern and stuffed with hay. I do not presume to defend these men – I simply decry their gross ends. The People have used the same horrid methods utilized by their own sorry oppressors to bring about their demise. Is this not counterintuitive? Surely, it would have been better for them to have felt nothing as they left this life? I propose that the Public be made to bear witness to the first executions of this decapitation machine, monsieurs! They must behold the swift spectacle of the State's Justice. Only by keeping the death penalty under the control of the Assembly can we hope to prevent the citizens of Paris from exacting their own violent and lawless vengeance. Then, we may reach that happy day when the Chains of Death are broken, and capitol punishment may be abolished all throughout France! I thank the Assembly."
A cold breeze wafted down Connor's spine, though for the life of him he could not determine why. Was death by a cold machine not preferable to being placed at the whims of some sadistic... Assassin?
-AC3-
At some point following Théroigne's return, she had been called 'la belle Liègeoise' – a flattering description, yet it still did not do the lady justice. Now strolling outside the Legislative Assembly, the Assassin cracked a grin and asked her, only half seriously, "I don't suppose Guillotin wants this machine placed in the Tennis Court, does he?"
Anne snorted good-naturedly. "No, that would certainly obscure their fifteen loves or however they call it. And those floors are a hell to clean, so I hear. So, Connor, do you have a trade? I mean, with this machine of Guillotin's, I fear we'll soon be out of a job."
All that the courtesan elicited from Connor was a blank look. "How do you mean?"
Théroigne gave him a withering look in response that made the Assassin shift uneasily. "Guillotin's device will make death hilariously easy to dole out. We had better prepare for our future unemployment. Brissot is an author; Danton, a lawyer; Santerre, an officer; and Marat can be anything he takes a fancy to, really. I even hear that Madame Berr is quite handy at carpentry. What can you provide the Republic?"
"Well, I do have a little naval blood in me..."
"And with war on the rise, too! Yes, you shan't want, I think. I'm sure there'll be some skirmishes off of the Belgian coast..."
The idea did appeal to Connor. Ah, how he missed the Aquila! Why was it that he only felt grounded when he was assaulted by the roiling ocean and the tumultuous storm, when salt sprayed into his eyes? He had never felt more alive than at the wheel of his beloved Eagle. Whatever love the Assassin felt he held for Paris had died a little with de Launey's last breath, and it dimmed all the more with every misplaced riot, with every hung aristo. It would be good to sail on the high seas once more. And perhaps... "You know, Gilbert is also on the frontlines. Perhaps I should enlist and rendezvous with him?"
"Do as you will, Connor. To me, your dear Marquis will always be a bumbling, hypocritical oaf playing at war. No doubt, all du Motier cares is that he lost his chance at the Mayoralty..." Her eyes flashed defiantly, and he was suddenly grateful the salonnière had been absent from the Champ de Mars. "Hmm... Perhaps he will do better on the Frontier. After all, we can all agree to the liberation of Brabant and Austria, oui?"
"Try not to tempt me, Anne," said Connor glumly, "I've never even been to Vienna."
"You haven't missed much, trust me. Think Versailles, only bigger - but with more gilding, less substance, and eternal music. Well, if you've never been, then I suppose we'll just have to make a holiday of it! You, me, and all of the French court!" She laughed coldly. "Yes, I think they'd look marvelous impaled next to their beloved queen, don't you agree, monsieur?"
"Mademoiselle, you are a Brissotin in fact, if not in name." Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. "Provence, d'Artois, and de Condé were not the ones to imprison you. Why are you so quick to deal in judgment against them?"
