Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 513 I’m late!

When the guard returned to his office at Bourbon Palace, it was already past midnight.

The three people in the room turned to look at him at the same time. Kosbrü spoke first: "Where is he?"

The guard took off his hat, bowed his head, and reported, "We lost him, Minister."

Kosbrück jumped up: "Lost him? How did you lose him? Wasn't he riding in our carriage?"

The guard shook his head: "He left Bourbon Palace, but didn't get into the car we had prepared. He hailed a taxi himself."

By the time your order was delivered, the carriage had already turned out of the intersection.

Koshbrü's face flushed red: "Then why aren't you chasing after them?"

The guard looked up, his voice aggrieved: "We gave chase, Minister. But the roads were full of cars."

Kosbru seemed not to understand: "All cars? Now?"

He then angrily questioned, "It's midnight! Where did this car come from?"

The guard nodded repeatedly, like a chicken pecking at rice: "It's true. We have rental carriages, private carriages, four-wheeled, two-wheeled... we have them all."

There was a traffic jam on St. Martin Avenue, and by the time we got to the intersection, we couldn't tell which car Mr. Sorel was in.

The office was silent for a few seconds.

Fressine slowly stood up from the sofa, walked to the window, lifted a corner of the curtain, and looked outside.

The courtyard of Bourbon Palace was quiet, but in the distance, through the walls and trees, one could vaguely see the lights of cars moving on the street.

Frésiné lowered the curtain and turned around: "He's telling the truth. Paris now... anyone with any ability is leaving."

Kosbrü's eyes widened: "Leave? Where to?"

Frésiné's voice was weary: "Where else can we go? The countryside, the provinces, Switzerland, England—anywhere, as long as we get out of Paris."

He walked behind his desk and slumped down: "Parisians have no illusions about politics. They know that once the army softens its stance, the capital will no longer belong to the government."

Riots could break out at any moment—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. The wealthy, the aristocracy, the well-off middle class—they don't want to gamble.

The guard, still standing at the door, added in a low voice: "When we caught up to the vicinity of Place de la Concorde, we saw several very beautiful carriages, the kind with family crests."

Boxes were strapped to the back of the cart, piled high. Women sat inside, wrapped in shawls, their faces covered.

Koshbrü slammed his fist on the table: "Cowards! A bunch of cowards!"

Jules Ferry finally spoke, his voice still calm: "They are not cowards, they are all smart men who know when to leave."

He looked at Koschbrück: "Didn't you also advise His Majesty Napoleon III to leave sooner when you were in Sedan?"

Kosbrü was choked, his face turning red and then white.

Fressine waved his hand, indicating that the guards could leave.

After the door closed, only three people remained in the room. The fire in the fireplace dwindled because no one was adding firewood.

Fressine asked, "What do we do now?" It sounded like he was asking two other people, but also like he was asking himself.

Kosbrü paced around the room twice, then stopped: "Mobilize the troops!"

Both Fressine and Jules Ferri looked up at him.

Koschbrück's voice was resolute: "Send them from the provinces! The troops in Paris are no longer reliable—"

The military police cavalry dismounted today, and the infantry soldiers ate the bread of the rioters; these troops are no longer usable!

Fressine asked, "From where?"

Koschbrück had clearly thought about this: "The North! The 32nd Infantry Regiment is in Amiens, and the 17th Infantry Regiment is in Lille."

A telegram was sent ordering them to set off that very night. The railway was still operational; they should arrive in Paris by tomorrow night at the latest.

Upon arrival, they will replace the existing garrison and clear the area within 24 hours.

He paused, then said, "If you're going to transfer troops, transfer those from the provinces. They have no relatives or friends in Paris and won't be soft-hearted."

Fressine fell silent. He looked at the map spread out on the table, then at the window, as if he could hear the busy wheels of a train.

He muttered to himself, "This is causing too much of a stir. What will the newspapers write? What will Parliament say?"

Koschbrück's attitude was firm: "We can't worry about that now. There are three thousand people sitting in front of the Bank of France right now, and tomorrow it might become five thousand, ten thousand."

By the time they actually build barricades and take up arms, it will be too late. Do you want what happened twelve years ago to repeat itself?
Moreover, they've occupied the stock exchange and banks; a single day they're closed will result in losses in the millions of francs!

Fressine's hand trembled slightly, but he finally said, "Alright. Send a telegram. Have the 32nd and 17th Regiments depart immediately."

Koschbrück breathed a sigh of relief and turned to make the arrangements, but subconsciously glanced at Jules Ferry.

Fressine also seemed to remember something and looked at Jules Ferri as well.

They all thought of one thing: for such an important decision, this political strongman who had once served as prime minister had not said a word.

It should be noted that Jules Ferry was different from other prime ministers of the Third Republic; he was an absolute political strongman with strong opinions.

Jules Ferri sat on the sofa, the firelight flickering on his face, making his expression somewhat indistinct.

Fressine hesitated for a moment, then asked, "You also agree to transfer infantry regiments from the provinces?"

Jules Ferry shook his head: "I was wondering what Sorel would do if he went to the Bank of France?"

Kosbru coldly retorted: "What else can you do? Of course, you can stand at the highest point, give a speech, and enjoy the feeling of being a leader."

"And then join those mobs in continuing to disrupt the hard-won peace and order of the Republic!" Jules Ferry looked up at his hard-lined colleague and sighed. "I assure you, Sorel won't do that."

