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Martin's carriage had just left the vast gardens of the Tuileries and, after half an hour of jolting along, entered the suburb of Saint-Lazare, north of Paris.
Here, fields still mingled with houses and vegetable gardens. The city was turning into countryside, while the countryside itself was beginning to urbanize.
As the carriage rolled closer to Saint-Laurent's church, the crowd grew denser. The coachman slowed the pace and eventually steered into a street wider than the rest.
By good fortune, he found a space where the vehicle could be left.
Even though this fair had been in decline since 1763—not because of the war, but due to new regulations that sought to control, or rather subjugate, the comic theaters of the fairs—there were still plenty of people coming here to spend a pleasant afternoon.
It was easier to move about on foot anyway.
"Well, here we are," Martin said, lightly adjusting his coat. "The Saint-Laurent Fair."
"There are a lot of people," François remarked, scanning the bustling throng.
"And this," his guide replied in a familiar tone, "is nothing compared to its heart. You'll see, there will be far more people between Saint-Laurent's church and the priory of Saint-Lazare. Merchants, actors, musicians, food sellers…"
François nodded quietly and stepped down from the carriage. At once, he noticed how scarce nobles and wealthy bourgeois were. Most here were ordinary folk of every age: artisans, laborers, shopkeepers, seamstresses, bakers, farmers.
He pointed it out to Martin, who, now that they were in public, resumed a more formal tone.
"Isn't this what you wanted to see, monsieur? Several fairs are held in Paris. Saint-Germain and this one are the most attended. There is also, though not at this time of year, the Saint-Ovide fair. That one, still not very popular, takes place at the end of August."
"Truly? And what of Saint-Laurent? How long does it last?"
"It began on August 9th, the eve of Saint Lawrence's day. It ends on Saint Michael's day, September 29th. As you can see, it is lively, festive, and quite popular. A little less so these past years, I think, since comic operas were banned from the fairs."
"Oh? Why so?" François asked, raising a brow, genuinely curious. "It is only street theater, after all."
"Precisely. They were competing with the official theaters—the Comédie-Française, the Théâtre Italien. They made them lose money, so steps were taken to shut them down. Or at least, to try. Even though the comic opera was forced under the authority of the Comédie-Italienne, there are still performances at the fairs. They simply found ways around the restrictions."
At that moment, François and Martin, accompanied by Yann Madec—who looked every bit the competent bodyguard with his intimidating gaze—passed a small performance at the corner of Rue des Vinaigriers and Rue du Faubourg Saint-Laurent.
Three men stood there, one disguised as a woman. They played the fools, making grand gestures and comical grimaces.
Without uttering a word, they managed to tell a whole story.
The crowd erupted with laughter when one of them, pretending to stumble, pulled down his companion's dress. The third, playing the part of an angry husband, leapt upon the fallen actor and rained blows on him with a stick.
François watched, captivated. The spectators laughed harder.
"Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves," François murmured.
Yet behind this cheerful scene, a thought gripped his chest.
Everything looks so normal… These people, they hardly seem like future bloodthirsty revolutionaries.
But François was not reassured.
Twenty years still separated him from the French Revolution. Much could happen in the meantime.
Perhaps, he wondered uneasily, this was a peaceful moment of carefreeness—just before everything exploded? The calm before the storm?
From the corner of his eye, he studied his friend's profile, unaware of all that was to come, all that would shake France for a century.
"You… hum, you spoke of another fair. Does it take place at the same time as this one?"
"The Saint-Germain fair? No, unfortunately. I would have preferred to show you that one instead. It is… better frequented, shall we say. The goods on sale there are usually of far better quality than the trinkets you will find here."
François's gaze fell on a makeshift stall, where a vendor with a nondescript face was trying to pass off cheap jewelry—pretty enough from a distance—as real.
"The Saint-Germain fair is an old institution in Paris," Martin explained like a guide in a museum. "If I am not mistaken, it dates back to the twelfth century, when Paris sought to rival the great fairs of Champagne. And it succeeded. Held every year, it grew steadily. It lasts several weeks, from February into March. But seven years ago, in 1762, the fair burned down."
François narrowed his eyes and, for a brief moment, considered arson—perhaps the English.
"Was it an accident, or…"
"Most likely. By morning, nothing remained but ruins. At the time it was held in two vast halls, so the flames spread quickly. It reopened the following year in isolated pavilions, rather like here."
The crowd suddenly pressed tighter around them. A joyous uproar swelled in the air—a blend of cries, laughter, bells, and drums.