"You do not put too much stock in Marat, do you?" Anne's face grew solemn. "I hold no emnity against Leopold, may he rest in peace. He released me when I was set about on all sides by the treacherous Court-in-Exile, giving false reports to that Englightened Despot. It was they that abducted me - my tormentor were Frenchmen, I would bet a thousand louis on it! Did you know, the Prince de Condé had the gall to demand an audience with me in Worms? I made sure to hold by back to him the entire time. The Alpine prison they condemned me to was a harsh one. I suffered the usual ailments; depression, blood, and insomnia. My rage fuelled me through the past two years. I was finally allowed an audeince with the Emperor, and he listened to reason. The Second Estate sow discord wherever they take root. Now that I have returned to Paris, I sometimes feel that the Sovereign People only listen to me due to my gender than my views, as of late. They humor me." Her voice grew chilly. "This war will change that. I had thought that the March on Versailles would secure our place in the Revolution, but still we are denied our rights. Still we are denied representation. Now I see more drastic action must be taken. Once I impale the heads of all the Noble turncoats on the city gates, and dump their bloated corpses into the River Seine, their precious gems scattered across its banks... Then we women will be heeded. We will not be ignored. No longer."
Accuse her of many things – bloodthirsty, radical, deluded – Théroigne de Mericourt could not be dismissed as dispassionate. Connor stared respectfully at her before nodding with a smile. "La belle Liègeoise does seem a tad obeisant for you... The Fury of the Gironde. Yes, that would fit."
Paris, Royaume des Français
20 April, 1792
War.
Spring is usually a time of new beginnings, but not for the better, in this case. Just as Marat predicted, Dumoriez presented France's grievances, and was rejected. Brissot had his war.
Despite the great ribbing done at the Frogs' expense by the British in the New World, the French were the ultimate power on the European continent. Since the reign of the Sun King, they had cast a long shadow over the lesser kingdoms of Europe. That this new conflict had been initiated by the French people rather than a King instilled a new form of patriotism in Paris – one where the soldiers, not the nobility, would receive acclamation. That it had been declared against Austria had surprised no one. This was an age old dance, going back centuries – this great rivalry that compelled Christendom to ally with the infidel, and for aunt to war against nephew. Perhaps this was a subconscious quibble over who deserved the inheritance of Charles the Great? Well, to a non-European, it just seemed like much ado about nothing.
Now, la Fayette was on the front lines, no doubt preparing to penetrate into the Austrian Netherlands in the Low Countries. From there, God only knew where they would go. Coblence, on the banks of the River Rhine? Not to Imperial Vienna, certainly! Well, it was good that their King did not lead them, at least – some paper had illustrated a hilarious image of Louis gripping the Oriflamme in his pudgy mittens.
Rumors dominated the streets. The people spoke of escalation – the Austrians and Prussians had made their declaration only a year prior, and of course, Britain leered venomously from their own waters, ever vigilant against a second Norman incursion. Just recently, news had arrived from the north that, near the end of March, King Gustav III of Sweden had succumbed to an assassination attempt by one Anckarström at a masquerade ball. The absolutist Gustav had been a vehement supporter of the French King, and via his courtier, Comte Axel von Fersen, had had a significant presence within the Court of Versailles and the Tuileries. No doubt, with the death of the Templar of the North, the Swedes would seek to enact a terrible retribution against the Revolutionary scum exuding from Paris. The Assassin had no doubt of jealousies further afield, but he tried not to think too deeply on the subject - else he would never end his geopolitical contemplations.
You start a continental war, and suddenly everyone gets suspicious, thought Connor wryly.
Place de Grève, Hôtel de Ville
Paris, Royaume des Français
3:15 pm, 25 April, 1792
On the Place de Grève, in another age, an Assassin of Arras had been executed for an attempt on the King's life. The man had been declared a regicide, and as was tradition, he had been sentenced to death by drawing and quartering. After the usual torture (brimstone and wax, lead and oil,) he was remanded and his limbs were tied to four stallions of the King's Stable. His extremities would not part the criminal so easily, however, and to save on time (rather than pain,) the executioner ordered his joints snipped by blows from an axe. His still living torso was then given over to the flames, and his ashes were scattered to the wind – as were the ashes of his home, and the ashes of the Damiens name.
Thirty-five years later, another execution was to be carried out (though far less traditional.)
