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

had lost everything. This must be her punishment.

There’s no point in going on. I think pretty soon I’ll put an end to everything once and for all. Maybe I’ll run myself through with my rapier. Or perhaps I’ll drink myself to death. Or I could go out in style by burning this place to the ground.

Only those who have fallen deep into the well of darkness—so deep that they can no longer see any light—know the ultimate despair it takes to even contemplate suicide. There has to be absolutely no hope left, no chance for salvation that can be seen. After having experienced this bottomless desolation, Jeanne had concluded that no one wanted to commit suicide. Rather, those who entertain the idea of ending it all have been driven into a corner of madness from which they (seemingly) have no hope of escape, where even the cold unknown of the grave was preferable to remaining alive—the lesser of two evils, in other words. Jeanne de Fleur was now in this corner.

Her self-pity was sharply interrupted by the door of her shack exploding inward. She instinctively covered her face with her hands (momentarily forgetting she really had no reason to do so). When she lowered them, she found she was no longer alone. A figure stood in the doorway in mid kick. The door lay on the floor, shattered into two fragments.

“I finally found you, fräulein!”

Jeanne was dumbstruck. This was the last person she ever expected to pay her a visit. “Farahilde Johanna?”

It was indeed the same young woman Jeanne had fought in order to free her late brother from Austrian imprisonment, complete with the strange dual cowlicks atop her head, and her bladed gauntlet. This time, though, she was wearing a red corset under her brown jacket rather than a white one.

In response to Jeanne’s question, Farahilde strode over and punched her in the face with her free hand. Jeanne went sprawling onto the floor.

“This isn’t a friendly visit, fräulein! I’ve come to send you to Hell!”

Jeanne got up to one knee and wiped the blood from her mouth. “I guessed as much as soon as I saw you.”

Farahilde grabbed Jeanne and threw her across the table towards the door. “You are not an easy person to find. It took me six months to track you down. After all the trouble I went through, I’m going to take my time killing you.”

Jeanne got to her feet but avoided Farahilde’s vengeful gaze. “All this time, I’ve wanted to apologize to you. I wanted to say I’m sorry for letting your sister die. But I’m too weak. Even if I could bring myself to return to civilization and venture to Austria, I knew I couldn’t face you. Yes, you tortured my brother and tried to kill us both, but no one deserves to have their family taken away from them.”

Farahilde, however, would not be appeased so easily. “You promised me you would protect her! Even though we were enemies, I trusted that you were sincere. That was the biggest mistake of my life. You didn’t care about her any more than the rest of the French worms did.”

This accusation sparked something within Jeanne. She grabbed her rapier from the wall where she had put it, and pointed it at Farahilde. “How dare you! Few people in France admired Her Majesty as much as I did. You have no idea how much it hurt me to have to sit back and watch while the Assembly branded her a traitor and kept her prisoner in her own home.”

“Then why didn’t you free her?” Farahilde yelled. “I know how strong you are. You could have done it!”

Jeanne fought back the sobs that were rising in her throat. “It was the king’s wish. He felt that any attempt to escape would only make things worse for the royal family. He believed the people’s hate would eventually subside if they cooperated with the Assembly.”

Now it was Farahilde’s turn to release the tears that had been welling up in her for six months. “The man was a fool. He didn’t deserve the honor of being married to Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna.”

“She was a great woman,” Jeanne agreed.

Farahilde lunged at her. “Yet you let her die!”

 

***

 

Some time later, Jeanne and Farahilde stood huffing and struggling to catch their respective breaths outside the shack. They had been fighting for a while, and now they had run out of steam.

“I think…you’ve lost a step…fräulein.”

“Oh…really? I thought…you were going to…send me…to Hell. You’re certainly taking…your time.”

They both fell to their knees, exhausted. Jeanne looked over her clothing. It was riddled with cuts from their fight. She was also bleeding in several places, but Farahilde looked no better. In the end, neither of them had been able to inflict a serious wound on the other.

Suddenly Farahilde said, “Tell me, fräulein: why are we fighting each other?”

Jeanne was surprised by the question. Surely Farahilde had made her motives quite clear when she arrived. “I let your sister die.”

The young Austrian shook her head. “If you had truly accepted your guilt, you would have let me cut you down. But you didn’t. You fought me in order to prove your loyalty to meine schwester. Therein lies the blood that keeps your heart pumping; you know deep down inside that it was not you who killed her. And you have convinced me of that as well.”

“What does it matter?” Jeanne asked with no shortage of sorrow. “She’s gone, and I let it happen.”

“Were you the one who killed her?” Farahilde asked rhetorically.

“I just told you—”

She was cut off by Farahilde’s sudden roar. “Were you the one who killed her!?”

“I…not directly.”

Now, even louder: “Were you the one who killed her!?”

“No.”

Farahilde was still not satisfied. “What was that? I can’t hear you!”

“No!”

“Then who was it!?”

“Maximilien Robespierre!”

Now Farahilde lowered her voice. “Then should we not punish him for his actions?”

“What good would that do?” Jeanne sighed. “The damage is done.”

