Chapter 34: Great Cold Wave (2) "Hahaha! Seeing that Austrian bitch looking completely dead—my heart feels so refreshed!"
"Wahahaha! Doesn't this mean the Lord is protecting us?! Having to call that petty German thing by a refined French name like 'Marie Antoinette'—what the hell! We should make them call her by her low-class hometown German name, 'Maria Antonia'!"
"Exactly! Exactly! Just look at her, shut up alone in some separate palace, wallowing in self-pity—an Austrian country wench like that was never going to fit France's elegant, high-class atmosphere!"
"Now, now, our precious guests. On such a fine day, don't get so angry. Let's each draw a card and enjoy ourselves. Look outside—such pretty, fluffy snow is falling. Keh heh heh."
"Fine! Even if I lost fifty thousand livres yesterday, today I'll take it all back—so Baron, brace yourself."
A social gathering hall in Paris was, as always, busy slandering Marie Antoinette as an "Austrian country wench," a "Habsburg slut," and a "low-class woman unfit for France's national dignity."
Traditionally, the fact that she had married in from Austria's royal house—France's potential enemy—made up a large portion of the ridicule and jeers she received, but more than anything else, it was the Diamond Necklace Affair from a few years back.
That once-in-an-era scandal, created by a female con artist driven insane by greed and a clergyman who wanted access to the queen, truly shook France.
The con artist told the clergyman that the queen wanted a diamond necklace worth several million livres, and that if he bought it and handed it over to her, she would deliver it to the queen.
But the moment she received the necklace, she dismantled it and sold it on the black market. In the end, once the queen learned the truth, the con artist was whipped and imprisoned, but certain factions who deeply hated the queen helped her flee to England.
Even after fleeing to England, the con artist attacked Marie Antoinette with absurd sexual scandals on the level of twenty-first-century entertainment-industry internet tabloids. Those stories reached the ears of journalists and nobles who only wanted something to chew on, and they spread like wildfire as if they were truth.
In the end, the queen—who had done nothing wrong—became, effectively, a "female Judas Iscariot," cursed by the entire world.
"…Your Majesty. I have something urgent to say."
"My heart is not at ease right now. Let us put it off until later. Please understand."
"…Your Majesty wouldn't—surely you don't believe that ridiculous story?"
"…It has grown very cold. Don't do this—go inside."
"…"
"Queen. The weather is very cold."
"…You are truly too much."
Louis XVI watched Marie Antoinette turn away from him, her back growing more distant, and he started to say something—then forced the words back down behind his throat.
He did not want to look at the queen's back, so utterly forlorn.
When he turned his gaze away instead, his face was reflected in the window.
He suddenly thought of his ancestor who resembled him, his grandfather, the "Sun King" Louis XIV, with his stern eyes, nose, and mouth.
But aside from their faces, Louis XVI and his grandfather were completely different.
He was not a man with the grand bearing to declare, like the great Sun King, "I am the state."
Nor was he someone skilled enough in schemes and power plays to purge every political enemy.
Nor was he brilliant enough to make the nation flow with milk and honey.
He was ordinary—ordinary among ordinary men.
"We're already getting leave and sucking up every last drop of honey. Right, older brother Mathieu?"
"Seriously. A soldier should be in the fortress day and night. Look at Grouchy—he even gave up his leave and is training hard."
Of course, Grouchy had just caused yet another huge incident, so he had "voluntarily" given up his leave.
No—seriously. If a man in the Royal Guard is walking around inside the barracks talking about Rousseau until his company commander chews him out, what is he even doing? Honestly, maybe Rousseau fires some kind of hypnosis beam that turns anyone who gets hit into a passionate supporter.
"Hey! I really had it hard, you know? This is proper compensation for how much I suffered—compensation! And didn't you say Grouchy had his leave cut because he did something weird again? Why are you comparing that to me?!"
"Yes, yes. Of course, Sir Gudgeon."
Our friend Napoleon had come back to Paris on leave—the first leave he had gotten in a full eight years.
"How's Saint-Quentin? Livable? How's soldier life?"
"You bastards—barely wrote me any letters, and now you've got a lot you want me to talk about?"
"What letters between grown men? Pathetic."
"Tch, cold-blooded bastards. Fine, forget it. You that curious about soldier life?"
Just then, Mme Pluie entered the room where we were gathered with tea and snacks.
"Oh my, of course we're curious. You're someone who'll become an enemy in the future. Hohoho."
"Ah… ma'am. C'mon…"
As expected of Mme Pluie—this was why I trusted her.
The anti-Napoleon ultimate weapon, Mme Pluie, made Napoleon groan with a single sentence.
Napoleon coughed once, then began talking.
