The Young Frank Lecuyer spoke to was not of the Trecambien persuasion, for if he had been, he would have driven a dagger into Lecuyer's stomach.
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(( Une lettre privée à Chateaubriand – @99KingHigh ))
Cher Monsieur,
I have though often in the recent days of your own experiences of the last Revolution—if we are to call this current frenzy the next—where, once sympathetic to the cause of what was then known as Liberty, you saw the violence of those ambitious men and recanted all professions of support. You will be aware, of course, that I put my signature to the motion of the journalists decrying the ordinances from Saint-Cloud. You will know also that this was done out of a desire that the law be vindicated; the wish of men like M. Thiers to have been arrested that they may have then pled in a court of law the illegality of the statutes is widely known in our circles. I was of a similar disposition, feeling it only proper having done so much in recent years to make known my support for the freedom of our presses. What sorry state a man must find himself in to affix his name to a Society of Friendship for the Freedom of the Press, only to shirk when this friendship requires action! Nevertheless, I remain conscious of your own attachments; I respect entirely that for you, to act is impossible—and I think no differently of you for it. I have no desire now to flee, having returned to Paris; but what exactly I find! To have born witness to the speed with which ambitious men pounced upon the grievances of the people, ravenous for the imposition of their sordid democracies! My friend, it is not easily that I seek redress alongside these men seeking a far graver end to this affair, well-known though my sympathies with the opposition to the Ministry may be. As I am not amenable to the actions of M. Charles, so was I amenable to the sobriety of his brother, of august memory; my quarrel is with this despotic regime, not with the family from which the despot may be taken.
Hence I find myself of two minds. Here, to commit to a course of inaction would be to damn myself to ignominy. Having come so far in my commitment to the forces of opposition, I cannot well abandon ship and pray that the tide be merciful in carrying me to safer shores. Yet neither can I bring myself to lend the tide my weight in its movement, noting the ugliness with which it rolls ever on. I know that decent men exist yet in this madness, but I fear for them; that their intentions have been appropriated by those seeking to harness the momentum of opposition for their own ambitions, just as the cuckoo steals the nest of another bird and kills its children. These gangs who control the presses, managing the flow of news from the friends of MM. Durand and Lafitte to the masses, commit who knows what corruption. Or else are we to believe that our last moderate is now a friend of the Republicans! I feel it necessary that this imposition be taken no further than it must; those sensible voices agitating for naught but the return to government by a sympathetic monarch in concert with his judicious ministers must be allowed their own freedom of declaration.
I do not ask that you abase yourself as to become embroiled in this frenzy, nor to sully your own reputation for sobriety and goodness. I write to you as a man whose judgement I trust, and of whose sympathies I have no doubt. Therefore, Monsieur, I ask in all humility whether you would see fit to assist in the execution of certain measures that might allow freer, unbiased communication between the sensible voices of opposition and the people of Paris, such that we might prevent the appropriation by lesser men of our grievances for their perfidious ends. If we might see to it that these good citizens be allowed to publish unfettered by bias or subversion, we can forestall yet the triumph of some new and baser Republican hero.
I have though often in the recent days of your own experiences of the last Revolution—if we are to call this current frenzy the next—where, once sympathetic to the cause of what was then known as Liberty, you saw the violence of those ambitious men and recanted all professions of support. You will be aware, of course, that I put my signature to the motion of the journalists decrying the ordinances from Saint-Cloud. You will know also that this was done out of a desire that the law be vindicated; the wish of men like M. Thiers to have been arrested that they may have then pled in a court of law the illegality of the statutes is widely known in our circles. I was of a similar disposition, feeling it only proper having done so much in recent years to make known my support for the freedom of our presses. What sorry state a man must find himself in to affix his name to a Society of Friendship for the Freedom of the Press, only to shirk when this friendship requires action! Nevertheless, I remain conscious of your own attachments; I respect entirely that for you, to act is impossible—and I think no differently of you for it. I have no desire now to flee, having returned to Paris; but what exactly I find! To have born witness to the speed with which ambitious men pounced upon the grievances of the people, ravenous for the imposition of their sordid democracies! My friend, it is not easily that I seek redress alongside these men seeking a far graver end to this affair, well-known though my sympathies with the opposition to the Ministry may be. As I am not amenable to the actions of M. Charles, so was I amenable to the sobriety of his brother, of august memory; my quarrel is with this despotic regime, not with the family from which the despot may be taken.