“Is it? Being all alone out here, you probably don’t know what else he’s been up to. For instance, I bet you don’t know about the Reign of Terror.”

“‘The Reign of Terror’?”

“That’s right, fräulein. He’s in control of your country’s government, and he’s been busily ordering the execution of anyone who disagrees with him. Many of his opponents have been beheaded, and he shows no sign of stopping any time soon.”

“That’s horrible!”

“He rose to power by claiming his crimes were for the good of France, but things have only gotten worse under his rule. Such a man needs to be stopped, don’t you think? I mean, you swore loyalty to the monarchy, but isn’t your real duty to your country?”

Jeanne was silent, but after a moment she was forced to agree with Farahilde. “You’re right. Things will never get better as long as Robespierre has his way. All this time I’ve been wallowing in self-pity when I should have been fighting for the betterment of France.” She rose to her feet. “Let’s go!”

Farahilde also stood up. “Just the two of us, fräulein? You’d better have a good plan. Meine bruder, Leopold II, emperor of Austria, forbade me from even coming here; meine country recently settled on a peace treaty with France, and he does not wish me to jeopardize that by doing anything reckless like trying to assassinate the French leader.”

For the first time in ages, Jeanne smiled. “Don’t worry about that. I have a team willing and able to take on the world at my command. We just have to find them first.”

“Heh. Lead the way, then.”

When Jeanne had packed up her few belongings, she followed Farahilde to the edge of the clearing in front of the shack, where the Austrian had a curious silver…thing…waiting for them. “What is this?”

Farahilde beamed with pride. “It is meine country’s newest vehicle: the motor bike.” She bent down and swiftly turned a metal crank located on the chassis under the handle bars. She then hopped on the bike and repeatedly stomped her foot on the pedal. Within a minute the bike sputtered and began rumbling. Hot steam shot out the rear of the bike. “Hop in the side car, fräulein.” Then, seeing Jeanne’s apprehension at the prospect of riding this strange new vehicle: “Unless you’d rather walk, of course.”

3

 

 

 

 

Place de la Révolution, Paris, March 21, 1790 (Infini Calendar), 8:15 a.m.

Robespierre watched with great satisfaction as the prisoner was dragged up the scaffold. Since the dissolution of the monarchy six months ago, he had ordered the deaths of more people than even he could remember, but none of the executions so far could compare to the pleasure he was receiving at seeing the utter defeat of this one man.

When the bloody and beaten man was made to kneel at his feet, Robespierre said, “I’ve waited a long time for this day, Monsieur Brissot.”

“Go to Hell, you parasite!”

It was none other than Jacques-Pierre Brissot de Warville, Robespierre’s former rival in the Jacobin Club and member of the Girondist faction within the Club that had long been at odds with Robespierre and his Montagnards.

Robespierre beamed magnificently at his triumph. It had taken him months to falsify the evidence against Brissot and his “conspirators” within the Girondist group, and now, on this day, it all paid off.

“You’ll pay for this!” Brissot shouted. He spit a gob of fresh blood onto Robespierre’s shirt.

Robespierre looked at him with contempt. “A crude man until the end, are you? Well, don’t worry; today you will have a companion for your journey to the next life.”

There was the sound of footsteps climbing the scaffold, and a second prisoner was deposited next to Brissot. He looked over to see who it was. “Manon!”

Manon Roland, like Brissot, was dressed in simple prisoner clothing. She hadn’t been tortured nearly as badly as he had, but her face was a sickly white instead of its usual glossy alabaster. “I’m sorry,” she coughed. “It seems solitary confinement does not agree with me.”

“Have you lost your mind, Manon? This is no time for jokes!” Brissot said.

Robespierre held up an official-looking piece of paper recently furnished by the Assembly after reviewing the evidence against Brissot, and began reading aloud. “Jacques-Pierre Brissot de Warville and Manon Roland, for the crime of attempting to subvert the sovereignty of France by conspiring with foreign nations to carry out the violent overthrow of the government of this country, you are hereby sentenced to death by beheading.”

“Wait!” Brissot shouted. “There aren’t any guillotines up here! How do you plan to behead us?”

Robespierre smirked. “I have found a more efficient means of execution.” There was now a much softer pattering of footsteps coming up the scaffold behind Brissot. “Meet my own personal executioner.”

Brissot craned his neck to see who was standing behind him. “What the Hell is this?”

It was a svelte figure with blond hair and pigtails emerging from either side of her head. She wore a flowing black dress and her face was covered by a harlequin mask with a black smile.

However, none of those things was her most striking feature. No, the thing that grabbed everyone’s attention was the massive scythe she effortlessly held with one hand.

“Madame Tussaud is far more cost-effective than any guillotine,” Robespierre said.

“You may kill us,” Roland said, “but Jeanne de Fleur is still out there somewhere. She will deliver your punishment without fail.”

“Hmph. Even if she does, you won’t be around to see it.”

Robespierre signaled to Madame Tussaud, who waited for him to exit the scaffold, and, with one lightning-fast