The Fox of France

By the time the militia besieging the Bastille realized what had happened, the garrison inside had recovered. The previous explosion had terrified them, but it also fueled their resolve to fight back. As a result, the militia suffered further casualties in the ensuing confrontations.

Just at this moment, cheers erupted from behind the militia lines.

"The artillery is here! The real artillery has arrived!"

It turned out that a contingent of the National Guard, prepared by the Marquis de Lafayette, had finally arrived.

The arrival of the National Guard completely changed the situation. While the previous explosion had caused significant casualties among the militia, it had also damaged the Bastille's walls. The already fragile structure couldn't withstand artillery fire any longer.

As the National Guard artillery was brought into position, Monsieur de L'Orne wasn't too worried. He had witnessed the militia's artillery skills earlier and knew they couldn't hit anything beyond the Earth at such a range.

However, when the artillery on the other side opened fire, Monsieur de L'Orne knew he was in trouble. The first cannonball precisely hit the base of the Bastille's wall.

The impact raised a cloud of dust, but fortunately, the wall didn't collapse.

"Did they really hit it? Are they just lucky?" Monsieur de L'Orne widened his eyes.

Yes, Monsieur de L'Orne still attributed the National Guard's successful artillery fire to luck at that moment. But soon, he changed his mind as another cannonball was fired, hitting its mark once again and causing a part of the wall to crumble.

"Quick, raise the white flag! We surrender!" Monsieur de L'Orne shouted. It was evident that the ones firing at them were not mere "militiamen." They could fire so accurately within such a short time, and it wasn't the work of amateur militia; these were professional artillerymen.

The state of the Bastille's walls couldn't withstand further artillery fire. Monsieur de L'Orne only needed to glance at the crack that could fit a fist through, stretching across the entire wall, to understand this. A few more rounds of artillery fire would surely crumble the wall, allowing the tens of thousands of "rebels" outside to storm in. The mere hundred or so inside wouldn't stand a chance. They had to surrender before it was too late; otherwise, they'd face a dire fate.

The white flag was raised, and the gates were opened. The soldiers tossed their rifles down from the walls. The surrounding militia erupted in cheers.

The main body of the militia rushed in through the opened gates, met with the prisoners (in fact, these people hadn't faced any real persecution), and dragged the "king's lackeys" out. They bound all of them and intended to transport them to the City Hall for trial.

However, as the group escorting them had only moved a few hundred meters, more people converged on them. These newcomers shouted insults at the captured prisoners, including Monsieur de L'Orne. One of the men, a cook, was especially vicious.

Monsieur de L'Orne had never been insulted by such lowly commoners. He immediately retorted.

"You damned peasants, you lowly vermin! How dare you speak so rudely to a nobleman! Someday, you thugs will all face punishment! His Majesty the King will hang you all from lampposts like dogs!"

Monsieur de L'Orne seemed to have forgotten the dire situation he was in. He believed that, even as a captive noble, he would receive special treatment. His words incited the anger of the surrounding "commoners," and the cook took out his knife.

"You parasitic scoundrel!" the cook roared. "You've caused the death of so many people, and you want to continue riding on the backs of the people, oppressing them? You want to keep slaughtering the people? Hanging us from lampposts? I'll hang your head high today!"

The cook grabbed Monsieur de L'Orne's hair and forcefully pulled him to the ground.

"You can't do this. I am a noble..." Monsieur de L'Orne shouted. But his voice soon fell silent as the cook pressed his foot against Monsieur de L'Orne's chest, depriving him of breath.

"Help..."

"Kill this wretch!"

"Kill him!"

The crowd was seething with anger.

The cook used his knife skillfully. Though it was a small blade, he quickly severed Monsieur de L'Orne's head. A militiaman with a pike approached and said, "Put his head on the pike for everyone to see the fate of the tyrant's lackeys."

The people cheered in agreement. The militiaman placed Monsieur de L'Orne's head on his pike, raising it high.

"Let's parade through the streets of Paris, so everyone can see the fate of the tyrant's lackeys!"

"And these guys, they're tyrant's lackeys too, they shouldn't be spared!"

In the original historical account, after the Bastille's capture, apart from the governor Monsieur de L'Orne, the surrendered garrison was not killed. But this time, the extensive casualties among the militia due to the accidental explosion resulted in a far greater death toll than in the original history. Over three hundred people died in the explosion alone, whereas in the historical account, there were only around a hundred casualties.

Greater casualties brought more fear, anger, and violence. Dozens of the captured soldiers, most of whom were Swiss mercenaries, were killed because people believed they had come to Paris to massacre and plunder the citizens.

Their heads were severed and impaled on pikes as well.

Lieutenant Yves, the former artillery lieutenant now commanding the National Guard artillery, looked on coldly, neither participating nor preventing the violence.

"One more person deserves to die!" someone shouted.

"Who?" people asked.

"Flesselles! He gave us false information, claiming there was plenty of gunpowder at the Bastille. But the Bastille had so little! He must be a lackey of the king, luring us to the Bastille with some hidden agenda!" someone yelled.

"Let's kill him!"

"Kill him!"

Flesselles was the mayor of Paris, born a noble, and some said he had close ties to Count Artois (Louis XVI's brother, one of the extreme conservatives). Of course, these were mere rumors without any substantiated evidence. However, at this moment, people were inclined to believe these rumors.

Lieutenant Yves and his comrades continued to watch from the sidelines. Flesselles was not a friend of the Marquis de Lafayette, and having someone like him in control of the City Hall might not be favorable—especially for the Marquis de Lafayette, who was preparing to consolidate the power in Paris.

...

"What are these people doing?" Lucien looked in astonishment at the militia outside the barricades, parading with pikes raised high, each bearing a human head.

"They're venting their fear with terror," Joseph said, covering Louis's eyes to shield him from the gruesome sight.

"Venting their fear with terror?" Lucien didn't understand Joseph's explanation.

"Think about it, Lucien. Where did the recent terrifying rumors most likely come from? Do you truly believe these vivid tales originated from those sans-culottes who can't even write their own names?" Joseph didn't answer the question directly but countered with another one.

"How could that be? The rumors are so vivid, involving many intricate details only known to insiders. Some seem impossible for commoners to concoct," Lucien replied, shaking his head. "There are even suggestions that the king will come with mercenaries to 'cleanse' Paris. But it's just a scare tactic. France relies heavily on Paris; without it, France means nothing in Europe."

"But the sans-culottes don't know that. They believe it's all true. They're filled with fear and anger, fearing they'll be slaughtered and plundered, yet angry because they don't deserve such a fate," Joseph explained. "This fear and anger are what's driving them. Some think they can harness, control, and exploit this power to achieve their goals."

"What's so amusing?" Lucien asked when Joseph chuckled.

"I'm laughing at those who are playing with fire," Joseph said. "Using rumors to spread fear and then manipulating that fear to make people act. It's a cost-effective strategy in terms of resources, but it gives birth to irrational power. And irrational power is difficult to control, like Mr. Lavoisier's nitroglycerin. Mishandle it, and it can explode, reducing everything to rubble."

"What should we do, then?" Lucien asked.

"We should observe more, think more," Joseph replied.

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