Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 510 History repeats itself!

As night fell, more ordinary Parisians appeared.

They weren't there to join the protest; instead, they were carrying baskets, holding jars, and carrying pots.

An old woman wearing an old headscarf, carrying a basket covered with a cloth, walked unsteadily to a policeman.

She looked up, her face etched with wrinkles: "Sir, please, let me through. I've made some hot soup and some bread."

My son used to deposit some money in the 'United Corporation'. Although it wasn't much, it was his hard-earned money.

They're all pitiful people; they haven't eaten all day..."

A man wearing overalls was carrying a kettle, steam rising from its spout.

He said to the military police blocking his way, "Brother, could you at least give them some hot coffee? It's freezing cold. I'll leave after I deliver it."

A young woman was holding several pieces of cheese and sausage wrapped in paper.

Her voice was timid: "My dad said they weren't bad people, they were just driven to desperation..."

Most of those who brought food and water were also poor people.

They may not have suffered direct losses, but they understand that despair and sympathize with their fellow human beings who are "eaten by sharks."

This spontaneous and simple act, like a warm current, collided with the cold atmosphere of the scene.

The citizens of Paris upheld their glorious traditions!
Around the time of the Lyon workers' uprising in 1831, Parisian artisans had a habit of using strikes and demonstrations to put pressure on the government and employers.

During the Paris Commune in 1871, citizens not only allowed the National Guard to set up cannons in their neighborhoods, but also spontaneously built barricades, provided food and lodging, and rescued the wounded.

Therefore, in Paris, "demonstrations" belong not only to those who take to the streets, but also to ordinary citizens who open their windows and offer food.

They even regard supporting protesters as a routine civic act, which cannot be called a good deed!
The soldiers and police looked at the pleading civilians and the meager food in their hands, at a loss for what to do.

The people who came to deliver things were wearing old clothes, had rough hands, and their faces were full of marks from the hardships of life.

The things they brought weren't expensive: black bread, hot coffee, mushroom soup, an old blanket...

The commanders on the ground had veins throbbing on their foreheads and were on the verge of collapse; they felt like they were being roasted over a fire.

On one side was an increasingly agitated and sorrowful crowd, and on the other side were subordinates whose emotions were clearly unstable.

Citizens continued to pour in from the surrounding area, and the most critical issue was that the instructions from higher authorities remained ambiguous and unclear.

Suddenly, someone in the crowd began to sing, their voice low and hoarse—

It's "La Marseillaise"!
At first, only a few people sang, then a dozen, then dozens, then hundreds...

The sound grew louder and louder, drowning out all the other noises.
"Forward, sons and daughters of the motherland, rise up!"

The encirclement of police and soldiers suddenly loosened, a song every Frenchman knows.

It was even the first song they ever learned.

The singing continued, growing more and more synchronized.

"A glorious day awaits you..."

The officer on horseback turned around and roared, "No singing!"

But no one paid him any attention, and he sang even louder.

"Look, the tyrant is facing us..."

The officer's face flushed red, and he lashed out in the air with his riding crop—

Snapped!
A crisp sound echoed through the night sky.

The singing stopped, and everyone looked at him.

The officer raised his pistol and pulled back the bolt: "If you sing again, I'll shoot!"

The crowd was silent for a few seconds, then a veteran stood up.

He walked to the front of the human wall, just two steps away from the bayonet, and stared intently at the officer.

He began to sing again, word by word:
"Arm yourselves, compatriots..."

The crowd stirred slightly and joined in, singing so loudly it sounded like they were shouting:

"Arm yourselves, compatriots!"

"Organize the team well!"

"Forward! Forward!"

The singing surged like a tide, rushing towards the police and the soldiers.

The young people surrounding the group trembled even more violently.

The officer panicked and was about to fire, but his adjutant next to him held him back: "Captain, don't be impulsive!"

In the crowd, Philip held up an empty money bag and shouted at the police: "Brothers! You get paid too!"
You have families too! What will you do if you don't get your salary or your pension tomorrow?

The police force remained silent.

Philip continued shouting, "We are not thugs! We didn't smash or loot! We just want justice!"
Those bankers ran off with our money! Did the government do anything about it? No!
They're sending you here to fight us now! To fight these civilians just like you!

Many of the men in the encirclement lowered their gun barrels.

A sergeant walked up to the officer's horse: "Captain, the men are starting to break down..."

The officer glared at him: "You want to disobey orders?"

The sergeant lowered his head: "I wouldn't dare. But... but if this continues, I'm afraid something might happen. What if someone accidentally fires..."

The officer looked at the crowd in the firelight, at the civilians delivering supplies, and at the tired faces of his men.

He was cold, hungry, and tired, but the order he was waiting for was still nowhere to be seen.

The officer muttered a curse under his breath, "Damn it!"

Then, raising his voice, he loudly ordered: "All! Rest where you are! You may dismount, but do not unload your ammunition! Do not lower your guard!"

The cavalrymen breathed a sigh of relief, one by one dismounting, supporting their backs, slowly sitting down, and placing their guns across their laps.