Hence I find myself of two minds. Here, to commit to a course of inaction would be to damn myself to ignominy. Having come so far in my commitment to the forces of opposition, I cannot well abandon ship and pray that the tide be merciful in carrying me to safer shores. Yet neither can I bring myself to lend the tide my weight in its movement, noting the ugliness with which it rolls ever on. I know that decent men exist yet in this madness, but I fear for them; that their intentions have been appropriated by those seeking to harness the momentum of opposition for their own ambitions, just as the cuckoo steals the nest of another bird and kills its children. These gangs who control the presses, managing the flow of news from the friends of MM. Durand and Lafitte to the masses, commit who knows what corruption. Or else are we to believe that our last moderate is now a friend of the Republicans! I feel it necessary that this imposition be taken no further than it must; those sensible voices agitating for naught but the return to government by a sympathetic monarch in concert with his judicious ministers must be allowed their own freedom of declaration.
I do not ask that you abase yourself as to become embroiled in this frenzy, nor to sully your own reputation for sobriety and goodness. I write to you as a man whose judgement I trust, and of whose sympathies I have no doubt. Therefore, Monsieur, I ask in all humility whether you would see fit to assist in the execution of certain measures that might allow freer, unbiased communication between the sensible voices of opposition and the people of Paris, such that we might prevent the appropriation by lesser men of our grievances for their perfidious ends. If we might see to it that these good citizens be allowed to publish unfettered by bias or subversion, we can forestall yet the triumph of some new and baser Republican hero.
I remain,
Esmé Merivée
Esmé Merivée
REVOLUTION 8: FORMEZ VOS BATAILLONS!
1:00 PM
The FIFTH and FIFTY-THIRD regiments of REGULARS defect, HUNGRY and without AMMUNITION.
To replace them MARMONT sends the ROYAL GUARD and the SWISS GUARD.
The FACADE of the LOUVRE, facing SAINT-GERMAIN l'AUXERROIS is EXPOSED!
CAPTAIN LECUYER begins the ATTACK; a SHOT rings out! He is SLAIN!
"REMEMBER LECUYER!" cries OUT the CROWD! HE is OUR MARTYR!
The DEATH of the CAPTAIN!
ALL who do NOT ADULATE, who do NOT WORSHIP, who do NOT PRAISE, this GLORIOUS MARTYR shall be STRUNG from the BALCONIES! HE is the HERO of the REVOLUTION!
The REVOLUTIONARIES climb into the GALLERIES from the WINDOWS; they GATHER on the BALCONIES in the INNER-COURTYARD.
The SWISS GUARD is SURROUNDED from the BALCONIES of the PALACE!
The PALACE is STORMED
A ROUT! A ROUT!
SAINT-FULGENT FLEES!
The ROYALISTS SPRINT through the COURTYARD, ACROSS the PLACE LOUIS XVI, and into the CHAMPS-ÉLYSEES, and AGAIN, to the ÉTOILE city gate!
LECUYER has WON the DAY!
TALLEYRAND, from his window, at the corner of the RUE SAINT-FLORENTIN.
He draws out his watch.
"29 July, five minutes past one, the elder branch of the House of Bourbon has ceased to reign."
The REPUBLICANS, the NATIONAL GUARD, all of PARIS, STORMS the PALACE; they RANSACK the LOUVRE, destroying ARTIFACTS, and DRINKING themselves into a STUPOR in the cellars of the TUILERIES!
PARIS is WON!
--
The situation has become convoluted across city. The radical republicans demand a provisional government; such would represent a firm break from the royalist tradition. The cries from the crowd still do not sing the praises of Republicanism; the demand for an Emperor rings ever louder.
Still, the mob is a fickle thing. And the rightful Emperor is far away.
The conservatives are filling with consternation; deliberations to form a provisional government might sink their hopes to avoid a monarchy!
Armentiéres and Lafayette take command of the National Guard. The city is one enormous entrenchment of barricades. The regulars, as a matter of political survivor, oblige to the command of General Étienne Gérard
At the house of Durand, the city committee [committee of the Good Citizens] has been formed. Outside, the National Guard pushes back the few Republican insurrectionists.
At the house of Laffitte, the deputies gather.
Durand has attempted a provisional committee, but the Deputies everywhere are in consternation! They fear republicanism is the next step. Lamarque has hidden nothing!
