Chapter 142: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity (6) The High Court—no, after the Revolution it had been renamed the Paris Revolutionary Tribunal—stood as an antique building between Paris's 6th and 5th districts. From early morning, it was already in a frenzy of activity.
"Chief Prosecutor, where should I send these documents?"
"Send numbers one through four to the Ministry of Finance. Number five goes to Versailles."
Because manpower was short, everyone—from the Chief Prosecutor down to the lowest-ranking prosecutor—ran around pushing carts piled high with paperwork.
"Why are you standing around! Dig up every precedent and bring them here!"
"Damn it… I shouldn't have followed that bastard that day just because he was my junior."
Even the judges, who normally sat in their chairs putting on airs, had hung their heavy velvet robes on the backs of chairs, rolled up their sleeves, and were now flipping through thick volumes of case precedents line by line.
"Clerk… there's already a mountain of work to do, and I have no idea what all this is about…"
"If they tell us to do it, we do it."
The junior clerk let out a deep sigh that seemed to sink into the ground at his supervisor's words and opened the book containing precedents from three hundred years ago that he had been assigned.
All of this happening because of a single black man named Toussaint Bréda.
Seriously—would anyone believe that the unprecedented incident of the Finance Minister of the executive branch crashing into a judge had occurred over nothing more than the life of a single black man?
The more the junior clerk remembered the events of a few days earlier, the tighter his chest felt and the more his body trembled.
—Ah, this is irritating. I told you to leave.
—Y-Yes, sir!
"Look at all this dust."
"Ugh! Cough, cough!"
Damn it. I shouldn't have thought about that.
His hands began trembling, and the dust clinging to the old book scattered above his desk like flower petals in spring.
Just how long had this book been buried in storage? The moment it opened, the air filled with the stale, musty smell of old parchment.
When he was studying, people kept telling him, "If you go to law school, women will line up for you."
Then after he entered law school, they said, "If you pass the bar exam, women will line up for you."
He had heard those words so many times his ears had practically grown calluses—but instead of women lining up, parchment older than his great-grandfather was lining up in front of him.
What the hell is this! Give me back my youth! Sob!
But the young junior clerk, who had just passed the legal examination and been assigned to the very bottom of the court's food chain, could only curse his fate while carefully brushing dust off the book so it wouldn't scatter.
He had focused so long that he could no longer tell whether he was the dust brush or the brush was him when someone tapped lightly on the edge of his desk.
A young man with a youthful face wearing a plain suit.
"What brings you here?"
"I'm here to file an appeal."
"An appeal?"
"That's right."
"What is the defendant's name?"
The junior clerk dipped his pen back into the ink after moving it aside because of the books.
"Toussaint Bréda."
Fuck. Again? What makes that black man so important that all this chaos is happening?
"…Alright. Who is the defense attorney?"
"Maximilien François Marie Isidore Robespierre. I obtained my attorney's license while practicing at the Arras Court."
…Robespierre? That Robespierre—the leader of the Mountain faction?
"…Is it you?"
"Yes."
The junior clerk slowly turned his head and looked at his supervisor beside him.
Eyes twice their normal size. Lips trembling. Hands suspended helplessly in midair.
Exactly the same posture as his own.
Damn it… what sin did I commit to deserve this trial, God?
Forcing his shaking hand down onto the desk, the junior clerk slowly wrote the letters one by one onto the appeal document.
This is insane. Was the pen always this slippery?
"Ah, by the way, the second letter in 'Isidore' is an 's,' so please write it carefully. Thinking back to my time at the Arras Court, junior clerks often made mistakes there."
"Y-Yes!"
He drops a bombshell like that and then speaks kindly afterward—is this giving medicine after poisoning someone?
Well… it's still better than poisoning someone and giving no medicine at all.
"Hm, Augustin?"
"Yes, brother."
"Do I have any free days in my schedule this month?"
"Next Wednesday is open."
"Wednesday, you say. Good. Mr. Junior Clerk?"
"Y-Yes?!"
"If you could schedule the next trial for that day, I would be very grateful… would that be possible?"
Damn it, damn it. This is an order, not a request. Even if I'm only a low-ranking clerk, I'm still part of the judiciary. Do they think I'd bend to pressure like this?
"Of course! We should accommodate the deputy's schedule! Ha… hahaha…"
"Excellent. Thank you."
Maximilien Robespierre, who had just detonated the second bomb after Guillaume de Toulon, smiled faintly as he left the courthouse.
Inside the carriage returning to the Jacobin Monastery, Augustin Robespierre spoke to the man seated beside him—his older brother and faction leader.
"Brother, everything is fine, but what about public opinion?"
"Hmm? Public opinion? What do you mean, Augustin?"
Seriously, this brother of mine can be so frustrating.
"The citizens want Toussaint dead. If we make a mistake, support for our Mountain faction could collapse!"
"Hmm. Really?"
"Ha, damn it! Maximilien! You're not stupid, so why do you keep pretending not to understand?"
Augustin's hand instinctively drifted toward his waist as deep lines formed across his brow.
But unlike Augustin, whose insides were burning with anxiety, Maximilien simply shrugged.
