The Game Called Revolution by - (e reading malayalam books .txt) 📕

how it had started—that the nobility had employed bands of thugs to go around the countryside destroying the crops of the peasantry. The rumor turned out to be untrue, but that didn’t stop a wave of panic from flooding across France, adding fuel to an already growing fire.

The prison suddenly shook again with the reverberation of a steam cannon blast, and Jeanne was about to suggest they hurry through the tunnel when someone charged into her from behind. They both fell to the floor, whereupon she elbowed her unknown attacker in the face. The assailant let go of her and all three knights brought their swords upon him.

“Now, now, it is simply I—Jacques du Chard!”

The Marquis de Launay lowered the torch so they could get a good look at him. Sure enough, it was Jacques the forger. Jeanne motioned for Pierre and Victor to sheathe their swords.

“What are you doing down here?” de Launay demanded to know. “How did you get out of your cell?”

“Let’s just say you should not have passed so close to me when you went by my cell up there. Didn’t you notice yourself missing the key?”

The Marquis check his pocket. “You filthy thief!”

Victor chuckled. “I thought he was just a forger, but he can get out of a prison cell too. What a multi-talented criminal!” He then said under his breath, “And not a bad looker.”

Jacques waved his hand in a tip-of-the-hat gesture. “And you, sir, have an eye for talent.” He returned his attention to de Launay. “As for why I am here, well, it is simply the fact that I do not care to be placed in the custody of that mob that is currently pummeling the doors of this prison trying to get in.”

“Enough of this banter. Let’s keep moving,” Jeanne said. She hoped they wouldn’t pick up any more comedians today.

 

***

 

They trekked through the man-made tunnel underneath the Bastille. The passage was so narrow they had to walk single-file; de Launay brought up the rear, followed by Jeanne, Jacques, Victor and Pierre. The Marquis’ torch provided just enough light for them to see a few feet in front of them.

Despite the heat of summer, it was cool in the tunnel. It smelled of mud and rock, two things which can block out warmth. Jeanne was glad for that; her armor was lightweight, but could still be unbearably hot this time of year.

She said, “You’re a curious one, forger. Do you really think you’ll be better off with us than up above with your fellow commoners?”

“Very much so, Mademoiselle. My fellow peasants are not too fond of me at the moment,” Jacques said.

“Why is that?” she asked.

“As you know, I was put in prison for forgery. But what you do not know are the details of that crime. You see, I was hired by a poor family to forge documents showing them to be nobility. They wanted to move up in the world, I suppose. Who does not? Anyways, they gave me all the money they had to do the job. Sadly, on the way back to deliver the false documents to that family I was caught with the papers on me.” His voice took on a melancholy tone. “Under threat of torture I revealed the names of the commoners who had hired me to forge the documents. I later learned they had been split up and sent to different prisons around France. I couldn’t even give them back the money as it was confiscated as evidence. Probably wound up in a judge’s pocket.”

“That’s…. unfortunate,” was all Jeanne could say. She made it a point to stay in control of her emotions at all times, and she couldn’t be showing too much pity to a common criminal.

“Don’t listen to him,” de Launay said. “Regardless of his reasons, he still broke the law. His punishment was just.”

“‘Just’…” Jeanne let the word roll around in her mouth for a moment. As the commander of the Ordre de la Tradition, she was known as “Jeanne la Juste,” a moniker she had received because she treated everyone fairly. She did not show more respect to the nobility than the clergy or commoners, and she was always fair in her dealings with criminals. Still, she wasn’t sure how to look upon Jacques du Chard; he had admitted his guilt, yet his story was nonetheless a sympathetic one.

An abrupt series of reverberations shaking the tunnel saved her from having to think about it any more at the present time. Unlike the previous explosions, these were clearly the result of more than one cannon blast.

“I think they’ve gotten serious,” Victor said.

“They must have commenced the complete bombarding of the prison,” de Launay said.

More explosions rocked the fortress above, and mounds of dirt began falling from the ceiling of the tunnel. “We need to move,” Jeanne insisted.

They began awkwardly running through the passage as fast as they could. Jeanne realized it had been a mistake to let the Marquis take point; he wasn’t in nearly as good of shape as the knights, or even Jacques. He was slowing them down too much. In addition, the tunnel was too narrow for them to go around him (Jeanne had no intention of leaving him behind, but she wished the others at least had a chance to get out faster.

As the passage continually shook from the bombardment, the tunnel began to crumble more and more around them. Suddenly de Launay tripped on a rock and fell down, his torch landing in a puddle of muddy water and going out. Now the tunnel was collapsing and they were blind.