It was ordinary chatter—how Saint-Quentin was famous for its wool business, how he wanted to get himself a coat but gave up because it was too expensive; stories of joking around with soldiers; complaints that even a second lieutenant's starting pay was too stingy; saying it would've been better if he'd been assigned to a bigger city like Amiens.
"So you're meeting just us, then going straight back home?"
At my question, Napoleon shook his head.
"No. There's one more person I have to see."
"Who? Oh, that math professor?"
"Yeah. I owed him a lot back when I went to school."
"Well, you really liked math."
"You say that because you haven't tried digging into it. If you only do it for scores, of course math isn't fun!"
What is he talking about? There is nothing more difficult, annoying, and hateful than math in this world. How could he like math? Did this older brother get hit by a hypnosis beam too, like Grouchy?
"Anyway—Guillaume, you're using a secretary now, huh? You made it!"
"That's all because of the idea you gave me."
At my words, Napoleon laughed loudly.
"Hah—been running a business for a while and you've gone and oiled your tongue. Anyway, doesn't that mean you've got a bit less to do now?"
That was true. The convenience-meal shops and the motion-sickness medicine business were both on track, and as long as the basic work like raw-material receipts and disbursements was handled, we could maintain things without trouble.
"Yeah, that's true. But why?"
"It's nothing. Just take leave and come hang out at my place sometime. Corsica's way down south—much warmer than Paris."
"Leave. Leave…"
Resting my chin on my right hand, I thought.
It had been almost five years since I came up to Paris, and all that time I'd been crushed by work and study, running nonstop without any real rest.
If I kept running like this, something big could happen someday. Maybe it was time to rest once.
"I'll talk to Florian first."
I nodded.
Napoleon, pleased, asked Mathieu too.
"You coming?"
"No. I'm busy investing in the romance business. Hehe."
"Wow—Guillaume! What happened to Mathieu? He's basically whipped. Act your size for once!"
On a cold winter day, our group—reunited after a long time—spent the entire day laughing and talking, enjoying warm hours together.
Except for one person.
"Your voice is small!"
"Second Lieutenant Emmanuel de Grouchy! Yes! Understood!"
"Is the wooden baton heavy, Grouchy!?"
"No!"
"Are you pissed off just because you're holding a wooden baton!?"
"No!!"
"If you don't like it, you be the company commander!"
"Noooo—aaagh!!"
The company commander's gaze moved from Grouchy to the first lieutenant behind him, also holding a wooden baton.
"First Lieutenant Dezé! Is it hard!?"
"No!"
"Are you thinking, 'Why am I doing this because of that bastard Grouchy'?!"
"Noooo—!"
"You not managing your juniors properly!?"
"Noooo—aaagh!!"
First Lieutenant Dezé truly hated Second Lieutenant Grouchy.
I'll kill you, Grouchy.
"Gyaaaaaaah!!"
Whether he cared or not, the Royal Guard training ground was once again filled all day with the voices of two men soaked in pain.
"Oh! Bonaparte! My one and only disciple is here!"
"Professor Laplace! It's been a long time! Have you been well?"
"I'm always in Paris, so what else. I'm the one who's curious whether you've been well, suffering in a strange land."
Napoleon smiled brightly.
"Now, now, don't just stand there—how about we sit and talk? Assistant? Bring two cups of coffee."
"…Professor, that assistant is still an assistant?"
"Hm? There's still much to learn, so what can we do? Hahaha. Why? Are you thinking of being my assistant too? If you say you're coming, I could open up a seat."
"Ah, no. I'll pass…"
The two chatted at length.
"Yes, yes! As expected of Napoleon, who made an unprecedented gamble in French history with the headmaster—you're doing well in Saint-Quentin too. I think my heart can rest a bit."
What educator wouldn't be happy to see a beloved disciple grow up and live well?
Professor Laplace was grinning happily.
Then Napoleon cleared his throat and spoke in a solemn voice.
"Professor. But… these days, be a bit careful with yourself."
At Napoleon's sudden words, Laplace asked, puzzled.
"What do you mean, Bonaparte? Has something happened?"
"In Saint-Quentin, people are starving to death, and people are freezing to death. I don't really want to say something this heavy on a day I'm seeing you again after so long, but you're always so busy that if I don't say it now, I don't think I'll get another chance."
People were starving to death and freezing to death.
Those words carried tremendous weight.
If it were just the poor dying, it happened countless times—Napoleon would have no reason to tell him.
Which meant the dead were ordinary townspeople.
And ordinary townspeople dying was one sign that social discontent was surging.
"…If what you say is true, there could be unrest soon."
Laplace thought of the citizens' rebellion in England centuries ago—Wat Tyler's Rebellion.
Of course, eighteenth-century France would not see something that large, but rich nobles could certainly be robbed.
"I'll keep your words in mind. Thank you for telling me."
"Why make a big deal of it? It's only natural. Haha."
Laplace clasped hands with his admirable disciple and shook firmly.
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