First things first.
“Franck, where is Gutek?”
Franck shouted, “Gutek! Gutek!” and voices all around repeated the call, some of them belonging to nearby drunks. Gutek, nèe August Jeziorkowski, stepped forward; a serious, tow-haired, fellow student from a noble Polish family, “I’m here, Jake.”
Jake pointed toward the fracas, “Tell your countrymen they have better things to do, and we have cockades for them. Then catch up quickly.”
“That is feasible.” Gutek nodded, and went his way.
Jake turned to the rest. “With me, as fast as you can.”
Jake moved forward. He thought about taking out his pistol and brandishing it to impress the crowd, but thought better of it. Instead, he took out his bayonet, but without removing the blade from its scabbard. As he patted shoulders with it, the long, thin knife encased in leather seemed to do the trick, “Make way! Make way for the soldiers of the Republic. We are on the Nation’s business for the people of France!”
Cheers went up, and suddenly the way was clear. The Poissards slapped them on the back as they passed. As the crowd parted, the street opened up into a large cobblestone courtyard fronting the church where it met Rue Cambon. Jake saw at least fifty Parisian National Guard in their blue and red tunics. It stood to reason, Jake thought grimly, that at the exact moment he announced himself as a rebel, and his men moved as one, that he would see the King’s men out in force. Jake kept moving, but his eyes stayed on the soldiers. Luckily, they didn’t seem too interested in the passing river of humanity. The noise was such that the brutal fight just around the corner hadn’t reached their ears. Soon Jake passed the courtyard, and the soldiers disappeared from view. Jake heard Franck, and others, taking up the cry to make way again. Looking around, he noticed the doors to every business and home were shut to the mob, as if the buildings themselves were hiding from the tide. A horrible female voice sing-songed over the din, in harsh Poissard rhyme:
“King’s guards are dumb,
His soldiers play,
While the rebel students,
Find their way.”
Laughter and cheers rang out. Jake heard Franck behind him, “Sang du Christ! With friends like these, who needs enemies?”
Jake didn’t reply, but hurried forward. The next intersection was the wide avenue of Rue de Castiglione, which turned into Place Vendôme when one turned left. They completed the turn - and moved from a stream to a lake. The funeral cortege was before him, surrounded by thousands. The Place Vendôme was a cobblestone rectangle of perhaps a hundred yards by one-hundred-fifty yards, pierced by streets to the north and south, and ringed by handsome stone hôtels. A gigantic bronze obelisk commemorating Napoleon’s victory at Austerlitz squatted in the center. The huge obelisk, too tall and thick for the square by far, was nearly obscene in its suggestive gigantism and detracted from an otherwise elegant address. Regardless, the presence of the obelisk was why the cortege had diverted to Place Vendôme. Lamarque had served under Napoleon, and the moments under the ponderous obelisk honored his achievements. The hôtels surrounding it were urban châteaux - palaces and ministry buildings of Paris limestone, all appropriately imposing, all adding to the spectacle. The crowd filled the entire space between them like a liquid.
Jake kept moving through the crowd, tapping people on the shoulder with his bayonet, until he abruptly came face-to-face with a stone-faced soldier in blue and realized he had reached the front of the crowd. Soldiers of the regular army, not the Paris guard, formed a human barricade between the masses and the carriage in the shape of a square. The soldiers were immaculate, each of them wearing a black sash. They were expressionless and uniform - both in garb and statue-like attention.
Jake’s fate, and those of his fellow students, would rest on their reaction when they rushed the carriage. Considering Lamarque’s politics, there was a chance the soldiers were of Republican sentiment.
One could only hope.
The carriage itself, properly called a catafalque, was grand indeed. It was black with silver trim, and adorned with sashes of red, white, and blue. Instead of a cabin behind the driver’s bench, there was a proper funeral bier where the white and gold coffin rested in display, surrounded by white roses and calla lilies. Six black horses of uniform height pulled the carriage. All sported ostrich plumes from their pewter and black leather tack.