"Augustin, the moment Finance Minister Guillaume came to see me, public opinion was already practically on our side."
"What do you mean, brother?"
"Bold courage, sharp insight, and the eloquence to command people. A man with those abilities wouldn't just sit quietly and watch public opinion drift like this."
The man who took responsibility and pointed directly at the king while everyone else silently seethed with anger.
The man who, at only sixteen years old, built an unprecedented business supplying half of the lunches eaten by the citizens of Paris.
The man who, even while grumbling, stood on the platform in the public square almost every day for nearly two years after the Revolution so the citizens could laugh and enjoy themselves.
The man who, even when criticized by hostile factions and newspapers, argued not for repression but for freedom of the press.
Would a man like Guillaume de Toulon simply leave such frenzied public opinion alone?
Absolutely not. By now, he was probably already pressing the writers at the Ears of the Nation publishing house to produce rebuttal articles immediately.
"Still, nothing in this world can be one hundred percent certain."
"Well, if you insist that strongly, Augustin."
Maximilien knocked on the small window connecting to the driver's seat.
"Yes, leader. What is it?"
"Take us to the Champ de Mars instead of the Jacobin Monastery."
"Yes, leader."
Why the Champ de Mars all of a sudden?
Augustin couldn't help tilting his head in confusion.
"Augustin, you said earlier that nothing in this world is one hundred percent."
"That's right."
"But sometimes… something becomes a foregone conclusion."
"Citizens! I, Maximilien Robespierre, ask you. I ask you in the name of the day three years ago when we destroyed the Bastille—the day when everyone raised their voices and shouted together.
When the people are oppressed, when the people have nothing left but their own bodies, who is it that refuses to encourage them to rise up?
Cowards.
Who are the ones who shamelessly utter the word 'slave'?
They are the ones who, before the Revolution, allowed tyrants and despotism to suck the blood of the citizens.
Then allow me to say this.
Toussaint Bréda testified that in his homeland of Saint-Domingue, oppression, persecution, and murder of every kind were being carried out by the Governor's Office.
So let me say once again.
When the people have no choice but to rise up, it is because all laws have been destroyed, oppression has reached its peak, and goodwill and morality have been trampled underfoot.
When the government violates the rights of the people, uprising becomes the most sacred and indispensable duty of every citizen.
Yes. If Toussaint's testimony is true, then Toussaint had to rise up. Toussaint rose up and fulfilled his duty. And if we condemn him now, then we are doing exactly the same thing as those counterrevolutionaries who fired cannons at the citizens marching toward the Bastille three years ago.
So now I ask you.
Is it just to ignore the rights and duties exercised by a neighbor who lives among us simply because his skin is black, and to rush him through a trial without even a lawyer?
Or is it the act of killing the revolution we ourselves created?
The reason we began the Revolution was because we wanted a world where principles prevail, where principles are respected, and where everyone is equal under those principles!
People! I ask you! The Revolution asks you! Is Toussaint's trial valid!?"
"..."
"…Phew."
After finishing the entire front page of the morning newspaper, the leader of the Plain faction, Sieyès, placed the paper on the table and pressed both of his temples with his fingers.
Every time he glanced at the pile of newspapers and magazines published that morning, the throbbing in his temples only worsened.
[Leader of the Mountain faction, Deputy Robespierre, becomes defense attorney for "Mass murderer Toussaint Bréda"!]
[Is Toussaint Bréda innocent—or guilty? Where have the teachings of Rousseau and Montesquieu gone?]
[Forbes' Top 5 Most Absurd Kangaroo Trials in the World.]
In truth, it didn't matter to him whether Robespierre and the Mountain faction beat drums and sang songs about it. The equality of all people was something both the Plain faction and the Mountain faction agreed upon.
Hadn't they unanimously passed a resolution just a year ago declaring slavery a filthy feudal remnant that should be thrown into the trash?
Even if an unprecedented judicial scandal broke out, it had nothing to do with him, since he belonged to the legislative branch.
However—
"Minister of Justice Platier."
"…I am listening, Leader Sieyès."
If the Minister of Justice had been appointed by the Plain faction, the story changed completely.
"If things go like this, how am I supposed to show my face to Deputy Robespierre in the Assembly?"
"I-I sincerely apologize. I deeply acknowledge my responsibility."
"Hasn't it already been two years since you assumed the post of Minister of Justice? I would appreciate it if you paid a little more attention."
"…Yes, Leader."
They had given the Ministry of the Interior to the Mountain faction in exchange for securing the Ministry of Justice—yet something like this had exploded.
Sieyès again pressed his aching temples with his fingers and slowly rubbed them.
"Indeed. Our Plain faction took the Ministry of Justice. It cannot end up looking like this."
"You are absolutely right."
"Phew. Very well. I will take my leave now."
"Yes, Leader. Please take care on your way."
After Sieyès left, the sight of Minister of Justice Platier sitting alone in the room was quite something.
Veins bulged across his forehead as though they might burst at any moment.
His hand holding a pipe trembled—whether from rage or humiliation.
"Y-You fucking bastards!! Are you even judges!!"
In thirty years as a judge, Minister of Justice Platier had never felt such furious anger.
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