The Game Called Revolution, - [ebook reader 8 inch .txt] 📗

She ignored all of these things and went over to the far wall where her oak armoire was. She opened it up and pulled out her most prized possession: the violin she had inherited from her mother. Genevieve de Fleur had been celebrated for her ability to play the instrument, and while Jeanne did not have any musical aspirations, she still enjoyed the harmony she could create with it. It gave her a measure of peace she would otherwise not have.

After opening a window, she took the bow and began playing a sonata by Bach. She admired his work, although she enjoyed other Baroque composers such as Handel and Vivaldi. Feeling the breeze from the open window, she allowed the melody to flow through her, and for a brief period her whole world felt exceedingly serene. At times like this, she felt the strongest connection to her late mother.

Eventually, though, there was a knock at the door. It was Eugène, the family’s Maître d'Hôtel, an elderly gentleman who had served the House of de Fleur for many years. Since the death of Jeanne’s father the previous year, she had taken to leaving Eugène in charge while she was out. “I’m sorry to disturb you, milady, but you have a visitor. A Monsieur Pierre Girard.”

“I will see to him at once. Thank you, Eugène.”

Jeanne met Pierre in the main hall. Like the rest of the house, it was decorated with impeccable tastes. An ornate wooden floor, fine marble fireplace, expensive burgundy curtains over the front windows, and a priceless crystal chandelier were just a few of the luxuries in the room.

“You are looking well, ma’am,” Pierre said. He was wearing simple brown clothes, but even without his armor he was still a large man, easily dwarfing Jeanne’s small frame. Furthermore, his almond-colored skin hinted at more than French blood inside him.

“As are you. I am glad to see you have been keeping your beard neatly trimmed during our downtime.” She motioned for him to sit down in a plush white chair, and she sat in one across from it. She offered him tea.

“I saw the grave out front. The forger?”

She nodded. “He saved my life. He may even have saved all of us. I felt he deserved a dignified burial.”

“I have to agree. If it were up to anyone else, though, he probably would have been tossed in a ditch.”

She said, “That’s true. But I get the feeling you didn’t come all the way out here to talk about Jacques du Chard. Is something bothering you?”

“Our downtime may be ending very soon,” he said. “Have you heard about Leopold II?”

“The emperor of Austria? I heard he isn’t happy about the imprisonment of his sister and our queen.”

He shook his head. “It’s worse than that. Much worse. He’s organized a coalition of neighboring countries. Reliable sources tell me they’re planning an invasion to free Her Majesty.”

This was news to Jeanne; she hadn’t heard anything about a possible invasion. But, then again, lately she had only been concerned with matters at home, most notably the welfare of Louis XVI and the royal family. “An invasion? What countries are allied with him?”

“Supposedly Frederick William II, the king of Prussia, is his main ally. I also hear émigré French nobles are on their side. I’m not sure who else.”

Jeanne wasn’t surprised that the nobles who fled France following the violence on July fourteenth would be involved. Fearful that the revolutionaries would succeed in overthrowing the government and take away their privileges as nobility (or kill them), they left their own country and were currently living in exile. They’d surely jump at the chance to take back control of France from the Assembly which now ran the country. “What does the Assembly plan to do about it?” she asked.

“The power to declare war still rests with the king, and they’re urging him to use it. Are you familiar with Jacques-Pierre Brissot de Warville?”

“I’ve heard of him,” Jeanne said casually. “He’s the voice of that leftist group within the Assembly, the Girondists, isn’t he?”

“That’s right; more specifically, the Girondists are a splinter group of the Jacobins. Brissot’s also the editor of the Patriote Français. He’s been speaking out on the dangers of being attacked from both internal and outside forces simultaneously. He believes that in order to prevent France’s complete collapse, we should strike Leopold II before he strikes us. In his mind, we need to unite against a common enemy.”

Jeanne finished drinking her tea and put down the cup. “What are the chances of his succeeding in persuading the king?”

Pierre frowned. “Very good, I’m afraid. The Girondists hold a lot of power in the Assembly. The one most strongly opposing Brissot is the leader of the right-wing faction of the Jacobins, the Montagnards: Maximilien Robespierre. He says a war on two fronts could destroy France. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have as much pull as Brissot. His Majesty is expected to declare war any day now.”

She looked at the empty tea cup in front of her. “May God help us all.”

2

The Jacobin monastery, Paris, August 2, 1789 (Infini Calendar), 2:00 p.m.

Maximilien Robespierre sat quietly in the library of the monastery which the Jacobin Club had recently begun renting. Prior to their move to Paris, the Jacobins had been based in Versailles in order to keep an eye on the activities of the king and queen. Since the royal family had been forced to relocate to Paris, the Jacobins opted to follow suit.

Outside of Montagnard meetings, the thirty-one-year-old Jacobin did not wear his red cloak. Rather, today he wore a brown suit with a puffy white cravat around his neck, as well as a flat white wig which currently was in style for French politicians. Many people who saw him in public immediately noticed his strong chin and confident eyes that marked him as a natural leader.