Jake saw a knot of older men and uniformed officers by the obelisk, taking turns to speak. Their words, uttered perpendicular to Jake, were drowned out by the unruly crowd.
One of the officers blew a whistle, and the soldiers moved in unison. Heels snapped together. Muskets slapped into hands, then were shouldered. A second whistle was heard, and the horses pulled the carriage forward. It turned, and moved toward Jake in unison with the men. Jake cursed, and realized that they were now headed back to the intersection of Rue Saint Honoré. Jake turned in order to proceed the cortege. Franck, confused, walked backwards staring at him, as did most of his men.
Soon they reached Castiglione. The crowd had no idea what to do; some went east, some west. Jake realized he had to make a choice before any of them knew what direction the carriage was actually turning. Jake knew the cortege, at some point, would head south. But right here, at this street, it could turn either way. If they chose the wrong direction, they could be wildly out of position and miss the signal.
Then Jake heard a chorus of screams: “Down with Louis-Philippe, long live the Republic!” shouted once, then twice – then three times. It was a dozen voices at least, raised in unison, to shout the same slogan at the same time. It was, unmistakably, the signal of The Society.
Franck turned, “Jake?”
Jake nodded yes, then shouted at the top of his lungs, “With me!” and then spun, turned, and sprinted past the soldier.
He found himself looking up at six huge horses. The front two neighed, and one reared up on two legs. Jake lunged to the right to get out of their way. With a shock of impact to his shoulders and neck, he hit the legs of fellow student Pierre d'Évreux, also running at top speed for the carriage. After realizing he was prone on the dirty stones of the square, Jake dazedly raised himself to a sit. Pierre, on the ground as well, looked at him uncomprehendingly.
Jake was lifted to his feet by two pairs of arms. He could not help but to move in the direction of the carriage, and found himself climbing up onto the driver's bench. Where is the driver? was a dim thought running through his head as he was squished next to Zacharie, squashed in his turn against five other students sitting on the same bench. He turned at the sound of voices, and saw the entire bier platform was packed with students and men from the crowd. An incredible din nearly drowned out their excited voices. The crowd was surging forward, all of them screaming at once at the sudden action.
Everyone nearby seemed to be shouting at him, shouting his name, asking what to do. Who has the reins? He did, they were resting on the pewter bar in front of him. He pulled them to the left, and absolutely nothing happened. He pulled harder, his hands going over his left shoulder. Nothing happened. He stood up, and screamed as loud as he could, “People of Paris! To the Bastille! To the Bastille!”
Another deafening roar went up from the crowd. With a jolt, the carriage began to move, and Jake was sent hard into his seat, his neck snapping the back of his head into the top of the bier platform. He leaned forward and held his head. It hurt terribly, as only a sharp blow on the skull can hurt. Jake heard a voice.
“Are you well? Jake, are you alright?”
It was Zacharie. Jake sat up, and nodded at him. He looked around, and saw men from the crowd were now riding postilion on all six horses. Others in the crowd were pulling them by their harness. Men and women were everywhere around them, jumping, falling, gesticulating and screaming. The crowd was moving up and down so violently that it truly resembled a rowdy, wavy sea. Jake, awestruck, knew he would never forget the sight. He couldn’t see any soldiers. Either they had been swallowed by the crowd,
or had quickly vacated. Jake hoped it was the latter. If he was an officer of the funeral escort, he would have prepared for such a moment as this, considering how chaotic the city had been for the past few days.
Suddenly, ten-thousand lips rose in song:
“Arise, children of the Fatherland,
The day of glory has arrived!
Against us tyranny's
Bloody banner is raised,
Do you hear, in the countryside,
The roar of those ferocious soldiers?
They're coming right into your arms
To cut the throats of your sons, your women!
To arms, citizens,
Form your battalions,
Let's march, let's march!
Let the blood of those of impure race
Soak our fields!”
It was the Marseillaise, the old battle hymn of the True Revolution. Jake had imagined this moment, leading the insurrection, as his soldiers sang this very song. He was nearly in shock, all pain forgotten, as he realized it was actually happening.