Lafitte calls the Deputies once more to his home; he asks if they shall make an executive committee, he asks if they shall return tomorrow,
Tomorrow, one must ride to Neuilly! The duc must be informed!
The situation is further confused; Charles X draws back from the ferocity of his ministers. Their advice is too dramatic and too late; he prepares to dismiss his Ministers, he prepares to rescind the ordinances, and he asks if the duc de Mortemart will take a Ministry with Durand and Duval. He does not yet sign the papers; he is consumed with despondency and despair. He says: Here I am in the same position of my unfortunate brother in 1792. The only advantage I have over him is that I did not have to suffer so long. In three days all will be finished for the monarchy. As for the monarch, he will suffer the same fate. Since I have to, I am going to summon the duc de Mortemart and send him to Paris. I pity him for having obtained the confidence of my enemies.
Charles X deliberates signing the papers; he resigns to bed.
Charles X replaces Marmont with the Dauphin at Saint-Cloud, the troops are drawn home.
At 7:00 PM, Semonville, Virtolles, and d'Argout [liberal Peers] leave for Paris; they come before Durand's committee with the King's appointment. Will they heed is request for appointment? Will they send him to the Deputies?
-
A review of Paris.
The National Guard is thoroughly under the control of Armentiéres and Lafayette.
Paris is barricaded to the hilt; it is a closed city.
The press prints of Paris will reopen the tonight!
The supporters of Durand and Armentiéres support the liberal regency of the duc de Orleans for the duc de Bordeaux. The more determined of their constituents endorse a change in the monarch. All wish for the duc to be made lieutenant-general. Durand's supporters lean to the former, Armentiéres' to the latter.
The supporters of Duval are split between those who wish a change in the monarchy and those who wish for a Republic.
The supporters of Rothschild are yet decided to a course of action.
The extreme Left is openly supportive of a Republic; they might demand a provisional government and a plebiscite!
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Unless you're dead, no character changing yet.
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The Tuileries
1:00ish PM
Roy looks down at his smoking rifle as the hordes charged forward crying in horror at the fall of Lecuyer.
"Well, that didn't go as hoped."
1:00ish PM
Roy looks down at his smoking rifle as the hordes charged forward crying in horror at the fall of Lecuyer.
"Well, that didn't go as hoped."
Tuileries
1830
It is over...
The Tricolours hung proud and high over the palace of the Bourbons for the second time in forty years. It was a good day. Alexandre walked among the crowds of men and women, soldier and worker, as they drank and cheered. He found a nice ledge to sit on overlooking the Seine river. He would write to his father in earnest about the proceedings of the last three days, but for now, he earned rest, and a drink.
As he overlooked the river and the various jubilation occurring across Paris, he took a bottle of Champagne he grabbed from a winery and a cigar. Perhaps he may get accustomed to this political life, perhaps he could one day make the Descombes family more then just a rich banking name. For now though, he would celebrate.
He lit his cigar, drank from the bottle, watched the celebration, and began whistling La Marseilles.
1830
It is over...
The Tricolours hung proud and high over the palace of the Bourbons for the second time in forty years. It was a good day. Alexandre walked among the crowds of men and women, soldier and worker, as they drank and cheered. He found a nice ledge to sit on overlooking the Seine river. He would write to his father in earnest about the proceedings of the last three days, but for now, he earned rest, and a drink.
As he overlooked the river and the various jubilation occurring across Paris, he took a bottle of Champagne he grabbed from a winery and a cigar. Perhaps he may get accustomed to this political life, perhaps he could one day make the Descombes family more then just a rich banking name. For now though, he would celebrate.
He lit his cigar, drank from the bottle, watched the celebration, and began whistling La Marseilles.
Paris
The Tuileries
Henri Armentiéres stood in the grand ballroom, utterly drained by the exertions of the previous three days. He was too tired to sleep, too tired to sit, too tired to cry. There was a dark stain of gunpowder burned into his cheek where, in the last day of fighting, he had taken up a musket himself and poured fire into the defenders along with the rest of the Guard. All that fine staff officer's training, and at the end he threw it all aside and took his place in the infantry for a few glorious hours. No wonder Lécuyer was such a hound for it. A man could get drunk on battle alone.
