The Baron d’Harfleur rose from his bed; Monsieur Parent could be called many things, but a poor host was certainly not one. It had already been a day since his arrival, and the revolutionary leader had consistently shown kindness and hospitality to his one-time rival, which would have waylaid any concerns Paul had about his future, were it not for his waiting for the First Minister’s reply; he doubted he would remain in his position, something which, though obviously expected, stung nonetheless, but he hoped he could at least be persuaded to ensure the King’s protection. He knew in an instant that the letter to his brother was quite likely the wisest thing he had done this past week. The Baron walked towards the window, and looked at out the foggy streets of Paris; it was quiet, a ghost town. He had half-assumed the night to bring the Phrygian guard, and with it his death; perhaps they had chosen an easier target.
Paul looked over in the way of the Peletier, expecting to see a smoking hulk where the “counter-revolutionaries” had so bravely defended their homes and their crown; save for some puffs of dark grey smoke wafting dully from the chimneys over the still-dark skies of morning, the last drops of the evening’s drizzle coming down (were Paul a more poetic sort, he likely would’ve declared that the heavens were weeping for France); he had weighed, and indeed had very closely decided in favour of joining the rebels there and continuing the fight for the crown. The King’s words echoed in his head though, and he knew that such an effort would be futile, and opposed to his last task.
The sun was slowly rising over the fields, though peaty bogs would perhaps be more accurate, and Paul decided to get dressed; perhaps he could curry favour with the revolutionaries whilst still not betraying his conscience.
-
He bid Parent’s servant farewell as he mounted his horse rode off, the sun still low in the cloudy sky. As he rode past the Royal Palace, he felt eyes upon him from the looming building; he wondered if they were friendly eyes, or hateful ones. It had barely brightened by the time he reached the barricades of the Peletiers, their muskets at first trained fearfully on him, before one of their leaders recognised him (that alone threw Paul aback).
“Monsieur Minister, what are you doing here? Do you intend to lead a revolution?” One of the men said, a portly fellow, likely the reason Paris was starving. It was only as Paul passed him, in complete silence, that he noticed the man was in chains. “Pay him no mind, your Excellency; he’s a Phrygian bastard who tried to rape my daughter.” An older man, with wispy whiskers and a receding hairline said, spitting at the man as he passed.
“Monsieur, may I ask who is in command here?” Paul asked, trying to ignore the Phrygian’s screams as a pair of men began beating him.
The balding man was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed, before he answered “I suppose Robert;” he looked back at the Phrygian “he’s the one who stopped that cretin, and who got the men to build barriers.”
“I would very much wish to speak with this Robert, if he willing.” The elderly man nodded politely, before shouting at a child to get Robert on the double.
The two men talked of matters of little import for a short while, before a short man, stocky and ginger-bearded, approached them; he smelt distinctly of rum and gunpowder. “To what do I owe the honour, your Grace?” he said with a toothy grin.
“I take it that you are… Robert?” Paul replied, more than a little dumbfounded.
“I suppose I am –a- Robert, but I’m the one you asked for, your Grace.”
“Your Excellency-“
“There’s no need for that, your Grace”
“- y-yes, well… I must declare, Robert, that you have done what I would have thought few men capable of; you fended off the mob.”
“I always find fighting a mob with a mob to be the best course of action, ‘specially when one fo the mobs is fighting for its home and its women. Isn’t that right boys?” Robert received varying cheers and affirmations from the motley crew that surrounding the two men.
“But… whilst I respect you for your tenacity, and am frankly stunned by your success thus far-“
“Many thanks, your Grace.”
“-… I fear this is a battle you cannot win.”
“Aye your Grace; we’re outnumbered and outgunned, but we have one thing they don’t have; courage. Those men, those, Phrygians and Guards and whatever else the bastards want to call themselves, there may be a lot of them, and they may think they talk a fancy talk about fighting, but when it comes to it, all they’re interested in is rapin’ women and robbin’ homes, not fightin’ for what they believe in; they’ve not takin’ us, ‘cos we weren’t an easy fight; and that’s ‘cos we have a cause we’re willin’ to die for; our homes, our families, and ourselves. Your Grace, when you declared for the King, despite knowin’ full well you’d be in the vipers nest, surrounded by those men who want to see any loyalist to the Crown dead, why did you do it?”
“Because it was my duty.”
“DUTY! Did you hear that boys? We have a nobleman who believes that it’s his duty to follow the King!” several of the men laughed, though Paul took note that many of them grimaced. “Your Grace, with all due respect, you didn’t choose to fight for the King because he gave ya’ an office; you fought because believed in your cause, because at heart, you’re just like us, and you want to live in a world’s that’s best for your kin. You know, as well as I do, that any man loyal to the King, is apt to be beheaded or shot, and you know that a nobleman who just remains silent about the Republic is almost certainly a dead man. You threw your lot in with what you knew would keep your family in their cushy castle in… wherever it is you live-“
“Rouen, your Excellency” Paul interrupted with a sly smirk.
“- Rouen, and you stuck through; now, I may be wrong, and you could be the one man in a million who actually values his honour above his livelihood and hisself, but I highly doubt that.”
“You’re a clever man, Robert, and you’re more than capable of reading men; but to discuss my motives for standing with the King are not why I came here to speak with you.”
“Aye, you didn’t come here to speak with me; you didn’t know who you’d be speakin’ to.”
“Ah, it seems you’re mistaken, as I knew who I was going to speak with; now certainly the particulars of that person were not known to me, nor their name or their station, but I knew I would be speaking to a leader, a man capable of brining his fellow Man together for a cause-“
“Bringin’ his fellow Man together for a cause? I got up on that barrel over there, after pulling some damned cowardly fool of some poor woman, and asked if we were gonna let these bastards get away with it! I’m no great leader, your Grace.”
“As you say so, Robert.”
“Now, what were you gonna ask me, your Grace?”
“To stand down.”
The street grew deathly quiet, and many a man and woman looked at Paul with a mixture of fear and hate.
“Why would we ever do that, your Grace?”
“Because this is a fight you cannot win, and it would be best to treat with the revolutionaries and come to some agreement; you’ve made your point, and they’ll be fearful of incurring your wrath, but if you try to fight them any longer, you’ll be outnumbered by experienced troops, and no matter how great your barricades, or how firm your resolve, you will be beaten… I cannot stand idly by and let so many brave men die fighting a battle that could have been avoided.”
Robert, for once, was quiet; he thought for a moment, many times almost opening his mouth before quickly heading back into thought; Paul waiting for his reply, but it never came; instead, Robert walked off, and slowly the bustle of life and war returned to the street; the Baron looked at the elderly man, who merely said “He likes to thing on things, your Gra-your Excellency.”
Paul, reluctantly, nodded, and asked if he would come back to speak to him, to which the balding man shrugged in reply; knowing that the longer he stayed out, the greater risk he was in, he bade the Peletiers farewell, and quietly returned to Parent’s home; he returned to his room and had only begun reading some of his letters from the day before when the servant came in, with a letter from the new First Minister.