Suddenly a hand grabbed him from below and shook him violently. Jake looked down and saw Franck, laughing, standing on the driver’s running board, “Jake, this is brilliant!”
“Are we going the right direction?”
“Yes! Yes! And I think the crowd is going to propel us forward the entire way!”
“Do you want to sit?”
“Is there room?”
“We’ll make room!” Jake grabbed Franck and pulled him onto the bench, and into the laps of everyone seated. Franck laughed as he righted himself, and then everyone on the bench was squished tight indeed.
The narrow Rue Saint-Honoré curved to the south, and joined Rue de Rivoli. Rue de Rivoli turned into Rue Saint-Antoine. Rue Saint-Antoine flowed directly into the Place de la Bastille. They were three miles away at the outside, and they could be there in less than two hours. Anything could happen. It was a hot day. Perhaps the crowd would lose energy and thin. Perhaps headaches from too much wine would pound drunken temples. Perhaps the soldiers would disperse the crowd. But maybe, just maybe, this revolution would overthrow the King, and re-establish the rights of man.
In any case, they had fulfilled the first part of their orders. And, gloriously, it seemed as if they were the only rebel leaders in Paris - and the newborn revolution of 1832 obeyed their every command. Jake laughed in abandon and joined in the song.
***
The Place de la Bastille was a paved lake, fed by no less than ten roads that poured traffic into the square. It was expansive, several times as large as the Place Vendôme. At one point, it held an infamous keep, the Bastille, that was stormed in the early days of the Revolution and subsequently demolished to the last stone. Napoleon, wishing to channel revolutionary ardor to his purpose, decided to make a monument to his own prowess where the castle once stood. But as his decision neared its apex, the treasury approached its nadir, and bankruptcy forced his hand. No real monument was ever built. A huge plaster elephant stood where a similar-looking, but far more magnificent, future bronze was to be installed. Over the decades, the pachyderm discolored to a gangrenous black from ash, filth and mold, and its hollow mass became cancerous with rat nests. Refuse and more rat nests surrounded it. It smelled of garbage and urine, when not of defecation, and continuously buzzed with flies. Its head had decayed, its tusks had fallen off, and it was unrecognizable as one of God’s creatures. Now it was just an evil-looking, formless mass - like some sort of demonic behemoth haunting a graveyard.
Place de la Bastille was as packed as the Place Vendôme had been, maybe more, and Jake was at the very center of it all. From his perch on the funeral catafalque, he saw an older man striding toward him - thin as a rail, wearing a gold and green cockade and surrounded by burly, armed men. Jake stood.
“Citizen Loring?” he asked, upon reaching Jake.
“Yes, General.”
“The first part of your assignment is complete. Ready for the second.”
“Yes, General.”
The General gave Jake no time to react. He and his men pulled themselves up to the bench and bier of the carriage. Jake and the other students jumped from it as if the carriage were aflame, and found themselves together on the north side of it.
Jake turned to them, “We’ve been relieved.”
“Yes. Evidently so,” Franck smirked.
Jake gave him a look, and continued, “Rue de Charenton meets Place de la Bastille. Let us move slowly in that direction.” No one moved. Jake rolled his eyes, “Follow me.”
Jake put on his revolutionary face, and moved through the crowd. The crowd, transfixed on the drama happening on the catafalque carriage, could see him and gave way. He pushed through slowly but surely, sheathed bayonet in hand.
The General’s voice boomed from the top of the carriage in a feral, furious tenor, “Citizens! We are here to celebrate a man who fought for France against the foreign and domestic enemies of the revolution. He fought in the Pyrenees against rebellious Monarchists. He led our armies against the Vendée when they rose up yet again in 1815. This hero fought side-by-side with Napoleon in Spain, and in the German states. But there is something you may not know. He used his fortunes to transform his lands with cutting-edge machines and modern agricultural techniques. He joined the government, and was an outspoken critic of oppression, and the monarchy itself. He was a friend of the common people, and a defender of liberty. That is why you are here. It is why we are all here! Long live the Revolution! Long live the Republic! Down with the King!”