The thought of Lécuyer recalled him to his duty. He looked around at his cadre of anxiously awaiting aides. "Right, yes, to business. Retrieve the body and preserve it carefully." Whose body went without saying. "Get together a squad of the sober men and start reining in the looting and the drinking. Put a guard on what's left of the wine cellars and ration it out. Another squad to protect the art in the Louvre. No punishments, just... just rein it in."
As several of his aides peeled off, he forced his brain to continue working through the consequences. "Make sure that the Marquis de Lafayette is comfortably away from any actual command responsibility. If he starts giving orders just do that pleasant nod that you all do when you think I'm out of my mind and then ignore him. No, Charpentier, I'm not blind." He continued in the face of his chief aide's blush. "The remaining sober squads to the usual trouble spots. Keep the vandalism and excess to a minimum."
He blinked furiously as two of his aides carefully led him to a makeshift cot. "Also, we'll need a system to ration out the remaining food until Paris starts receiving regular shipments again, you can coordinate with whoever's responsible for that in the committee... Maybe some kind of central depot..."
Armentiéres continued mumbling to himself for a minute as he folded up neatly into his cot, and soon was snoring lightly. His aides nodded to each other and got back to the business of organizing chaos; they'd wake him up after an hour or two, just to make sure that he was basically functional for what was to come.
The Tuileries
Henri Armentiéres stood in the grand ballroom, utterly drained by the exertions of the previous three days. He was too tired to sleep, too tired to sit, too tired to cry. There was a dark stain of gunpowder burned into his cheek where, in the last day of fighting, he had taken up a musket himself and poured fire into the defenders along with the rest of the Guard. All that fine staff officer's training, and at the end he threw it all aside and took his place in the infantry for a few glorious hours. No wonder Lécuyer was such a hound for it. A man could get drunk on battle alone.
The thought of Lécuyer recalled him to his duty. He looked around at his cadre of anxiously awaiting aides. "Right, yes, to business. Retrieve the body and preserve it carefully." Whose body went without saying. "Get together a squad of the sober men and start reining in the looting and the drinking. Put a guard on what's left of the wine cellars and ration it out. Another squad to protect the art in the Louvre. No punishments, just... just rein it in."
As several of his aides peeled off, he forced his brain to continue working through the consequences. "Make sure that the Marquis de Lafayette is comfortably away from any actual command responsibility. If he starts giving orders just do that pleasant nod that you all do when you think I'm out of my mind and then ignore him. No, Charpentier, I'm not blind." He continued in the face of his chief aide's blush. "The remaining sober squads to the usual trouble spots. Keep the vandalism and excess to a minimum."
He blinked furiously as two of his aides carefully led him to a makeshift cot. "Also, we'll need a system to ration out the remaining food until Paris starts receiving regular shipments again, you can coordinate with whoever's responsible for that in the committee... Maybe some kind of central depot..."
Armentiéres continued mumbling to himself for a minute as he folded up neatly into his cot, and soon was snoring lightly. His aides nodded to each other and got back to the business of organizing chaos; they'd wake him up after an hour or two, just to make sure that he was basically functional for what was to come.
Returning to his home for the first time in days. To bury an old colleague from the Bank murdered in his stead, to comfort his wife and young son; whom he for all intents and purposes had abandoned.
Banging at the gate, not being recognized at first, speaking with his staff. He knows he should go directly to Shoshanna and Reuben, but instead he tarries in the entryway. Writing down orders. Money is to be sent out. Painters are to be hired. A mural of the fateful charge, and the heroic likeness of Captain Lecuyer, is to be painted on the wall by the front gate. A banner is to be painted, crudely, and hung up at the gate, welcoming in recruits to the new organization in the great heroes honor, an organization being formed by his close and personal friend. The one who supported his Veteran's League, who always thought he would be a Marshal of France one day.
Are they Bonapartist? Are they Republican? Orleanists? As Lecuyer would want, it is as ambiguous as his own insurgent record within the Deputies.
Banging at the gate, not being recognized at first, speaking with his staff. He knows he should go directly to Shoshanna and Reuben, but instead he tarries in the entryway. Writing down orders. Money is to be sent out. Painters are to be hired. A mural of the fateful charge, and the heroic likeness of Captain Lecuyer, is to be painted on the wall by the front gate. A banner is to be painted, crudely, and hung up at the gate, welcoming in recruits to the new organization in the great heroes honor, an organization being formed by his close and personal friend. The one who supported his Veteran's League, who always thought he would be a Marshal of France one day.
