Reincarnated as Napoleon

Chapter 38 Prelude: The Revolution

?As the golden rays of the sun painted the sky in hues of amber, France found itself ensnared in the clutches of an unforgiving financial crisis. Desperation hung heavy in the air, and the fate of the kingdom rested precariously on the shoulders of one man—King Louis XVI. Seeking a lifeline for his beleaguered nation, he summoned an illustrious assembly, known henceforth as the Assembly of Notables. Within its hallowed chambers, the powerhouses of French society convened, including esteemed nobles, influential clergy, and even a smattering of representatives from the bourgeoisie. Their mission? To unveil a path strewn with financial reforms, capable of rescuing France from the abyss.

But alas, the corridors of power proved to be treacherous, with a formidable fortress of resistance blocking the king's vision. The Assembly of Notables, entrenched in their privileged positions, thwarted the monarch's proposed reforms. The nobility and clergy, guardians of their lofty status, bristled at the mere mention of shouldering additional tax burdens. A symphony of frustration and disappointment resonated through the halls, as the king and his advisors found themselves ensnared in a political impasse, their dreams of financial revival dashed against the rocks of resistance.

As the dawn of 1788 broke upon the land, France stood upon the precipice of catastrophe. A relentless storm of economic decline unleashed its fury, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake. Across the fertile fields, crops withered under the weight of misfortune, casting a shadow of despair upon the populace. Hunger prowled the streets, its insatiable hunger gnawing at the core of their existence. But it was the soaring price of bread, the sustenance of the common folk, that ignited the smoldering embers of rebellion within their hearts.

From the bustling thoroughfares of Paris to the tranquil hamlets nestled amidst verdant fields, a tempest of protest and revolt erupted. Defiance coursed through their veins, fueling their courageous acts of resistance. In a united front, the downtrodden masses took to the streets, their voices blending into a mighty chorus of discontent. Grain stores and bakeries became the targets of their ire, symbols of the inequality and suffering that gripped their lives.

The mounting unrest and the specter of revolt weighed heavily upon the monarch's conscience. Fearing the wrath of his subjects and the unraveling of his kingdom, King Louis XVI was left with no choice but to reach back into the annals of history. He summoned forth the long-dormant assembly, a relic not seen in centuries—the Estates-General. This venerable institution, encompassing the clergy, nobility, and the commoners of the Third Estate, emerged from the shadows, bearing the weight of a nation's hopes and fears.

The year 1789 dawned, its arrival pregnant with expectation, tinged with the smoldering embers of revolution. Within the opulent halls of Versailles, the grand stage was set, as the Estates-General assembled, representatives of a nation poised on the precipice of transformation.

Amidst the gathering, a palpable tension hung in the air. The voice of the common people, the Third Estate, resounded with unwavering determination. No longer content with mere representation, they demanded equality, tearing down the barriers that shackled their potential. Voices clashed, passions ignited, as the halls reverberated with fervent debates and impassioned pleas for justice.

And so it came to pass, on that momentous day—June 17—that the Third Estate, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of inequality, defiantly declared themselves the National Assembly. In a proclamation that reverberated throughout the annals of history, they asserted that true sovereignty resided not in the hands of a single ruler but in the collective will of the people.

But the winds of change were only just beginning to stir. On that fateful day, July 14, the Bastille, an emblem of royal authority and oppression, fell before the relentless tide of popular uprising. The stones of the fortress crumbled beneath the weight of a nation's discontent, shattering the illusion of invincibility. It was a seismic moment, a clarion call for change that echoed through the hearts of every citizen.

In the aftermath of the Bastille's fall, a tempest of unrest swept across the countryside. The Great Fear, as it came to be known, unleashed a torrent of peasant uprisings. Enraged by feudal obligations and burdened by economic hardships, the oppressed masses directed their fury toward the estates of the nobility. The age-old bonds of feudalism shattered under the weight of their defiance.

Sensing the urgency of the times, the National Assembly moved swiftly, driven by the winds of change. With a stroke of their pens, they abolished feudalism, dismantling the pillars of privilege that had long divided society. The principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity took center stage, illuminating a path toward a new dawn.

But the revolution had yet to fulfill its destiny. In the waning days of October, the women of Paris, their souls aflame with anguish and starvation, embarked on a march that would etch their names into history's tapestry. Their destination—Versailles, the opulent palace that housed the royal family. With unwavering determination, they demanded not just bread but the return of their monarch, challenging the very foundations of the monarchy itself.

***

As the first rays of dawn brushed the sky, casting a dim light over the rain-soaked Versailles, an ominous silence settled upon the palace grounds. The night had been one of mounting tension, and the air crackled with an impending storm. The crowd who marched from Paris to Versailles barefoot for six hours, still seething with anger and discontent, waited outside.

At about six o'clock in the morning, a group of protesters stumbled upon a small gate to the palace, left unguarded in the chaos that had consumed the royal guards. Sensing an opportunity, they cast furtive glances at each other before cautiously slipping inside. Like shadows in the night, they maneuvered through the labyrinthine passages, driven by a singular purpose—the search for the queen's bed-chamber.

