The dead man's eyes on the pike seemed to be staring right at me, asking if I had the stomach for the price of my own revolution.
The head of the Bastille's governor was a gruesome, undeniable fact. It was the closing entry on a bloody ledger. The butcher, Fournier, held it up like a trophy, his challenge hanging in the air between us. March with us. Help us finish the job.
The mob was dead silent. They were waiting. This was their test for me. Robespierre, a few feet away, was a statue, his face unreadable. He was no longer a player in this game; he was a spectator, watching to see if his king was a man of words or a man of action.
My mind raced, running the cold, hard numbers.
Option A: Refuse. Call his gruesome display barbaric. I would be asserting the old morality. They would see me as a weak, horrified aristocrat, no different from the rest. They would tear me, my guards, and the Assembly delegates to pieces. End of story.
Option B: Agree. Grab a pike and march with them. I would become the King of Murderers, the leader of a bloodthirsty mob. I would lose all legitimacy with the Assembly, with the rest of France, with the entire world. I would be trading a quick death here for a slower, more certain one later.
It was a perfect trap. A classic no-win scenario.
Unless it wasn't a negotiation.
I looked past the head, past the blood, and into the butcher's eyes. He wasn't asking for my moral approval. He was testing my courage. This wasn't a political debate. It was a job interview, and I was the applicant.
I made my decision.
With a smooth, deliberate motion, I swung my leg over my horse and dismounted. The ground felt solid, real. A collective gasp went through the crowd. I was no longer a king looking down on them from horseback. I was a man, standing on their level, on their ground.
I handed my reins to the stunned Robespierre without a word. Then I walked forward. Alone.
The sea of armed men and women parted for me. The only sound was the crunch of my boots on the grimy cobblestones. I stopped directly in front of Fournier. He towered over me, a mountain of muscle and rage. The pike with its horrifying trophy was between us, close enough that I could smell the coppery scent of blood.
I didn't look at the head. I couldn't. Instead, I let my gaze fall to the butcher's apron, caked and stained with the work of his trade and the work of his revolution. Then I raised my eyes to meet his.
I held out my hand. Not palm up, begging. Not palm down, commanding. But straight out, an offer between equals.
"You have performed the first part of the audit," I said, my voice quiet but carrying in the tense silence. "It was necessary work. Now, it's time to secure the evidence and consolidate our assets."
The butcher stared at my hand as if it were a venomous snake. His mind was struggling to process what was happening. He had presented a king with an ultimatum of blood and violence. I had responded with the language of a corporate takeover.
"The city needs order," I continued, pressing the advantage. "Not the old order of corrupt officials. A new one. Our order. I have just come from the National Assembly. I am here to authorize the creation of the National Guard. To turn this righteous anger into a disciplined force."
I wasn't asking him. I was informing him. I was framing his mob not as an ending, but as a beginning. The raw material for something greater.
"I need men I can trust to be the foundation of that force," I said, my hand still outstretched. "Men who are not afraid to do the hard work. What's your name?"
Fournier grunted, a low, animal sound. He was utterly thrown off balance. He looked from my hand to my face, searching for a trick, for a sign of fear. He found none. Only a calm, unwavering sense of purpose.
After a long, brutal silence that stretched for an eternity, he grunted again. "Fournier."
He wiped his massive, bloody right hand on his apron, leaving a fresh red smear. Then, he clasped my hand.
His grip was like an iron vise, a crushing force that threatened to grind the bones in my hand to dust. It wasn't a handshake. It was a test of strength, a primitive assertion of dominance. I met his grip without flinching, channeling every ounce of adrenaline into my arm, refusing to show pain.
It was a deal. A contract signed in blood and sweat.
The crowd, which had been holding its breath, exploded in a single, deafening roar of approval. They didn't just see a king; they saw their leader shake hands with their champion. They saw their raw power being acknowledged and accepted.
The moment I had their loyalty, however fragile, I used it. I let go of Fournier's hand and turned to face the roaring crowd, raising a hand for silence. It took a moment, but the roar subsided to an expectant murmur.
"This!" I shouted, pointing a finger at the head on the pike. It was a gamble, a huge one. "This is a symbol of yesterday's justice! This is the proof of our victory over tyranny!"
The crowd cheered. I let them.
"But the justice of the new France, the justice of the National Guard, is not about parading the dead!" I continued, my voice getting stronger. "Our justice is for the living! It is about food for your children, fair laws, and a voice in your own government!"
I turned back to Fournier, my expression hardening. "Your first act as a soldier of the National Guard. Your first official order." I looked him right in the eye. "Give that man a proper burial. Our audit is about records and rights, not revenge and relics. We are builders now, not destroyers. Show them the discipline of the new guard."
Fournier stared at me, his brow furrowed. I was telling him to dispose of his trophy, the very symbol of his power and their victory. The crowd murmured, uncertain. For a second, I thought I had pushed too far, too fast.
Then, the butcher gave a curt, sharp nod. He turned and barked an order to two of his lieutenants. "You heard the King. Take him down. Find a priest."
His men, looking surprised, obeyed instantly. They respectfully took the pike and carried it away into the crowd. I had done it. I had given my first command to the mob, and they had obeyed.
Just as I was trying to figure out the logistical nightmare of what to do next with several thousand armed, emotional, and probably very hungry citizens, a man began pushing his way through the crowd with polite but firm determination.
He was different. While the crowd was a chaotic mass of civilian clothes and makeshift weapons, this man wore the clean, if slightly dusty, uniform of the now-disbanded French Guards. He moved with a crisp, athletic discipline that was utterly out of place.
He reached the front, stopped before me, and executed a perfect, flawless military salute.
"Marquis de Lafayette, at your service, Your Majesty," he said. His eyes were alight with a fervent, almost boyish enthusiasm. This wasn't a man seeking power or revenge. He was a true believer. "I heard you were forming a new guard for a new France. A guard to protect liberty. I and the loyal men of my former regiment offer our swords, our discipline, and our lives to its cause."
I stared at him. Lafayette. The name hit me like a lightning bolt from history. Hero of the American Revolution. Friend to Washington. A professional soldier and a genuine, idealistic reformer. He was the perfect man for the job. He was the bridge I desperately needed between my political idea and this chaotic, violent reality.
"Your service is welcome, Marquis," I said, a wave of profound relief washing over me. "It is desperately needed."
But as I looked from Lafayette's clean uniform and idealistic face to Fournier's bloody apron and suspicious glare, I felt a new kind of dread. The butcher was looking at the aristocratic general with open, undisguised contempt. The street fighter versus the idealist. The brute force versus the disciplined professional.
I had just found my perfect general. But in doing so, I may have just created the first, irreparable crack in the foundation of my brand-new army.