Front Lecuyer de Libération Nationale
Are they Bonapartist? Are they Republican? Orleanists? As Lecuyer would want, it is as ambiguous as his own insurgent record within the Deputies.
The Future
The men were gathered, both True Franks and Verdets. Roy had left the Tuileries to allow the mob their victory, for it was not the Verdets'. After the last gaggles of drunken looters had been carried in, a count was conducted. Dozens upon dozens wounded or killed, ranks thinned in unneeded ways. It was a tragedy, unneeded deaths in a period that would deny the Verdets their place. Calling together his lieutenants (ie the biggest brawlers in the group) Roy spoke.
"The Orleanists and the Bonapartists have won, it is only a matter of time until the throne is held by another incompetant. Right now is dangerous, as responses from those like Durand have ended, as well as the bridges burnt with those two infernal jews. I suspect that they may move against us. As in Toulouse so long ago, it is time to hang the green until another time, to go home and heal yourselves.
True Franks, you are all real Republicans and Revolutionaries. I suspect that in the coming months, we will organise in better and more appropriate circumstances. Until then, do what you will. Allies and brothers, know that.""
Roy turned and began to usher the mob home. The Revolution may have won, but without distinction the Verdets had lost, and so they must return to their anonymity or else.
Saint-Cloud.1830.
((Private))
"A King foolish enough to sign the destructive Ordinances and cowardly enough not to defend his Crown to the end." - the Duc de Saint-Aignan said with disgust. The countless letters he had to write during these days, the weary session of the Council of State, the sleepless nights - all of it made him look more like a ghost than a man, a shadow of himself. "Is this the King I have served selflessly, sometimes despite my own interests? Is this the man for whom I bowed before De Valence, Sully and Saint-Fulgent?" Compromising your own importance to unite these who still supported the King, Serving even when your advise was ignored. Having to deal with the most unsavory tasks. All of it - for a King who, after years of pretending to be a paladin of Ultraroyalism, was once again ready to submit the Monarchy to a girondist surrender... or even worse.
Taking a glass of wine, the (yet) Minister of the Interior sipped it without feeling the taste. He believed in the Divine Right of Kings for a long time - he still believed in it. But God sometimes sends madness to punish His anointed, for misdeeds of either their ancestors or themselves. Perhaps Charles the Tenth was diseased with such a malady of mind - but Saint-Aignan now suspected it was simply defaults of character.
A Sovereign who was so brave at the times of peace, when he, against best advise, issued the damned Ordinances, now, after losing the first battle, trembled at the sign of the Parisian mob. He was nor here nor there - and now the Duc de Saint-Aignan was sure that he may be dethroned. When one is considered a tyrant, it is already a bad thing - but a tyrant without dignity and resolution is a most sad occurrence.
Suddenly the Duc de Saint-Aignan had a most wild thought. Maybe the King was punished for... accepting that the most beloved child of his trusted supporter, the Prince of Conde, was robbed of his inheritance? The workings of the committee were not yet finished, but by the end of it, Saint-Aignan already discovered a number of inaccuracies. If a Sovereign has indeed allied with crooks or even... murderers, could have the Creator deprived him of His grace?
But no, it could not have been fully so. A murder? Surely Charles would not have accepted a murder of Louis-Joseph, his friend and a son of his friend? The King may have been foolish, but never evil.
The Duc de Saint-Aignan, a person, who in the past was called an austere cynic, suddenly stood on his knees and started to pray. He prayed for himself, asking the Lord to stop him doubting his Sovereign and give him proper understanding of what to do. He prayed for the King and the House of Bourbon, hoping that the rightful line would not lose its inheritance. He prayed for France, wondering if it ever recovers stability.
But God did not answer, he was nowhere to be seen. Possibly the bloody stench coming from Paris has now reached even heavens.
"Monsieur le Duc, should I bring you something to eat?" - the voice of a servant made the Minister arise. He smiled - with his usual crooked half-smile.
"Not yet, Jacques. I still have some correspondence to finish."
((Private))
"A King foolish enough to sign the destructive Ordinances and cowardly enough not to defend his Crown to the end." - the Duc de Saint-Aignan said with disgust. The countless letters he had to write during these days, the weary session of the Council of State, the sleepless nights - all of it made him look more like a ghost than a man, a shadow of himself. "Is this the King I have served selflessly, sometimes despite my own interests? Is this the man for whom I bowed before De Valence, Sully and Saint-Fulgent?" Compromising your own importance to unite these who still supported the King, Serving even when your advise was ignored. Having to deal with the most unsavory tasks. All of it - for a King who, after years of pretending to be a paladin of Ultraroyalism, was once again ready to submit the Monarchy to a girondist surrender... or even worse.