The current headquarters of the group was a monastery located on the street Rue Saint-Honoré, next door to the building which housed the Assembly. This made it an ideal location to set up operations, as the Jacobin Club was heavily involved with the Assembly (since prominent Jacobins were also members of the Assembly).

The library of the monastery was small, only housing half a dozen book cases. Nevertheless, Robespierre enjoyed sequestering himself in here and reading at the wooden table in the center of the room.

His solitude was interrupted by the opening of the door in front of the table. Robespierre looked up to see the Marquis de Sade enter the room. “You can be a hard man to find, Monsieur Robespierre, tucked away back here.”

“It’s not a large building,” Robespierre said, not wanting to engage the Marquis’ tired wit.

Undeterred, the Marquis said, “So it is. I just came by to give you the news.”

Without looking up from his book, Robespierre replied dryly, “The king has declared war?”

The Marquis’s face contorted into a twisted smile. “Correct! Oh, you must be so sad, having lost the fight to that garish Brissot.”

Robespierre dismissed the Marquis’ attempt to goad him. “Brissot is a fool. We are sunk beyond our necks in debt, and any further spending on a war budget will only bring further strife. This could well be what breaks our beloved country.”

The Marquis said in his most overly dramatic tone, “Oh, whatever will we do?”

This time it was Robespierre’s turn to give a wry smile. “All is not lost. This could be just the opportunity we’ve been looking for. If we survive this crisis, we’ll have everything we need to overthrow the king and seize complete control of the country.”

“A man after my own heart!” the Marquis laughed. “Even faced with war within and without, you still remain focused on eliminating your enemies in some ruthless way. Of course, I don’t have any enemies—I’m a people person, you know—but human suffering is universal, something to which we can all relate.”

Robespierre knew that wasn’t true at all; de Sade didn’t have a moral bone in his body. “Need I remind you this isn’t a game? Everything we do is for the good of France. Quit licking your chops; I’m going to need your intellect focused entirely on achieving our goals. We’re going to have more than hurt pride if we lose this ‘game.’”

“Of course, of course. I have been known to go off on tangents from time to time. From now on, I shall concentrate on using our resources for the revolution.” The Marquis turned to leave, then stopped and said, “Perhaps those knights can be put to good use.”

***

The Austrian Netherlands, September 9, 1789 (Infini Calendar), dawn.

Colonel Jean-Paul de Fleur marched through the forest that morning, along with a few hundred of his men. They had moved under cover of night and the sun was just now cresting over the horizon. King Louis XVI, having declared war on Austria only a month before, had General Charles-François du Périer Dumouriez hastily assemble a force to invade the Austrian Netherlands in an attempt to gain the advantage against Leopold II early. At least, that was how the Assembly told it.

In actuality, the bull-headed Brissot—along with his Girondists—strong-armed the puppet monarch into declaring war against Louis XVI’s brother-in-law, Leopold II. Jean-Paul was no fool; he knew the king would never have gone to war against his wife’s brother on his own. There wouldn’t have even been any problems with Austria if the Assembly hadn’t made Marie Antoinette into a virtual prisoner. This whole thing was unnecessary.

Still, Jean-Paul couldn’t afford to voice his concerns openly. The man riding the horse directly in front of him, General Dumouriez, had recently been accepted into the Jacobin club, meaning he was involved with the Assembly.

They soon came to the edge of the forest. About a kilometer up ahead was a field with a modest-looking fort. Their orders were to capture the fort to use as a staging ground for their campaign against Austria, since the structure was the closest to France’s border.

One of their scouts popped out from behind a tree and saluted the General. “Welcome, sir. We have been reconnoitering the fort for two days in anticipation of your arrival.”

Dumouriez nodded. “And what have you found?”

“We have observed no activity, sir. The place appears to be abandoned.”

Dumouriez stared at the fort and its walls. There were two ramparts facing them, and a central building behind the walls, but no enemy troops could be seen. “No activity at all?”

“None, sir. Not even a guard doing his business. We have seen no one.”

Jean-Paul said yawned. “Perhaps they moved their troops in anticipation of this attack.”

Dumouriez didn’t buy it. “If they knew we were coming, the smart thing to do would have been to set up an ambush in the forest. We’re at the end of the forest now, and no attack.”

“Or maybe they just don’t give a damn about one measly fort,” Jean-Paul said idly.

The sun was high enough now that they could see the fort quite clearly. Dumouriez surveyed it with his binoculars. “You’re forgetting the number one rule of defense: Never let your enemy get his foot in the door.” He put the binoculars back in the leather bag at his side. “All right, we’re going in, but we’re doing it cautiously. I will lead Division One and come at the fort from the front. Divisions Two, Three and Four will move around to surround it on the north, south and east sides, respectively.”

They moved forward in formation at a brisk pace. However, they only got a few