By the time Charles-de-Tréville emerged from the secret passage, the sky was almost completely dark. The sound of distant gunfire was still incessant. He carefully scanned his surroundings, then crept along in the shadows of the buildings until he turned into a small alley. He only let out a silent sigh of relief when he saw his light, two-wheeled carriage still parked safely where he had left it.
"Jacques?" he called out softly.
Hearing his summons, the white-haired coachman, who had been waiting in the driver's seat, quickly looked in the direction of the voice. A look of surprise and relief spread across his wrinkled face. "Monsieur! Are you alright!"
The gunfire continued unabated; the exchange had been going on for some time now.
"I'm fine," Charles replied casually. "What's been happening on your end? Are the police rounding up bandits? Or has another riot broken out somewhere? It sounds like the Rue Transnonain all over again."
In 1834, republicans had launched an insurrection in Paris, which the government suppressed by sending in three brigades of soldiers, resulting in a bloody massacre on the Rue Transnonain.
"I've been waiting here as you instructed, Monsieur, and then the shooting started over there..." The coachman cocked his head toward the sound of the firefight. "I was getting worried about you..."
It seemed he knew nothing either.
"Alright, never mind him. Let's go," Charles said, his guilty conscience urging him to leave the area as quickly as possible.
"Yes, Monsieur. Hold on tight!" Jacques, sharing his master's urgency, immediately cracked the whip, and the horse lurched forward.
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Seated in the carriage, Charles closed his eyes, appearing to rest, but his mind was a world away.
He was a transmigrator, a traveler through time who had journeyed from 21st-century China to 19th-century France.
In his original time, he had been an orphan. Raised with the help of the government and his relatives, he eventually finished university and found a job, living the life of any ordinary young man.
He couldn't say for certain how he had crossed over. It was as if he had simply woken up one day to find himself reborn as an infant in this world, starting a new life all over again.
At first, Charles had struggled to adapt, unable to accept his new reality.
But as the years passed, he gradually came to accept his new identity and his new family. He had embarked on a new journey as a new person.
Now, aside from a few well-hidden secrets, he had completely integrated into this era. What's more, he faced his new life with an enthusiasm he could never have imagined in his previous one.
Because here, he had a family. Here, he had everything worth fighting for.
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The conspirators' meeting place had been on the Rue des Batignolles in the 17th arrondissement of Paris. The carriage sped rapidly onto the adjacent Rue de Clichy, and only after it had crossed the Place de Clichy and entered the 8th arrondissement did it slow down, having reached what felt like a safe zone.
The carriage then weaved through a dense maze of streets and alleys until it arrived at the Place de la Concorde—known as the Place Louis XV in the age of the old monarchy, and as the Place de la Révolution during the Revolution itself.
It was here that towering figures like Louis XVI and his queen, as well as the revolutionary leader Robespierre, had been sent to the guillotine amidst the cheers of the masses. Among the victims, of course, was one of Charles's own "ancestors," the previous Duke de Tréville.
The carriage continued along the edge of the square and crossed the Pont de la Concorde—a process that took some time due to the heavy traffic—and passed over the Seine to the Left Bank.
It then entered the periphery of the 6th arrondissement, the area commonly known as the Faubourg Saint-Germain. After the collapse of the Bourbon monarchy, when the political heart of France shifted from Versailles to Paris, the nation's high and mighty had gradually concentrated in the capital.
As the city center was densely populated and crowded with merchants, the nobility—and the wealthy who always sought to imitate them—did their best to build their residences far from the crowded districts. Consequently, these grandees built their mansions on the then less-developed Left Bank of the Seine, and slowly, the Saint-Germain district became the residential heart of France's rich and powerful.
The carriage moved carefully between the exquisite and magnificent hôtels particuliers, finally stopping before a smaller mansion on the edge of the district. As the porter pulled open the main gate, the carriage drove directly inside, stopping under the glass canopy before the front steps, where the footboard was lowered.
This was the residence of the old Marquis de Tréville.
Charles finally felt at ease. He stepped down from the carriage, walked up the steps, and passed through the open glass doors directly into the mansion.
This was his home, the home where he was born and raised.
The drawing room was decorated in the typical Empire style, which had been glorious in its day. But like the Napoleonic Empire itself, it had slowly faded under the wash of time.
The red silk curtains had been bleached by the sun to a shade of purple, their folds nearly worn through. The gilded banisters on the staircase leading from the ground floor to the second were flecked with peeling paint, revealing the white wood beneath. The grand red carpet that covered the floor had faded so much that it had become an indescribable shade of pink. The gilt on the furniture was also peeling in patches, and the threads of the floral silk upholstery were visible in places.
To summarize in a single sentence: this mansion had been magnificent thirty years ago, and it had been frozen in time ever since.
The reason for this state of affairs lay in the story of the mansion's owner, the old Marquis de Tréville.
The Tréville family had been illustrious during the Ancien Régime, and the previous Duke de Tréville had been a favorite at the court of Versailles. In 1789, when the storm of the Revolution began to sweep across France, the Duke was, as a matter of course in the pervasive anti-aristocratic climate, sent to the guillotine.