Taking a glass of wine, the (yet) Minister of the Interior sipped it without feeling the taste. He believed in the Divine Right of Kings for a long time - he still believed in it. But God sometimes sends madness to punish His anointed, for misdeeds of either their ancestors or themselves. Perhaps Charles the Tenth was diseased with such a malady of mind - but Saint-Aignan now suspected it was simply defaults of character.
A Sovereign who was so brave at the times of peace, when he, against best advise, issued the damned Ordinances, now, after losing the first battle, trembled at the sign of the Parisian mob. He was nor here nor there - and now the Duc de Saint-Aignan was sure that he may be dethroned. When one is considered a tyrant, it is already a bad thing - but a tyrant without dignity and resolution is a most sad occurrence.
Suddenly the Duc de Saint-Aignan had a most wild thought. Maybe the King was punished for... accepting that the most beloved child of his trusted supporter, the Prince of Conde, was robbed of his inheritance? The workings of the committee were not yet finished, but by the end of it, Saint-Aignan already discovered a number of inaccuracies. If a Sovereign has indeed allied with crooks or even... murderers, could have the Creator deprived him of His grace?
But no, it could not have been fully so. A murder? Surely Charles would not have accepted a murder of Louis-Joseph, his friend and a son of his friend? The King may have been foolish, but never evil.
The Duc de Saint-Aignan, a person, who in the past was called an austere cynic, suddenly stood on his knees and started to pray. He prayed for himself, asking the Lord to stop him doubting his Sovereign and give him proper understanding of what to do. He prayed for the King and the House of Bourbon, hoping that the rightful line would not lose its inheritance. He prayed for France, wondering if it ever recovers stability.
But God did not answer, he was nowhere to be seen. Possibly the bloody stench coming from Paris has now reached even heavens.
"Monsieur le Duc, should I bring you something to eat?" - the voice of a servant made the Minister arise. He smiled - with his usual crooked half-smile.
"Not yet, Jacques. I still have some correspondence to finish."
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Once Henri gets an extremely restful hour and a half of sleep, he wakes up and dashes off a note, which leaves the city by way of a messenger on his fastest horse.
To the Duke of Orleans ((PRIVATE - @Cloud Strife))
Dear uncle,
Paris is secure. The Guard is in control. Come at once.
- Armentiéres
--
Henri, regretfully, tasks the next messenger with his second fastest horse.
To the Marquise of Armentiéres ((PRIVATE - @Eid3r))
Dearest,
I am safe and well. The battle is over and we have won, for the time being. Now we must decide on France's new course.
You are always in my thoughts and prayers. I miss you terribly. Give my love to our children.
- Henri
To the Duke of Orleans ((PRIVATE - @Cloud Strife))
Dear uncle,
Paris is secure. The Guard is in control. Come at once.
- Armentiéres
--
Henri, regretfully, tasks the next messenger with his second fastest horse.
To the Marquise of Armentiéres ((PRIVATE - @Eid3r))
Dearest,
I am safe and well. The battle is over and we have won, for the time being. Now we must decide on France's new course.
You are always in my thoughts and prayers. I miss you terribly. Give my love to our children.
- Henri
To Robert Descombes
Father
You sent me to Paris to destroy a bill aimed at harming our family's business.
I did as such, as well as destroyed the ministry, the system, and Charles's reign.
Our Future is secure.
-Your Son
You sent me to Paris to destroy a bill aimed at harming our family's business.
I did as such, as well as destroyed the ministry, the system, and Charles's reign.
Our Future is secure.
-Your Son
Having received his nephews words the duc de Orleans contemplates leaving for Paris. At his estate is Chartres and a detachment of his hussars, wearing the Revolutionary cockade and carrying the Tricolor, with the noticeable addition of the fleur-de-lys sown onto the white stripe. After a short discussion it is decided to send on sister, Adélaïde d'Orléans, to talk with the deputies while Chartres and others remained to "guard" the Duc against harm. Louis-Philippe is ashen and mournful. The reign of his cousin the King looked like it was coming to an end and his hopes for a reconciliation shattered by the obstinateness of men such as Saint-Aignan.