All those sounds were accompanied by a multitude of smells, some quite mouthwatering. Here, chickens were roasting, there a whole pig, and elsewhere potatoes.
The fair seemed to buzz like a jubilant anthill, and François felt himself swept along.
He stopped before a stall where a merchant was selling gaudy trinkets meant to appeal to women of modest means. The man was haggling fiercely with a customer over the price of a ring that was very clearly not made of gold.
Meanwhile, his colleague kept a sharp eye on the crowd—both to prevent theft and to spot a potential buyer. His gaze lingered on François for a moment, but quickly moved on when he noticed the lack of interest in his expression.
Martin placed a friendly hand on François' shoulder.
"If you're looking for a gift for your wife, this isn't the place. If the prices are this low, there's a reason."
"I know," François replied with a faint smile. "I was just curious."
The two men and their bodyguard moved on, indifferent to the envious glances cast their way, and stopped at the next stall, nearly identical to the first.
There were rings, necklaces, brooches, combs—objects mass-produced, of little real value. None of them were rare or unique, despite the sellers' bold claims.
A bourgeois, proudly flaunting a flamboyant coat and an impressive wig, gave the display only a brief glance before turning away, his face tightened in a grimace of disdain.
In his haste, he stumbled backward into a passerby, who in turn bumped into another. Voices rose sharply as neither man admitted fault.
A little further on, the atmosphere was lighter, more cheerful. People laughed and applauded.
Intrigued, François made his way through the crowd and discovered a puppet theater. The figures were simple, yet impressively crafted.
The puppeteers managed to make them move with such natural gestures that one almost forgot they were not real people.
Those animating the tiny stage remained hidden behind a long stretched cloth, but their voices rang out as they gave life to the characters, each performer playing at least two roles.
"Come now," grumbled a fat baker with a round, red nose like a clown's, "where has my pie gone? Surely it hasn't flown away?"
The puppet waddled to the left of the stage and leaned upward in an exaggerated fashion, as if searching the sky for the missing pastry. At that moment, a second puppet appeared briefly, clutching a pie in its tiny hands.
"Shhh!" it whispered to the audience before vanishing at once.
The baker spun around.
"Who just said 'shhh'? Is someone there?"
"No, no one's here," answered the second puppet, still hidden, with an innocent voice.
"Oh… well then," muttered the baker, scratching his head.
The children burst out laughing, and François caught himself smiling too. But the smile slowly faded as his thoughts turned to his own children, left behind in New France.
He turned to Martin, standing beside him.
"Do you think it's possible to buy puppets like these?" he asked. "For my children."
"I suspected as much," Martin chuckled, folding his arms. "Yes, surely. Let's keep looking—we'll find some."
Their stroll lasted much longer than expected, for there was so much to see and do. After many turns, François found the modest booth of a woman who crafted puppets out of wood and cloth.
He bought two—one representing a king, the other a jester, the latter complete with little bells on his colorful cap.
François also came across, this time in a wooden pavilion at the Saint-Laurent fairground, a selection of wooden toys. He chose a small, carefully carved horse set on wheels, meant to be pulled by a string.
Martin purchased, from the same place, a finely made articulated puppet soldier, thinking it would surely amuse his son Jacques. In his opinion, the boy was still too young for lead soldiers.
For his daughters, though they lacked for nothing, he decided on an articulated doll dressed like a little court lady for the elder, and a bird-shaped whistle for the younger.
By half past two, they returned with light steps to the black-and-gold carriage. Martin gave an address, and the coachman cracked his whip.
The vehicle lurched forward, heading south, back toward the heart of Paris. It was time for a meal—their stomachs reminded them of it.
"So, what did you think?" Martin asked, dropping the formal tone. "Still of the opinion that France looks like the colonies?"
"The people we saw seemed happy," François admitted after a brief moment of thought. "But not all of Paris was here. Just because we didn't see them doesn't mean they don't exist—the poor. There must be many of them."
Martin sighed and shrugged.
"Of course. They're in every city, in the countryside too. That's how it is everywhere. In life, there are always the happy and the unhappy, winners and losers."
"Life isn't a game, Martin."
"Of course it is," his friend replied calmly. "The rules are complex, sometimes unfair, but that's how it is. No one is to blame—not those dealt a good hand, nor those who have nothing."
"But the rules are bent by those who hold a good hand, to their own advantage. That's what I told you yesterday, my friend: pay attention to those who aren't as fortunate as you. Their frustration could quickly turn into anger… and then into rage."