Meanwhile, the royal guards, their hearts pounding with trepidation, retreated through the palace, desperately attempting to fortify their positions. Doors were bolted, hallways barricaded, and the air hung heavy with the acrid scent of gunpowder. In the compromised sector, the cour de marbre, the guards unleashed a barrage of gunfire at the intruders, their shots finding their mark with fatal precision. A young member of the crowd fell, life extinguished in an instant, and their dreams of justice shattered.

The death of their comrade ignited a flame of fury within the rest of the protesters. Their collective rage surged towards the breach, an unstoppable wave crashing upon the palace doors. With each step, their determination grew, fueled by vengeance and an insatiable desire for retribution.

Within the chaos, a gardes du corps on duty met a grisly fate, his life snuffed out with ruthless abandon. His body, in a grotesque display of brutality, was decapitated, a macabre warning to all who dared challenge the might of the crowd. Another guard, Tardivet du Repaire, valiantly attempted to confront the enraged throng, but the weight of their fury was too great. He was struck down, his body battered down to the point he was unrecognizable.

As the pounding of feet and the screams of the mob reverberated through the opulent halls, the queen, barefoot and fear-stricken, clung to a sliver of hope. With her ladies-in-waiting by her side, she darted through the maze-like corridors, her heart pounding in her chest. Frantically, she sought the king's bed-chamber, her desperation giving way to desperation. But the door was locked. She banged upon it with desperate urgency, her cries drowned out by the deafening cacophony outside.

"Let me in! Let me in!"

Minutes stretched into an eternity as the queen's fate teetered on a knife's edge. Then, with a stroke of fortune, the door swung open, revealing the king's sanctuary and the king himself. The queen and her entourage slipped through the doorway, their relief tangible as they evaded the clutches of chaos.

***

Meanwhile, the rampage within the palace continued unabated. The crowd, driven by an unhinged frenzy, sought out other royal guards, their blows raining down upon them with unrestrained brutality. At least one more guard met a gruesome end, his severed head hoisted triumphantly atop a pike.

As the chaos ensued inside the halls of Versailles, one prominent individual named Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette and the commander-in-chief of the Parisian National Guard was walking down the marbled halls, yawning as he had just woken up.

His men, still engaged in combat with the royal gardes du corps looked up to him as he walked forward, unfazed by the shot from the beleaguered.

"Sir!" One of his men shouted. "What are you doing?"

Lafayette turned towards his comrade, his expression composed. "Stand down," he ordered, his voice carrying an air of authority. Yet, beneath his calm exterior, a hint of frustration lingered.

"This wouldn't have happened if the King had agreed to return to Paris yesterday," he muttered to himself, casting a fleeting glance at the royal guards.

With a resolute gaze, Lafayette addressed the remaining royal guards who stood defiantly before him.

"Life Guards of the king, I have come here to offer a truce," he declared, his voice carrying a quiet conviction. "I wish to speak with the King directly. Is he in his bedchamber?"

But the royal guards, blinded by their loyalty and consumed by anger, scoffed at Lafayette's words. One among them, his face twisted with contempt, brandished his musket menacingly.

"Shut up! We have nothing to say to you, traitor!" he spat, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Do you truly wish to meet your end here?" he questioned, his voice tinged with a hint of somberness. "I have thousands of furious mobs outside, ready to tear down this Palace if their demands are not met swiftly."

Lafayette's calm demeanor and words resonated with the remaining royal guards, their fervor momentarily dampened by the realization of the overwhelming force outside the palace walls. Reluctantly, they lowered their muskets, eyeing Lafayette warily.

"Lead the way," one of the guards grumbled, stepping aside to allow Lafayette and his entourage to pass. The group cautiously made their way through the corridors, the echoes of chaos still reverberating through the palace.

Knocking gently on the door, Lafayette waited for a response. After a brief moment, it creaked open, revealing a disheveled King Louis XVI. His face was etched with weariness and anxiety, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. Queen Marie Antoinette, still visibly shaken, stood by his side, her grip tightly clasping the hand of their young daughter.

"Your Majesty," Lafayette began, bowing respectfully. "I've come to negotiate a resolution to this crisis.

"Which is what…" King Louis stammered.

"Address the people outside, Your Majesty, that is the only way," Lafayette said and continued. "Rest assured, my guards inside and outside this Palace will ensure your safety. The people are demanding to see their king, to hear his words, and to know that their grievances are being heard. It is a crucial moment, a chance to bridge the divide and find a peaceful resolution."

The king's eyes darted between Lafayette and the chaotic scene outside the window. There he could hear the incessant shouts and cries of the mobs, demanding to see their presence.

He knew that his options were limited, and the weight of responsibility pressed upon his shoulders. Reluctantly, he nodded.

"Very well," the king conceded. "Lead me to the balcony."

Lafayette's lips curled to a smile as he heard the King's decision.