The only constant was the Royal Executioner of France: Charles-Henri Sanson, ready to enact the Scientific and Democratic Execution of Nicolas-Jacques Pelletier, a common highwayman.
Now, the bourreau stood again in the shadow of City Hall, his blood red coat as finished as it could be, flanked by his usual six assistants, all of them arranged in a sepulchral manner before some low scaffolding. Beside these men was a two-wheeled cart hauled by a single ox, its dull eyes taking no interest in the scene unfolding before it, unconcernedly chewing its morning cud. Within the uncovered cart sat a ragged man clothed in a red shirt and torn leggings, his wide eyes gazing up at the device that had sprung up in the public square.
Executions were not a terribly interesting affair, in Connor's eyes. Of course, he was more than a little biased against them. It was, after all, only a few years ago that he had hung from the gallows in New York. He could still feel the tightening grip of the noose around his neck, the air being squeezed out of him – but he had been saved. Connor sighed deeply. He had much to thank Achilles and Stephane for, his rescue chief among them. But now, with hanging outlawed, only beheading would serve the State in its grim task. If this machine was as quick as Guillotin claimed... well, the Assassin would just have to exercise greater caution in the immediate future. Simple enough. Right?
There were larger crowds than usual at this particular spectacle, the vulgar sans-culottes brimming with anticipation. As Connor neared Hotel de Ville, its height only increased, looming menacingly above the populace. Its jagged lines stood out against afternoon horizon, having the appearance of a Hebrew letter or one of those Egyptian hieroglyphics – a sigil from an enigmatic alphabet, long lost to the forgotten bastions of antiquity. It seemed unspeakably ancient, yet somehow it was also irrevocably modern; humane, yet vile; simple, yet brilliant.
Upon first inspection, it seemed useless. Then, horror crept in.
It was a sort of trestle-work, grounded by four posts. At the end of the trestle rose two high joists, upright and straight, joined together at the top by a crossbeam, from which was suspended a sharp triangular blade, which looked black against the blue afternoon sky. At the other end of the framework was a ladder. Between the two joists below, under the blade, could be seen a sort of panel composed of two moveable sections, each one carved into a sort of fanlight, which, when fitted together, showed a round hole about the size of a man's neck. The upper section of the panel slipped into a groove in such a way that it could be raised or lowered. For the time being, the two semicircles which, when united, formed the collar, were apart. At the foot of the two posts was seen a plank, which moved on hinges and looked like a balance. Beside this plank, there was a long basket, and between the two posts, in front, and at the end of the trestle, was a large leather bag. The whole was painted entire construct was deceptively soft and wooden – it had lived, all for the triangular blade, which was cold steel – it had never lived. It was this hard implement that would deliver the fell swing of Death. It was so ugly, mean, and petty... it could only have been built by men.
"Connor!" A familiar voice cut through the din of rumor and wonder. Glancing about through the congregation, the Assassin caught the peculiarly twinkly eye of an elder gentleman. "Ah, and Mlle. Théroigne! Enchanté."
"Et moi, M. Paine," she said politely. "You will be at the next Girondist meeting?"
"Ah, wouldn't miss it!" He said jovially. "Your salon, I presume? Give Brissot my regards, if you would."
Connor had known that Paine and Théroigne had shared political leanings – after all, Paine had spoken more than once of invading England, so Austria was probably just a preview in his eyes. Despite the horrible construct overseeing their meeting, Connor could still muster a smile. "Mr. Paine! How goes it?"
"Well enough – at least we don't need to rush about for seats here, you know." Thomas Paine suddenly grew solemn, and his eyes dimmed. They darted back to the machine and Paine leaned in close to Connor, as if the machine could hear his judgment, and muttered,"I know this mechanism. It appears that there truly is nothing new under the sun... this is the Halifax Gibbet of West Yorkshire."
"Truly?" Connor looked askance at Paine, and asked, "Was it used for the same purpose? The same charges?"
"For thievery? Yes. A dastardly punishment, if you ask me, for such a low crime. Cromwell banned it after the Civil War in England, but to see it reform here in Revolutionary France... It is the height of irony."