Jeanne almost tripped over the Marquis herself, but managed to stay upright despite all the commotion going on. She felt for de Launay’s torso and pulled him to his feet. She then grabbed his shoulders firmly. “Everyone, hold on to the person in front of you!” she shouted to be heard above the rumblings. She felt someone (she had to assume Jacques) put his arms around her waist in a somewhat too-familiar embrace. Still, she didn’t have the luxury to complain. After a moment had passed and she was satisfied everyone had had time to carry out her order, she said, “Let’s go!”

They slogged forward as a unit, with the tunnel threatening to collapse at any moment. After a minute, a light appeared up ahead, faint but definitely there. As more and more dirt and debris fell from the ceiling, though, she didn’t know if they would make it.

Nevertheless, they pressed on towards the exit, one step at a time.

Twenty feet to the exit.

Fifteen feet.

More debris falling.

Ten feet.

Behind them, the ceiling began collapsing entirely.

Five feet.

 

***

 

They barreled out of the tunnel and into the open daylight of Paris. Jeanne choked on the cloud of dust that had been discharged by the collapse of the narrow passage from which they had just escaped. Lying on the ground, she coughed in an involuntary attempt to dispel the dust from her throat.

Once she could breathe again, she looked around to take stock of the situation. They were in a wide street behind the Bastille. Dozens of smokestacks from factories in the distance bellowed steam into the Paris sky as was normal for this time of day. This generated a haze above the city, giving it an unclean look. On the contrary; it was much cleaner than the proposed burning of coal which had been briefly considered as a power source for Paris.

She looked around. The Marquis de Launay lay behind her also trying to get himself together. To her right were Pierre and Victor sitting on the ground, apparently no worse for wear. Their armor was covered with dirt, dust and grime, as was hers.

Another series of explosions drew her attention. Past the wall into which the tunnel had been built, the Bastille came crumbling down. Although the falling structure was a good hundred feet away and separated from them by a twenty-foot wall, it still roared with its last breath and produced a dirty white cloud which managed to shoot over the wall.

They put their arms up in front of their faces to shield their eyes from the cloud which came down upon them. For a moment the world went a shade of sickly grey.

Jeanne went through another bout of coughing, and she could hear the others doing the same. “Is everyone all right?” she asked.

“I think so,” Pierre said.

“Same here,” Victor replied.

“Things could be worse, no?” Jacques added.

“Oh, will you just shut—” de Launay started. However, his words were cut off by a sharp retort: the unmistakable sound of a gun shot.

The cloud cleared and the Marquis lay facedown in a bright red pool, a hole having been put in his shoulder.

In addition, they were surrounded on three sides by eight members of the Gardes Francaises, an infantry regiment of the Maison du Roi, the King’s House. Their role depended on whether they were stationed in Paris or Versailles. In Versailles their duty was to guard the palace, while in Paris they helped to maintain order. What they were doing here pointing rifles at her and her group, she didn’t know, but she had a few ideas, none of which she liked.

A man whose uniform identified him as their sergeant addressed them. “Please cooperate with us, Mademoiselle de Fleur. We don’t want any more bloodshed than necessary.”

“I know you,” she said. “You are François Joseph Lefebvre. What is the meaning of this?”

Lefebvre was thirty-three years old (having been in the army since he was eighteen). His prominent features were a strong jaw line and hair which was short and dark. Unlike the rest of his regiment, his uniform consisted of a blue coat with red cuffs, a red collar and a red waistcoat, while the leggings and breeches were white. Jeanne had never seen this uniform before, but Lefebvre’s coat was embroidered in silver rather than white, distinguishing his status as an officer.

He spoke calmly and eloquently. “The revolution has begun, and we are siding with the National Constituent Assembly. They have long been oppressed by the Ancien Régime, and we were recently ordered to suppress the uprising with violence. Please understand that we cannot in good conscience open fire on the people of France.”

Jeanne clenched her fist tightly. “‘Cannot in good conscience open fire’? You just opened fire on the Marquis de Launay.”

Lefebvre furrowed his brow slightly. “We merely shot him in the shoulder. He will live, though not for long, I suspect. It is the people who demand his head as the one who ran the Bastille. Once he is dead, their anger will diminish.”

“What nonsense is this?” Jeanne demanded. “You are members of the Maison du Roi. You serve the king’s household. And now you would turn against those you have sworn loyalty to?”

“We are loyal to the people! Our king has abandoned them in favor of the nobles and clergymen. The Third Estate had more members than the other two; by all rights they should have received more votes. But our monarch acquiesced to the petulant First and Second Estates—not to mention his overbearing wife—and shut them out of the hall in which they were to have met. In effect, he has rejected the majority of France. For a ruler to do that is madness.”

“And you think you can change things by shooting innocent people and wreaking havoc in Paris? That is my idea of madness,” Jeanne said.

“I am under no obligation to justify our actions to you. I was simply hoping you would understand and come with us peacefully, either to join us or