The Game Called Revolution by - (room on the broom read aloud .txt) 📖

“How could he? That would imply the attack was planned well in advance,” Pierre said.

Suddenly Jeanne came upon a loose brick in the wall. She took it out, reached inside and pulled out a small glass vial filled with water. However, there were also countless tiny silver dots in the water.

“Just as I thought,” she said. “A message pellet.”

A message pellet was a little ball about the size of a kernel of corn. Using a magnifying glass, a person could write a message on it and then drop it into water. Once in the water it separates into a thousand copies of itself. Only by reassembling the ball can the message be read.

“We have to get that back to the airship,” Pierre said.

Jeanne sighed. “Until the governor can get the mob to disperse, we’re stuck here.”

2

The Jacobin Club, July 14, 1789 (Infini Calendar), 10:00 a.m.

The Marquis de Sade was escorted into the undersized hall that was being used for the meeting currently in session. The room was crammed with men in red cloaks who all looked the same to the Marquis. He looked to the right side of the room and saw men in red cloaks. He looked up into the low-hanging balcony and saw men in red cloaks sitting beneath windows letting in rays of sunlight. It should have been called the Jaconformist Club.

To his right, sitting at a table on a dais a few feet off the ground, was their leader (also wearing a red cloak). “Welcome to the Jacobin Club, Lord Marquis de Sade.”

The Marquis stepped through the aisle separating the left side of the room from the right, and looked around. All eyes were on him. At least, he thought they were; he actually couldn’t see very many eyes under those hoods. He then turned his attention to the club’s leader. “Quite a warm reception, Monsieur Robespierre. You’re all bundled up nicely here in the middle of summer. Personally, I would have preferred a lot more young girls and a lot less clothing. Possibly a knife or two, although I could make do with my bare hands in a pinch. But I digress: It’s good to be out of that prison, and in here, with not quite so many people to tell me what I can and can’t do.” He let out a light cackle.

“Indeed,” said Robespierre. “It was not an easy task getting you released under the guise of an official transfer. But it looks like you have upheld your end of the bargain. My sources tell me knights from the Ordre de la Tradition have been sent to the Bastille to investigate a strange message that appeared on the wall of your former cell.”

“Causing chaos and confusion to the country that has oppressed me for so long? I would have done that for free. I just wish I could see the looks on their faces right about now, just realizing the lowly rabble is upon them like rabid wolves!”

Robespierre’s voice took on a serious tone. “Need I remind you that we represent the ‘lowly rabble’ that is presently fighting for their rights? And as the newest member of the Montagnards, you represent them as well.”

The Marquis dismissed Robespierre’s argument with a frilly wave of his hand. “Classes mean nothing to me. The Estates are each fighting for their own selfish reasons. To them it all comes down to ‘Me, Me, Me.’ But I, the Marquis de Sade, live only to give back. That’s why I’ve written masterful prose. That’s why I’ve offered to share my body with so many different girls. And that’s why I’m helping France by spurring this deadlocked country into action.”

“On that last point we can certainly agree,” Robespierre said. He stood up to address the entire hall. “No positive change can occur within our nation so long as our impotent king kowtows to nobility and clergy. They, at least, are selfish. They enjoy tax-exempt status. They want to keep us down and make sure commoners like us will continue to be their foot rests.

“And how does our king fight this injustice? He gives in to them. He does whatever they say, no matter how much it hurts France. Between the nobility, clergy and his Austrian wife, he cannot think for himself. We have no use for a powerless monarch. For the good of France, Louis XVI must be removed. The Ancien Régime shall fall.”

The attendees cheered, while the Marquis gave him a half-hearted clap. “You truly are as eloquent as they say, Monsieur Robespierre. But as you National Assembly people know all too well, words alone cannot change a nation. That’s why you needed my genius to help you come up with a plan to assassinate the king.”

Robespierre sat back down. “And an excellent plan it is. Once those knights decipher your ‘message in a bottle,’ they will immediately leave and warn the king. And the king, ever so trusting of his knights, will respond in an appropriate manner. Then he will be vulnerable.”

“But how do you know the knights will not be killed by the very mob we are letting loose upon them?”

“Don’t underestimate their skills. They are survivors. Besides, I know a great deal about the Bastille itself. Those knights won’t be killed so easily.”

The Marquis chuckled. “Well, if they have to butcher a few peasants, so be it.” Robespierre murmured angrily under his breath, so the Marquis decided to change the subject to something else he was curious about. “By the way, you still haven’t told me who you’ve sent to deal with the impudent king.”

“That’s ‘impotent.’ And the one who will do the honor of breaking the pavement for a glorious new France is none other than the Count of Saint-Germaine.” At the last part he raised a fist for dramatic effect. The other members in the room voiced their pleasure.