Across the River Seine, the bells of Notre Dame tolled the half hour – and, when Notre Dame called, the People silenced. Paine straightened up beside Theroigne as the colors were displayed. The National Guard was out in full force, tricolor pennants and cockades in vogue amongst the civilian troops. Their new commander – Connor heard the name 'Mandat' mentioned – sat astride a palomino charger. It just wasn't the same. Still, he did cut a rather striking figure. The green, leaf-shaped cross affixed to his coat's lapel identified him as a Lazarene, which certainly attracted the Assassin's notice. As far as Connor knew, la Fayette had never been a formal member of the Order of St. Lazarus. To see some proof of their growing influence over the police state was unsettling, to say the least.
At a word from Sanson, the criminal was dragged down from his seat in the tumbrel and lead onto the paved road of the Place de Grève. Both he and his audience had waited for this day for the past three months. The crowds were silent, expectant; a path had already opened up for the thief. Gulping, the man was pushed towards his doom. Approaching the ladder, the criminal ascended with his guard, taking some solace in that his fate would not be to suffer. The age of barbarity in France had ended. Now, with a single slice of fate, he would pass, and usher in a new age of equality; all at the hand of a machine, approved by a committee. The executioners moved quickly; once he reached the summit, he was bound to the hinged plank, and he descended once more, only now to Death. Thankfully, he was faced down. He would not see the blade descend, the bone break, the blood splattering the faces of children…Sliding forward, the collar was affixed about his neck, and, once Sanson pulled the lever! –
Death fell upon its newest victim.
A swoop, a soft thud, and a great spurt of blood; the head fell forward into the leather bag below. It was over within seconds. The crowd sighed, but then fell into skepticism: is that it? Where's the show? Within the crowd, someone cried, "Bring back the gallows!"
"Is he dead?" asked Anne, curiously. Indeed, it seemed too quick for Connor – there had not even been a struggle. Perhaps this was just a trick? Did the Assembly think they could swing a blade and hurry the criminal away to safety? Perhaps capitol punishment had been abolished...?
The crowd's murmurs increased. The master executioner frowned. One of his assistants strode over to the leather bag in which the head had fallen, grasped it by its dark scalp, and held it aloft to the waning sun. He turned slowly to each quarter of the crowd, the cadaver's blank eyes gazing soullessly into its witness'. Children are hoisted onto their parents' shoulders for a better look. They didn't miss much otherwise. Sanson nodded. The corpse's trunk was released from the plank, and rolled into the side basket to be taken away; his severed head was placed between its feet. The crowd began to disperse.
"Well, it's never a good idea to linger at an execution site," said Paine, darkly. "They might just ask for volunteers! Come, we had better discuss this development." With that, the Englishman let himself by carried away by the flood of people, Anne following in his wake.
Connor stayed. By his calculations, the entire affair had gone on for about five minutes. If time were necessary, it could have been cut in half. It looked so easy – a pull of the lever, a shower of blood, and then all that was left was to decide where to bury the poor soul. His entire profession seemed useless now – what was the point of assassination, when death could much more easily be delivered by this infernal device? Surely, anyone could be an Assassin! Or an executioner...
That thought led Connor's gaze to the Royal bourreau. As the People left the site, still grumbling at the lack of entertainment, Sanson was unmoved. There was just no pleasing some people, and besides, the mob was not his employer. His deed was done for the day. At his signal, the body was taken away, and the machine was dismantled swiftly. When all was done, the mechanism had been sent off to Bicêtre hospital in an identical cart to the body tumbrel. Surveying City Hall, Sanson eventually caught Connor's eye. The Assassin could not look at him for long – his intensity drove him from the Place of the Grave.
The executioner was always the last to leave.