"We have the army."
"Which is paid a pittance, and comes from the people."
Martin widened his eyes, his mouth slightly ajar, and remained silent for a moment. To both of them, that moment felt like an eternity.
"You think they would refuse to obey orders?" he finally asked.
"If those orders are seen as unjust or cruel, yes. They might go further than disobedience. Officer posts are usually held by members of the nobility. How many, like me, come from the common people? And how many are blocked in their careers because of their origins? Very few nobles ever question the rules that benefit them so greatly, or pay attention to what is happening around them. They are disconnected."
"Discon… what?"
François allowed himself a faint smile that wasn't really a smile. Sometimes, he would use a word that did not yet exist in the eighteenth century, one that seemed invented on the spot.
"I mean they don't understand the reality of the people—their problems. But the soldiers do, because they come from them. If they are ordered to fire upon or charge a crowd of washerwomen who could be their mothers, craftsmen who could be their brothers, laborers or peasants who could be their fathers, simply because they march the streets to tell those in power that they are hungry, that their wages don't allow them to feed themselves or their families—do you really think they will obey? More likely, they will refuse. Or they might even turn their weapons against their officers."
Once again, Martin fell silent. His brows furrowed deeper, his jaw clenched, his pupils dilated. With the tip of his index finger, he began tapping nervously on his thigh.
"Do you… have any proof of what you claim? Have soldiers in your regiment said such things?"
His voice was strangely low, almost threatening.
"No," François replied, shaking his head. "These are only reflections."
"Dangerous reflections, my friend," Martin whispered gravely, staring at François with an odd intensity. "You should refrain from saying such things. We are friends, and I say this for your own good. Others might misinterpret your words. You are suggesting that the King cannot trust his army."
"His Majesty should not. He should trust no one. That is the curse of kings, is it not? The Tsar of Russia proved it three years ago, did he not?"
He was alluding to Peter III. The emperor had not kept his throne for long; in just three years he had alienated the nobility, the clergy, and the army.
In July 1766, he had been overthrown in a coup led by his own wife, Catherine. Everyone had betrayed and abandoned him, even those he believed his closest friends.
They had in truth been nothing more than cowardly courtiers, ready to change sides the instant the wind shifted.
Peter III had been assassinated by his escort as he made his way toward the Polish border. He had just declared a war that was far from unanimous within his own ranks.
Many thought the true enemy was the Ottoman Empire, and that the priority should be to seize, by force of arms, an outlet on the Black Sea.
"Are you seriously comparing France and Russia?" Martin asked, his voice heavier than usual.
He then recalled that his friend, though ennobled and now a seigneur, probably knew little about that country.
"The Russian example is… troubling," Martin admitted. "But do not be too quick to compare Russia with France. Our two states are incomparable in every respect. Their countryside rests on serfdom. Do you know what that is? Disguised slavery! Their people are boorish. Their nobles, drunken ignorants. And they are not even Catholic. Our kingdom rests on ancient foundations, built upon the diligent labor of free peasants, often owners of their land."
He stopped, his gaze drifting to the left window of the carriage. Houses and plank fences slid slowly by.
"I know France can be improved. But any change requires time, and immense resources. Even as we speak, others are working tirelessly in their studies so that tomorrow's France will be more prosperous than today's."
"I do not deny their efforts, Martin. I only say that the inequalities are so deep that the people—the ones who keep the kingdom alive, who make it exist at all—might explode and seek to radically change the rules of the game, since they are not in their favor. That is all I say. I want you to be aware of it. I want all those in power to be aware of it."
Please, Martin, understand the situation!
Martin Morrel de Lusernes stared long at his friend, a migraine starting to press at his temples. It was so absurd, so dramatic. He could not understand why his friend sounded so alarmist.
"You… frighten me a little, François. I now wonder whether the situation is truly as dire as you claim in New France, to put such ideas in your head. This way of thinking is dangerous. Again, I urge you to refrain from saying such things in public, whether in a salon or in the street. Ideas can be as destructive as weapons."
You have no idea. That is why I warn you—so that you may prepare for what is coming, or better, prevent it.
"If my ideas are so dangerous," François concluded, "then perhaps one should start by striking at their foundation. I say chaos may break out if the people are too miserable. The best way to prevent chaos is therefore to reduce inequalities, and allow the people to live decently. If they are happy and have enough to eat, they will have no reason to rebel."