The Marquis de Sade was rarely surprised by anything, but this definitely did it. “The Count of Saint-Germaine! I thought he died five years ago.”

Now it was Robespierre’s turn to laugh. “That’s what we wanted the world to think. But in reality, he has long been one of us, and we faked his death so that he could move about more easily. If no one knows he’s still alive, no one will be able to anticipate his involvement in this.”

“But the Count must be very old by now. How will he be able to kill the king?”

“The Count has mastered the art of alchemy and used it to turn his body into a deadly weapon. No one will be able to stand against him when he decides to strike. He will use the chaos currently sweeping through France to attack Louis XVI while the royal guards are distracted.”

Robespierre then moved on to other business involving the Jacobin Club and the Montagnards in particular, and the Marquis sat down in the empty seat in front of Robespierre’s table, which had been reserved for him. While the Marquis was thoroughly enjoying all the havoc that had no doubt started already (with even more to come), he couldn’t help but note the irony of Robespierre sending the Count of Saint-Germaine to dispatch the king. After all, was it not the Count who had predicted these events some fifteen years ago? That was how the story went, at least.

Not that it mattered. The Marquis loved irony—the crueler, the better. And if he and Robespierre were correct, things were about to get very ironic indeed.

3

Paris, France, July 14, 1789 (Infini Calendar), 10:15 a.m.

The Bastille suddenly shook violently.

“What was that?” Victor said.

“Perhaps the Marquis de Launay was unsuccessful in reasoning with the mob,” Pierre said.

Jeanne shot down that idea. “That shot was from a steam cannon. If the governor decided to open fire on the crowd, it would be directed away from here. And as far as I know, the Third Estate wouldn’t be able to get their hands on one.”

“That’s a good point,” Pierre said. “If a steam cannon went missing, an alert would have gone out immediately.”

Suddenly de Launay rushed into the room. Even in the low lighting, they could see the color had completely drained from his face.

“What’s going on?” Jeanne said.

The Marquis shook his head. “It’s far worse than I feared.”

“What do you mean?”

“Things were going reasonably well. I met with the leader of the mob. I allowed him inside and he watched as we removed the cannons that were pointing outside at the mob. Unfortunately, they took this to mean we were loading them in preparation for an attack. Someone got a shot off with a pistol—I’m not sure who—and suddenly the mob panicked. The ones carrying firearms began shooting them at my men in the windows. No one was hit, but that was only the beginning.”

“What do you mean?” Pierre said.

“An army regiment sympathizes with the crowd and has joined them. They brought their own steam cannons!”

Things suddenly fell into place for the knights. “So, it was their cannons that hit us a moment ago,” Jeanne said.

“Obviously this place is quite an eyesore to them,” Victor observed.

The Marquis nodded grimly. “They see this fortress as symbol of oppression by the Ancien Régime—what they call the government—and they’re determined to tear it down, one way or another.”

“Isn’t the Bastille already scheduled for demolition, seeing as how there are so few prisoners here these days?” Victor said.

“Unfortunately,” de Launay said, “they don’t know that, and they weren’t in any mood to listen. They’re dead set on getting in here, freeing the prisoners and then leveling everything.”

“We have to get out of here,” Jeanne said.

“Fortunately,” de Launay said, “I’ve long been worried that something like this might happen. That’s why I had an escape tunnel built under the prison.”

“Very good. Take us to it,” Jeanne said.

“Right away. I just need to get us some light,” de Launay responded. He walked past Jacques’ cell to the wall and grabbed a torch off the wall.

Jacques walked over to the bars and addressed the Marquis. “What about me? Surely you will not leave a poor Parisian to be feasted on by the mob?”

“You’ll be fine,” de Launay said, walking past Jacques with torch in hand. “As I already stated, they want to free you, since they think everyone in here is a political prisoner. Personally, I would prefer to have a forger like you stay in here a few more years.” He rejoined the knights and pointed towards the door they had entered through. “It’s this way.”

***

The Marquis de Launay led them down a flight of stairs into the dark cellar of the Bastille. Boxes full of guns and ammunition, as well as what appeared to be rundown steam cannons, were spread out on the floor in rows. At the far end of the cellar was a man-sized opening that had clearly been cut out of the wall.

When they arrived, they could see large pieces of wood that had been scattered in front of the door. “I instructed my men to open up the tunnel and then make their escape ahead of us,” de Launay explained.

“Seems ironic to put an escape tunnel in a prison,” Victor laughed.

“Today’s attack has been brewing for years,” de Launay said. “The taxes, the unequal treatment under the law, even the ‘Great Fear’—all of it has pushed the Third Estate into action, albeit misguided and reckless action.”

The “Great Fear” de Launay spoke of referred to a rumor that had gone around—no one knew