The House of Duval is bereft of its matron and heir. They have fled to the Jewish quarter, well-defended and organized thanks to the quick thinking of men like Rothschild. Thibaut is without comfort, despite being surrounded by his fine foods and liqueurs.
The note from Lafitte to meet on the next day sits on the grand piano, where Thibaut is rending into a roast chicken, elbows smashing into the keys to cacophonous effect.
"An executive committee cannot wait until tomorrow..."
He rises, with some difficulty. He intends to bully and browbeat his way into the House of Lafitte and to convene the Deputies in Central Paris in the night.
His proposal?
The note from Lafitte to meet on the next day sits on the grand piano, where Thibaut is rending into a roast chicken, elbows smashing into the keys to cacophonous effect.
"An executive committee cannot wait until tomorrow..."
He rises, with some difficulty. He intends to bully and browbeat his way into the House of Lafitte and to convene the Deputies in Central Paris in the night.
His proposal?
That commander Henri Armentiéres be made Consul-Regent to satisfy those wanting a regency, the seekers of Imperial glory who have hope yet for Napoleon II, and those who long for a republic.
Northbound from Paris, June 29th, 1830
All was lost. Marmont had lost the Tuileries in one afternoon, the position he claimed he could hold for two weeks. The King had abandoned him and seemed ready to turn everything over to the liberals. His son, Charles was still in Paris, having served in the cavalry during the fighting. He had no idea if his own son was alive or dead. Saint-Fulgent looked out over the countryside from the window of his carriage. God had abandoned him, no more would he be welcome in France, nor would it be home. A strong impulse in him almost compelled him to turn around and surrender to the revolutionary forces. Instead, he fled, just like he had run from Sauvenay those 37 years ago. A great cloud of despair hung over him as he contemplated his next moves. Of course, nothing seemed right. He would have to send for his family and attempt to flee the country, to go to Britain or to Austria, perhaps even Russia. He considered setting up in England and writing a final book, or simply pulling off the side of the road and blowing out his own brains with a pistol. It would be a long and sleepless night. He prayed, but God was silent.
All was lost. Marmont had lost the Tuileries in one afternoon, the position he claimed he could hold for two weeks. The King had abandoned him and seemed ready to turn everything over to the liberals. His son, Charles was still in Paris, having served in the cavalry during the fighting. He had no idea if his own son was alive or dead. Saint-Fulgent looked out over the countryside from the window of his carriage. God had abandoned him, no more would he be welcome in France, nor would it be home. A strong impulse in him almost compelled him to turn around and surrender to the revolutionary forces. Instead, he fled, just like he had run from Sauvenay those 37 years ago. A great cloud of despair hung over him as he contemplated his next moves. Of course, nothing seemed right. He would have to send for his family and attempt to flee the country, to go to Britain or to Austria, perhaps even Russia. He considered setting up in England and writing a final book, or simply pulling off the side of the road and blowing out his own brains with a pistol. It would be a long and sleepless night. He prayed, but God was silent.
Matéo Gagnon sat in a high-backed chair in the Tuileries. His guardsmen uniform was caked in blood, sweat, and dirt. Staring blankly ahead, he motions for a Guardsman approaching him to come closer.
"Capitaine, Major Lécuyer is dead."
"Ah. How disappointing."
Matéo stood and made his way through the carnage to a motley headquarters set up in the Palace. Calling the Guard's most high-ranking officers and commanders up, Matéo addresses them.
"I must first congratulate you all on your victory. It was hard fought, but we are he now. You have earned this. However, it is mandatory that we as the National Guard ensure that Paris does not burn. Celebrate, but keep your spirits in check. Do not loot. Do not steal. Do not burn anything. These are my orders. But, live a little. Relax. You all have earned it. Congratulations, one and all. France is free."
"Capitaine, Major Lécuyer is dead."
"Ah. How disappointing."
Matéo stood and made his way through the carnage to a motley headquarters set up in the Palace. Calling the Guard's most high-ranking officers and commanders up, Matéo addresses them.
"I must first congratulate you all on your victory. It was hard fought, but we are he now. You have earned this. However, it is mandatory that we as the National Guard ensure that Paris does not burn. Celebrate, but keep your spirits in check. Do not loot. Do not steal. Do not burn anything. These are my orders. But, live a little. Relax. You all have earned it. Congratulations, one and all. France is free."