It was uncloaked sedition. Jake could see the crowd getting more and more agitated. There was nothing subtle about it. Fists bunched at sides, bodies shifted back and forth on the toes of feet. People now began to smile when they saw Jake’s cockade. Some nodded, or wished him luck. Jake only moved faster, his every thought regarding what was about to happen next.
The General continued, but his words were becoming difficult to hear over the rising rumble of the crowd. “We find the funeral cortege of Lamarque stopped in the Place de la Bastille, under the former shadow of the monarchist prison. Do you not remember that shameful pile of bricks was pulled down by the people of Paris and Saint-Antoine? Do you not remember the time when the King feared his people, and not the other way around?”
Suddenly, a different kind of rumble, an exclamation of surprise and recognition, went through the crowd. Jake turned to see what was going on. He quickly observed that another man had ascended the carriage. He was equally as old as the General, perhaps older, but still muscled and thick. He had a florid red face, and a red wig to match. Some in the crowd murmured in recognition, but Jake couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Franck, who is that?”
“I don’t know. Where’s his cockade? Is he even with us?”
“I’m not sure.”
And then the florid man spoke, and his voice carried louder and further than that of the General. Jake heard him clear as a pealing bell, “Do you know who I am, Citizens? Do you know my name?” He was answered only by furious whispers. He spoke again, “I am Citizen Gilbert du Motier. But I am more well-known by an old title. I am also called the Marquis de Lafayette.”
Jake’s jaw dropped in astonishment, “He fought side-by-side with George Washington.”
Franck shook his head in wonderment, “He wrote the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen with Thomas Jefferson. His revolutionary credentials exceed those of anyone present, even Lamarque.”
Indeed, there was no larger hero of France now living. Monarchists thought he had betrayed their class, some others disagreed with him, or disliked his politics, but all knew him as a brave, capable man driven solely by his values and ideology. Jake, like everyone around him, was thunderstruck into silence.
But not Franck, who nearly giggled, “He’s going to proclaim a provisional government right now. This is it. France is about to catch fire. The Revolution begins with his next words.”
&nb
sp; Then Lafayette spoke, “Go home, Frenchmen. Let Lamarque rest in peace. The very word revolution has changed because of what we have done. It used to mean a slow righting to a natural order, as a planet is observed to move in regular pattern. But no more. Because of us, the essence of the word has changed forever. Now revolution denotes violent, rapid change. It is an overthrow of order. It is chaos and blood. It is a beast that eats itself, until it is put down like a rabid dog.”
Jake found himself locking eyes with Franck. Without speaking, both of them turned to observe their compatriots. It was the same look on all faces; a pensive searching of conscience. Franck believed Lafayette had the power to light the fire. Jake now realized he could also put it out.
Lafayette spoke again, “Yes, we have a king. I threw the tricolor around his shoulders myself. But we also have a constitution. We have a way to move forward without gunfire or guillotine. We have order, representation and internal peace. At least until the death of Lamarque, we had peace. But I ask you, did Lamarque lead a rebellion against the Throne? Or did he seek election to office? He was an official, my friends, working from within for change and progress. To honor him, let us have a true revolution, as the word was previously defined. Let us continue a slow righting to a natural order. Let France glide as a celestial body, to elegantly and gracefully slip into position. Let us not spill the blood of France unless we must! Have we not killed enough of our brothers? French bones are buried from Moscow to Gibraltar; from India to Guyana. We have burned our own cities, and butchered our own sons. How many of you have seen war? How many of you have seen the horror of civil war? And how many of you now work to advance our nation in a better way, one that preserves life and liberty? Would you trade our slow, but inexorable, progress for a revolution that will claim the lives of your neighbors? Would you desert your civility, and your hope, and exchange it for the blood of France? I say no! No, my brothers! Not this day! Not this day!”
The Crimson Heirlooms Page 8