Kosbrück was still fuming: "What wouldn't he dare to do?"

Jules Ferry also stood up: “I said ‘I won’t,’ not ‘I dare not.’ None of you knows this young man better than I do.”

The citizens occupying the banks and stock exchanges have not shown any signs of violence, and I don't think Sorel would be foolish enough to incite them to riot.

Especially since there is currently no information indicating that he was the mastermind behind this operation, he will not voluntarily take the blame upon himself.

Upon hearing Jules Ferri's words, Fressine wavered again: "Then... deploy troops... deploy troops..."

Jules Ferry countered: "Sending troops from the provinces into Paris is tantamount to admitting that the government has lost control of the capital, and the market will collapse even more completely than it has now."

Foreign capital will all withdraw. And what will those who are still observing think when they see the army being transferred from other provinces?
They'd think Paris was really going to be at war, and they'd run even faster.

He paused, then said, "Besides, how can you guarantee that the provincial soldiers are reliable? They'll hear the news on the train and know that they're coming to Paris to fight their own people."

When they arrive and see the elderly, women, and wounded soldiers sitting in front of the Bank of France—will they open fire without hesitation?

Kosbru stared at him: "So what do you suggest we do? Just wait like this?"

Jules Ferry nodded without hesitation: "Yes, wait!"

Fressine immediately pressed, "Then when will it be?"

Jules Ferri looked at him: "Do you remember what Sorel said, 'The key has always been in our hands'?"

If he truly intended to incite riots, he wouldn't have warned us, much less specifically mentioned that he was going to the Bank of France.

Friesy was desperate: "He makes it sound so easy. That 'key' will only open Pandora's box..."

Then he realized: "Wait, you mean..."

At this point, Jules Ferry finally smiled: "Look, the Bourbon Palace is completely empty now..."

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That night, the entire "high society" and "middle-class families" of Paris were in complete panic.

The sixteenth, eighth, and seventh districts... those spacious and bright luxury apartments were brightly lit.

Summoned by the urgent ringing of the bell, the servants, still half asleep, began rummaging through drawers and packing their belongings.

As the ladies fastened their morning robes, they shrilly directed their maids to pack their valuables—jewelry, bonds, land deeds, and bank drafts.

The gentlemen, their faces ashen, searched for pistols hidden in secret compartments of their studies, or angrily tried to contact their relatives in the countryside or the caretakers of their seaside villas.

The carriage company was packed with people who had come to throng the place. Drivers were dragged out of bed and promised three or five times the price, just to get them to leave immediately.

Long queues formed at the horse-drawn carriage stand. Well-dressed people disregarded manners, arguing and shoving each other, all in an effort to leave the city as soon as possible.

The roads leading to Île de la Cité and the Saint-Lazare train station were teeming with traffic.

Expensive four-wheeled carriages, light two-wheeled carriages, and ordinary taxis were all mixed together, with the shouts of drivers and the urging of passengers filling the air.

In contrast, the atmosphere is quite different in the working-class neighborhoods of Belleville and Menymont, and in the Latin Quarter and Montmartre, where university students and artists congregate.

They gathered in cheap cafes, pubs, or simply stood on the street, talking and arguing excitedly.

Sympathy was spreading—to the elderly and women sitting on the stones, to the soldiers who had laid down their weapons, and to the huge, satirical poster of the "shark"—

All of this deeply resonated with ordinary Parisians.

They may not have lost their annuities, but they have unemployed friends, relatives driven to desperation by landlords, and dissatisfaction with high prices and meager wages.

The demands of those people outside the Bank of France and the Paris Stock Exchange are, to some extent, also their demands, except that they are still observing.

However, some hot-blooded young people have already headed towards the Bank of France in the dark, wanting to "check out the situation" or simply join the ranks of those showing support.

The most sensitive sense of smell belongs to the reporters of major newspapers.

Reporters from The Times and The Daily Telegraph in Paris had already been staking out the area around the Bank of France and the Paris Stock Exchange.

Not to mention the French journalists, almost every newspaper, including Le Figaro, Le Monde, Le Gallic, and Le Petit-Le Journal, sent their best reporters.

They moved along the edge of the crowd, trying to interview protesters, soldiers, officers, and even trying to get close to the organizers at the heart of the encirclement.

In the darker areas, shadows were also moving.

Disgraced politicians, resentful officers, and leaders of power-hungry cliques... they swam like sharks that had smelled blood in the undercurrents of Paris.

That night, Paris was not only a city that never sleeps, but also a city tossing and turning between hope and fear, unity and calculation.

As the eastern horizon began to lighten with the first hint of dawn, even more people had already gathered around the entrances of the Bank of France and the Paris Stock Exchange.

The drumbeats stopped, the slogans ceased, and a strange silence enveloped the land. Everyone was waiting, but no one knew what they were waiting for.

Then, the sun rose as usual!
The sunlight first adorned Notre Dame Cathedral with a bright edge, then slowly spread, first painting the Seine River gold, and then climbing up the cold stone walls of the Stock Exchange building.

Finally, it rained down on the heads of the crowded people.

At this moment, a slight commotion suddenly arose on the outskirts of the crowd—

A young figure walked unhurriedly towards the encirclement, towards the Bank of France, and into the spotlight.

Faced with the swarm of reporters, he only said one sentence: "I'm late!"

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(End of this chapter)