When the officers of the city patrol and infantry regiments saw that the military police were resting, they also ordered their own troops to rest.

The civilians delivering the supplies took the opportunity to squeeze through the encirclement; bread, coffee, blankets, kerosene stoves, hot soup...

The aroma of food wafted out, blurring the invisible lines between the crowds.

----------

The latest news from the standoff was transmitted one by one into the smoke-filled conference room at Bourbon Palace.

The secretary delivering the message turned pale: "Report...on the scene...our personnel have...contact with civilians..."

The soldiers laid down their guns, the military police dismounted... the civilians brought in food and water... the police also ate bread..."

Army Minister Koschbrück jumped up as if pricked by a needle: "Contact? What contact? Who gave permission?! Put down your guns?"
What are they trying to do?!

Because he stood up too quickly, his chair tipped over and crashed onto the floor with a loud bang.

Finance Minister Mathieu's voice shrilly: "I told you not to send so many people! Now look what's happened!"

The soldiers and police softened their stance; will they then hand over their guns to the mob?

Commerce Minister Gu said ominously, "Look at this setup, the food's been delivered, and the guns' been put down—"

Does this seem spontaneous? I think it's a coordinated effort from within and without!

Navy Minister Berger, no longer sleepy, stared wide-eyed: "Inside and outside collusion? You mean there are people in the military too?"

Agriculture Minister Magnier waved his hands repeatedly: "Don't drag us country bumpkins from the provinces into this! Paris will handle its own affairs!"

Attorney General Duffer remained relatively calm, but his voice trembled: "Who made this decision without authorization? This is a serious dereliction of duty!"

This could involve a rebellion!

The word "rebellion" immediately blew up the meeting room.

"Yes! It's the harbinger of rebellion!"

"Back in Montmartre, wasn't this how the soldiers mingled with the National Guard?"

"Thier decided to retreat to Versailles because he saw that the army was unreliable!"

"History is repeating itself! Oh God!"

They were referring to events from March 18, 1871—

That morning, the troops sent by the Thiers government to seize cannons in Montmartre lacked follow-up orders, chatted with the National Guard and citizens, and even celebrated together, ultimately causing the operation to fall apart.

By 3 p.m., Thiers, having received the news, held only one short meeting before deciding to "abandon the capital and retreat to Versailles," while the ministers panicked and fled in all directions.

Today, the ministers sitting in this conference room no longer resemble powerful cabinet members; they have become frightened birds chased by terrible memories.

They never imagined that, in order to avoid being branded as having engaged in "violent suppression," they would hesitate to issue clear orders...

This is how it will eventually turn out!
That bloody spring of the Paris Commune, that morning when the government fled in panic, those "mobs" who erected barricades...

The ghost of memory crawled out from the dust of twelve years and choked them.

Prime Minister Fresine sat in the main seat, his face drained of color.

He tried to maintain his composure, but his voice betrayed him: "Quiet! Gentlemen, quiet! The situation is not yet..."

Kosbrü rudely interrupted him: "Nothing? My soldiers have laid down their weapons! They've joined the mob!"
Mr. Prime Minister, what does this mean? It means the state's machinery of violence has broken down! In the heart of Paris!
Now! Immediately! The most decisive measures must be taken!

Mathieu retorted sharply, "What measures? Who to send? Send more troops? How do you know it won't be the same?"
They ate the same bread and received the same pay! Their families might even be among them!

Lefebvre waved his hands helplessly: "Police! Or else call the police..."

Gu An sneered: "Police? The police would have been serving soup with the citizens long ago! Lacoste is a complete waste!"

The conference room was filled with heavy breathing, suppressed gasps, and incoherent accusations.

Everyone is talking, but no one is listening to what others are saying; fear is the only language here.

Prime Minister Fresine felt a wave of dizziness.

He could almost see the angry mob merging with the "rebel" soldiers, rushing towards the Bourbon Palace, bursting into this conference room...

Just like when the commune members stormed the Paris City Hall.

Ordering a crackdown now would be prohibitively costly, and these "elites" might actually be torn to pieces.

This realization terrified them more than the soldiers laying down their guns.

Subsequently, this fear transformed into the most instinctive action—self-preservation.

Finance Minister Mathieu was the first to speak up: "The Ministry of Finance has several urgent documents that need to be processed overnight..."

He stood up incoherently, knocking over the glass in front of him and spilling water all over the table.

But he didn't bother wiping it off; he just nodded hurriedly to Fressine and practically ran out of the office.

This move was like opening a floodgate; several other ministers also found excuses and fled in panic.

Before the police and army turned their guns on him, and while his carriage was still waiting in the courtyard...

In the blink of an eye, only Prime Minister Charles de Frésiné, Army Minister Adolphe Kochebrück, and Minister of Public Education and Arts Jules Ferry remained at the long table.

Kosbrü's face was ashen as he stared at the empty seats, spitting out a single sentence through gritted teeth: "A bunch of cowards!"

The other two looked grave, not joining in the cursing of the cowards, their minds preoccupied with only one question:
Is history really going to repeat itself tonight?

(Second update complete, please vote with monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)