He had two sons, both of whom fled to the German states, becoming French émigré nobles. The elder son, Philippe, inherited the ducal title and remained in service to the Bourbon royal family, becoming a confidant of the Count of Provence (the future King Louis XVIII).
His second son was named Victor.
In 1802, Napoleon, then First Consul, issued a decree granting amnesty to nobles who had fled abroad for various reasons. After the supreme leader's official coronation on December 2, 1804, similar decrees were issued repeatedly. Victor, as the second son of the late Duke de Tréville, returned to France in 1805 after many years in exile.
As is well known, Emperor Napoleon was remarkably magnanimous towards the old nobles who returned from abroad and respectfully submitted to him—especially those from great families. He treated Victor generously and fulfilled his wish to join the army.
Due to timing, Victor did not manage to participate in the Battle of Austerlitz at the end of 1805, the victory that marked the zenith of Napoleon's power, and thus could not witness firsthand the humiliation of the Russian Tsar and Austrian Emperor suing for peace. However, in the battles of Jena and Auerstedt in 1806, Victor, as a cavalry officer, charged bravely, leading his men to smash the Prussian army on the plains of Northern Germany and riding all the way into Berlin. He earned the Emperor's praise and a promotion, and "the brave Tréville" became a famous name in the Empire. In the Empire's subsequent wars against Austria and Russia, Victor repeatedly distinguished himself, eventually being promoted to general by the Emperor.
The Emperor never skimped on rewarding his meritorious subjects. He re-ennobled Victor as an Imperial Marquis and bestowed upon him various other honors and substantial financial aid. This very mansion was purchased by Victor with the Emperor's reward money. During the old Empire, the Marquis often hosted guests here, and it became a famous social hub for the Imperial elite. It was even rumored that the Grand Duchess of Tuscany (Napoleon's eldest sister, Elisa) had once graced it with her presence.
However, after the Empire's collapse in 1815, this grand scene was never to be repeated.
When the Bourbon monarchy was restored, Victor, unlike other returning nobles who once again bowed to His Majesty the King, refused to beg for King Louis's pardon. Instead, he continued to openly display his nostalgia for the old Empire and its Emperor. Consequently, he was naturally given the cold shoulder and became one of the many officers put on half-pay.
After the Bourbon Restoration, most of Napoleon's officers were dismissed from active service and forced to live on a fraction of their former salary.
If the pay cut was a threat to the Tréville family's fortune, then being sidelined from service was the fatal blow. The subsequent governments of France—be it the Bourbon Restoration or the July Monarchy—gave the Marquis no opportunities during their military campaigns in Spain or North Africa. He was thus unable to earn extra income to supplement the household budget (the Bourbons intervened in Spain in 1823, and the colonization of North Africa was a consistent policy for decades). As a result, the decline of the Marquis's household became an inevitable conclusion.
Yet, whether in prosperity or decline, in glory or in ruin, this was still Charles's home. That would never change.
The Marquis, who had grown old and frail, usually went to bed early. To avoid disturbing the old man's sleep, Charles lightened his footsteps, intending to go straight to his own room on the second floor to rest.
However...
"Aha! Our hero Charles has finally returned!"
The sudden, loud exclamation made Charles freeze for a second. When he recognized the speaker's voice, he relaxed.
The Marquis had emerged from his room and walked down the corridor to the top of the staircase, looking down kindly at his grandson on the steps below.
"Grandfather, why are you...?" Charles looked up at him.
The Marquis was over sixty, his hair completely white but still neatly combed and parted. Though his face was wrinkled, his features remained sharp and strong, retaining traces of the handsome man he had been in his youth. His most memorable feature was his eyes, which were full of life and passion. Charles had always thought that the passion preserved in those eyes was no less than that of a young man.
And at this moment, those eyes were gazing down at him with profound affection.
"Once you get to my age, sleep doesn't come so easily. You made such a racket coming in, you woke me up long ago." The tone was one of mock complaint, but it was filled with the deep affection an old man has for his grandson. Soon, however, his gaze turned serious again. "Well? How did things go on your end? Did everything go smoothly?"
"Well..." Charles hesitated for a moment before answering. "Smoothly enough, I suppose."
"What is it? Did something happen?" The Marquis, keenly sensing Charles's brief hesitation, pressed him for more.
Charles hadn't wanted to burden the old man with such minor details and cause him unnecessary worry, but since his grandfather was asking, he decided to tell him everything. "The meeting itself went well, with no unexpected incidents. But there was a gunfight near where we were meeting..."
The old Marquis raised an eyebrow.
"It happened..." Charles began to explain, but the old man suddenly cut him off.
"You've only just returned. First, have a drink of water, eat something, and get some rest. Then come to my room, and we will discuss today's events in detail!" Having issued his command, he turned and walked slowly back down the corridor to his bedroom.
"Yes, Grandfather," Charles nodded, a wave of gratitude washing over him.
After eating a meal, Charles, feeling like a schoolboy about to present his homework to the headmaster, knocked on the door to the Marquis's bedroom.