Egalite. . .
"The Marquis de Chauvelin is dead forever now."
To any ordinary person it might seem odd that these were that very man's thoughts upon waking that day. But to any who truly knew Citoyen Chauvelin (admittedly such were few in number) they would not have expressed surprise. Merely, they would have shaken their heads, unsure whether they did so in pity, admiration, or shame, and then go upon their way, sobered for having thought of the man who always dressed in black.
The one who always was in mourning.
Chauvelin stayed with his usual morning routine on that day - The Day as it was - and he was perhaps the only one who was able to maintain a sense of perfect ease in the midst of the ensuing turmoil.
He sat behind a desk in a Spartanly appointed office, and saw all that wished to see him, and did all that his job required.
Soon now, more would happen. He could wait. He could indeed. For, was he not a Citoyen? Now, a Power of France? The blood of noblesse and the mind of a fox had combined in him to make him this - it was simply Fate that had decided that his name had had to die before his life could begin.
A hectic superiority coupled with a strange frantic loneliness welled in him. These feelings that day tied him forever to the Republic that had just been born under the sun-painted sky.
He was superior. He always had been.
But now his name and his mind would be paired with those who also had always been so.
At last he would have equals.