Jacques returned to the Louvre from the pursuit to the city gates. The men of Montmartre began to make camp again, in an alcove with smashed sculptures surrounding them. Jacques saw an Amazon on her side and a memory of happier times flashed through his mind. But first, say goodbye to the hero, Jacques upbraided himself.
He walked over to the Tuileries. The body had already been retrieved from the tangle of corpses, soldiers and citizens strewn about where they fell in the melee. The body, now reverentially laid out on a table, the hands folded but the blood still staining his face, the faded blue soldier's coat riddled with crimson holes.
Jacques had rolled his eyes as Lecuyer had charged ahead of the mob. Always the one in front. Always the big target. Well, heroes always are....
His hand touched the dead man's chest. "You should have taken my job offer 15 years ago. But I guess if you had, the battle would have gone the other way."
Such a fool! Thank God for such fools!
Jacques softly spoke over the body in a language unfamiliar to the French around him, "God, filled with mercy, dwelling in the heaven's heights, bring proper rest beneath the wings of your shekhinah, amid the ranks of the holy and the pure, illuminating like the brilliance of the skies the soul of our beloved and our blameless who go to their eternal place of rest. May You, who are the source of mercy, shelter this soul beneath Your wings eternally, and bind his soul among the living, that he may rest in peace. And we all say Amen."
Jacques walked back across the courtyards, which had been so wide and open to cross fire of the Swiss. Back to the men of the northern suburbs. He asked Moisson-Desroche to compile a list of the men who fought with him, and those that had fallen. Reward and recompense would be paid in due course.
Then the grimy man lay down in a grimy corner and slept.
He walked over to the Tuileries. The body had already been retrieved from the tangle of corpses, soldiers and citizens strewn about where they fell in the melee. The body, now reverentially laid out on a table, the hands folded but the blood still staining his face, the faded blue soldier's coat riddled with crimson holes.
Jacques had rolled his eyes as Lecuyer had charged ahead of the mob. Always the one in front. Always the big target. Well, heroes always are....
His hand touched the dead man's chest. "You should have taken my job offer 15 years ago. But I guess if you had, the battle would have gone the other way."
Such a fool! Thank God for such fools!
Jacques softly spoke over the body in a language unfamiliar to the French around him, "God, filled with mercy, dwelling in the heaven's heights, bring proper rest beneath the wings of your shekhinah, amid the ranks of the holy and the pure, illuminating like the brilliance of the skies the soul of our beloved and our blameless who go to their eternal place of rest. May You, who are the source of mercy, shelter this soul beneath Your wings eternally, and bind his soul among the living, that he may rest in peace. And we all say Amen."
Jacques walked back across the courtyards, which had been so wide and open to cross fire of the Swiss. Back to the men of the northern suburbs. He asked Moisson-Desroche to compile a list of the men who fought with him, and those that had fallen. Reward and recompense would be paid in due course.
Then the grimy man lay down in a grimy corner and slept.
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Lamarque manages to slip into Paris several hours after the final fall of the remaining royalist positions within the city. Straddling a horse before a crowd gathered at the Louvre, the old Republican begins to speak.
"My brothers, my sisters a great victory has been won today. The forces of the right have once again been quashed. Yet we cannot stop there, we must continue our fight. For a republic is not yet secured. One King might be gone but there will be another to replace him tomorrow. I ask you do not stop your campaign of Revolution and patriotism. We must continue to rally, continue to march and to fight until no member of House Bourbon holds any sway in this land. We must stay true to our traditions and pledge not to stop the fight until true and complete victory is at our hands. Vive le France! Vive le Republique!
"My brothers, my sisters a great victory has been won today. The forces of the right have once again been quashed. Yet we cannot stop there, we must continue our fight. For a republic is not yet secured. One King might be gone but there will be another to replace him tomorrow. I ask you do not stop your campaign of Revolution and patriotism. We must continue to rally, continue to march and to fight until no member of House Bourbon holds any sway in this land. We must stay true to our traditions and pledge not to stop the fight until true and complete victory is at our hands. Vive le France! Vive le Republique!
"What about the Republic?" Asked a student, his lips split and his chin covered in blood.
"They don't deserve one." Trecambien said, utterly resigned, before climbing onto a horse. He disappeared into the morning fog soon after.
"They don't deserve one." Trecambien said, utterly resigned, before climbing onto a horse. He disappeared into the morning fog soon after.