Blood in the Streets

Thu, 03 Apr 2014 13:43:27 GMT

Posted by: politicsofwar

The day was not outside his notice. True, the calendar was a new one, but by the old one, it was the twenty-first of January.

Exactly one year since, so far as he was concerned, the Republic claimed her new life.

And he was meeting with a man he'd first met that night, whom he'd toasted and talked with. The beginning of a professional relationship that Gaspard Laurent never once took for granted.

He wondered how many times Chauvelin had doubted him, had discreetly asked questions regarding him to others. He couldn't blame anyone who did. Near the start of the Republic, he could usually be found dining in the homes of suspected Royalists. Then, during the middle part of 1793, his company had shifted to be very Girondist in nature. Former nobility, former officials, returned émigrés or families of those not returned...

All those who might be considered enemies of France, he was seen with frequently.

Perhaps most suspect of all his acquaintances, simply because of it's long life, was that with Lieutenant Jean-Remington Martineau, former Marquis du Carnavalet. The man had surrendered his title and spoken for the revolution even before Louis had followed. A very young but very passionate man. And a skilled Navy-man. It was on Laurent's word -- on his oath -- that Martineau was left alone, was allowed to serve the country. And he'd done well. Gaspard was wholly convinced the man was a Republican to his core, even if some of his fellows doubted it.

"Citizen Chauvelin. Good morning." The words were said as soon as the man approached the door of his office, outside of which Gaspard had been waiting. He was smiling. "May I speak to you privately for a moment?"

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The Will of the People

Tue, 25 Mar 2014 04:58:57 GMT

Posted by: politicsofwar

France was free.

The truth in those words was still washing over him, still weaving through his mind and solidifying. It seemed like he might wake at any moment and find all of this had been nothing more than a dream. If he opened his eyes in the morning and was back in Côte d'Or, the son of a silversmith with nothing more to look forward to in his life, he might well hang himself.

For tonight, France was free.

Gaspard Laurent barely believed it. He almost didn't dare to believe it. Because if he believed it, he gave it the power to not be real. If all of this was just in his head, he couldn't face the world. Not after so long, not after being so close. Yet, he tasted the wine in his cup, heard the men and women around him, and felt the arms that ocassionally found their ways around his shoulders.

Every man was a brother.

They raised their glasses and their voices, spoke as one people. The People of France. The People of the Republic. They sang and drank and ate as one, with no man greater than the one beside him. The monarchy was over, the nobility was finished. Any man could aspire to and achieve greatness, so long as he was worthy of it. It was a cause for which Gaspard would happily die for, and one he was honoured to live for. He would protect these people, this nation, this idea with all he had.

The stage was set.

Representatives from all across the nation had been called, and there were whispers about a coming political venture. Something to further unite France and see to it that those now deposed could never rise again. He was an assistant to one of those men, one of the men called to assemble, to make France achieve the greatness its people believed in. The precise nature of the appointment wasn't his concern. He would be told when he needed to know. He had other work to do after tonight.

Tonight was for celebration.

The fall of a tyrant, the survival of a people, the birth of a nation.

He raised his glass and looked about. The people were like a sea, ever moving. The constant ebb and flow meant he rarely saw the same person twice, which made his first day in Paris all the more disorienting. He was in too good a mood to actually care, though. All he knew was that, tonight, every man in this tavern was a friend and brother. So, he smiled.

"Long live the Republic."

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Ça Ira

Blood in the Streets

The Will of the People