-AC3-
It is a universal truth: Man fears the unknown. The eternal crusade against the void is carried out particularly through the invention of language. To name something is to have power over it - as Adam named the birds of the air, and the beasts of the field, so did his descendants claim the dominion of the World. Once something has a title, the populace knows, at least, that it has a specific nature, and can gain a measure of the object's threat. Of course, whether or not the name reflects the subject's actual nature varies. The menacing new machine soon had a belying new name: the guillotine, bestowed upon it by the People's Friend: Jean-Paul Marat. Who else could claim the mantle of Adam, the Earthborn?
So, whilst Madame Guillotine claimed her first victim, an army captain in the frontier town of Strasbourg took up quill and ink, and on a sudden inspiration of patriotic fervor, he began to write:
Allons, enfants de la Patrie!
Le jour de gloire est arrive...
À la guerre: (French) 'To war!'
À bas les tyrans: (French) 'Down with tyranny!'
Gironde: (French) A region in southwest France from which many of the more moderate Republicans hailed, hence the name 'Girondists' – they favored a militaristic foreign policy.
So ein Beschiß: (German) 'What a crock (of shit!)'
Kaiser: (German) 'Caesar.'
Vienne qui voudra: (French) 'Come, if you will!'
Oriflamme: (Latin) 'Golden flame.' The Battle Standard of the French Kings during the Middle Ages.
Bourreau: (French) 'Executioner.'
"Let us calmly assess the situation..." said no one ever. I am now in the highly unenviable position of agreeing with Robespierre. It is impossible to 'export' liberty, at least through military might – it can only be done through passivity. Liberty is contagious – it will spread, but only when it deems to moment to be right, and not one second more! Our recent escapades in the Middle East ought to be evidence enough...
I pretty much made up the reasoning for Brissot and Théroigne's hatred of the Austrians – but it does seem likely, given their association with the hawkish Girondists. That, and Théroigne being imprisoned in Austria for a year or two.
Dr. Guillotin is very unfairly associated with the guillotine. He never invented the thing – he was just its most strident proponent. The actual inventor of the machine was Antoine Louis (and he may or may not have drawn inspiration from the Halifax Gibbet of West Yorkshire, England... And there's also the Scottish Maiden to consider (used hilariously ironically by Mary, Queen of Scots...)) Now, the guillotine has many monikers: the National Razor, the Fanlight, the Mill of Silence, etc. I chose the Regretful Climb as this chapter's title to refer to another event: the War of the First Coalition.
Aaaaand there goes La Fayette! He'll be back. In the future. Later. *cough*
On 29 March, 1792, King Gustav III of Sweden was shot in the back at a masquerade ball in Stockholm by Jacob Johan Anckarström, who had greeted the King with the phrase "Bonjour, beau masque." Because if you're going to assassinate someone, you should at least compliment your target's fine taste in covert apparel! Mind you, Gustav was rather interested in the American Revolution - his thoughts on the subject were very prescient. After 1786, however, he became dedicated to centralizing power for himself - Templar qualities? Anckarström was, of course, beheaded on 27 April 1792.
Connor's description of the Guillotine is heavily influenced by Victor Hugo's 'Ninety-Three' – a detailed narrative of the Vendée Counterrevolution set, of course, in 1793. Certainly not as popular as Les Misérables, but I would still recommend it to fans of that particular work. Now, I could have just rushed in and said "THAR WAS A GUILLOTINE", but I deferred to M. Hugo in this case. And yes, guillotines were actually painted red – they didn't even try to be subtle. On the same day as the first guillotining – 25 April 1792 - La Marseillaise was composed by the Royalist army officer Rouget de Lisle in Strasbourg, Alsace (though it was initially titled War Song for the Army of the Rhine...)
EDIT: That bit about naming things came from my college speech class. Odd, innit?
EDIT 2: So perusing a biography of Anne Théroigne, I learned that she actually praised Emperor Leopold for her release from Kufstein, and more or less blamed the French émigrés for her capture and imprisonment. If I had just taken the time to read more, I'd have known this sort of thing. Oh well. I regret it, I'm sorry, that was just my mistake and my bad, I'm sorry! *sniffle*