Something more than a human

Chapter I "Recti Aspectus"

Lot’s of people think that it’s best to come to the Mediterranean Sea in the
summer. They are wrong. Be sure to come in the spring! It’s in the spring that you
will find these lands not in a state of boring, scorching stasis, but in continuous
movement, ascent, life. When everything around: from the smallest flower, to the
most vociferous bird, rejoices and revels in its beauty. Only then will you be able
to feel the tremendous energy and perfection of this sea, which can truly be called
the cradle of our civilization. In the summer come those who are trying to catch up
with life come, in the spring - those who know it.
But be vigilant. Here in the South, spring arrives much earlier than you might
expect in York or Hamburg. It comes after a piercing and rainy winter, but it
doesn’t do it as timidly and clumsily as you have in the North. In your area, spring
is like a virgin girl on her wedding night, who first approaches the bed, then moves
away from it again. In our country, spring walks proudly, like an absolute
triumphant, who solemnly enters the throne room for the first time.
Of course, tired of stuffiness, dullness and ubiquitous dirt, a tourist from large-
populated, progressive cities, having heard a variety of legends and fairy tales, will
most likely want to go somewhere to the Apennine or Peloponnesian
Peninsulas. However, I assure you that now these places are not half as beautiful as
you could imagine reading Homer's Iliad in the translation of the Honorable
Friedrich Hölderlin. Ancient architecture has long been in decline, the level of
attitude towards guests and the amenities provided leave much to be desired. I'm
not even talking about the socio-political situation and general instability.
At the same time, we shouldn’t forget that it is possible to get acquainted with the
beauties and wonders of the Great Sea in more "civilized" conditions. For example,
in the south of glorious France. Do not be frightened by the ghosts of past
revolutions and wars, France is more ready and happy than ever to meet its
European friends. And moreover, it has not lost a drop of its age-old charm. For
example, my native Montpellier... You can take my word for it, no matter what,
it’s still as charming as I remembered it in the days of my youth. Its vaults are still
breathtaking, the girls are still mesmerizing, and the restaurants still serve an
almost flawless consommé with sauternes. But what is much more important, from
it, as before, you can reach the sea in just a few hours on horseback. Which, by the
way, is much faster and more convenient than even from the notorious Milan. And
if, after a short road, you arrive at Pero Beach for the first time, then it will
definitely not leave you indifferent. Golden lines of sand under the endless blue
sky slowly going to the gentle azure ripples. The sound of the waves and the cries
of free broad-winged gulls. Somewhere in the distance you can find several fishing
boats, and under your feet, perhaps, a couple of wonderful, light shells. The air
here is light, with a special smell of the sea. You will remember it forever. And
even years later, once going out on the streets of Krakow on a fresh March
day, Miraculously, you will hear this smell again. And remember the boundless
distance of the sea, although you will be completely surrounded by stone walls.
And when you decide to return with Pero back to Montpellier, you will be
surrounded by beautiful, flowering trees all the way. Returning to the city, it will
seem to you somehow unexpectedly cozy and warm. Its streets will not frighten
you with their cramped conditions and, perhaps, if you are not too tired after a trip
to the embankment, you will want to walk along them, decorated with scarlet,
sunset tints. This walk will bring back some long-lost moments from a part of your
life that now seems to have never existed at all. About father's house, the warmth
of the fireplace and the gentle mother’s hands. Walking past the park down from
Market Street, you will notice that it looks really beautiful after a recent restoration
and may want to continue towards the so-called Old Town.
It was this road that the young man walked, which will be discussed later. It’s not
known where he was coming from, but I can say with almost absolute certainty
that he wasn`t on the Pero today. He's not local. No, definitely not local. The
young man was born and raised in a small town in the west of Aquitaine. His
father, nicknamed "The One-Eyed Raccoon" during his years of work, managed to
build a successful career as a lawyer just when the revolution raged the
most. Colleagues rewarded him with such an unusual name because of the only
seeing eye and the habit of constantly digging into the dirty pasts of others. In
truth, he was not one-eyed at all, just the eyelid over his left eye hung so hard that
it seemed as if it was always closed. However, the Raccoon really delved into
someone else's past. Perhaps that is why the capital put together before retiring was
more than enough not only for a comfortable old age, but also to send his son to
one of the most eminent educational institutions in France - the University of
Montpellier, founded back in 1220 by the legate of the Pope, Cardinal
Conrad. And among other things, it’s also relatively close to home.
The young man had already studied for several years, and had to continue his
studies for about the same time. It could be said that he was one of the type of
students who are constantly whispered and discussed at all times within the walls
of the temple of sciences. From his father, guy inherited qualities that are
completely superfluous for a real gentleman - love and ability for various "tedious"
disciplines, in particular, politics. What he unfortunately could not inherit - was his
father's opportunism and indifference to the consequences.
Henry Moreau was indeed one of the best students of the Faculty of Literature, and
of the entire University of Montpellier. His marks were almost flawless, although
the young man himself couldn't be called a "man of science". Completely different
passions and desires were boiling in his soul, and science was perceived more as a
tool, but not an end in itself.
The young man walked with a quick, confident gait, and descending into the old
town along the main street, he soon turned right in one of the spans and continued
along a narrow street, surrounded on both sides by elongated dilapidated houses. It
was not the most refined, but certainly the fastest road he could take to his goal. In
this area, for the most part, people lived confidently of average income, but in
some places there were also noteworthy buildings. Slipping past the purple
curtained windows, Henri stepped out onto a more spacious dead-end street. It
ended with a series of multi-storey buildings located in a semicircle. Walking a
little closer, he noticed a figure standing on the porch of one of the houses. It was
Joseph, another student at the University of Montpellier. Only a little older than
Henri himself. He stood, dreamily leaning on the railing, and looked somewhere in
the distance. When Henri was already a few meters from the stairs, Joseph smiled
at him and waved broadly in greeting.
- You are late, Monsieur Moreau. - sounded with irony characteristic of youth
- I needed to finish some things.
- You are an unreliable man, monsieur.
- We're all unreliable people, - Henri grunted, - that's why we got together.
- You're damn right, friend! - the smile on Joseph's face spread even wider and
shaking hands, he cheerfully hugged his friend by the shoulder, - Let's go inside,
Henri, everyone is already waiting for you.
The house, where came two students, was once a magnificent apartment owned by
the Countess la Depat. The Countess was widowed at a flourishing age, when her
unfortunate husband died tragically - having flown off his horse while hunting.
Since then, she has been left alone, no longer marrying and having no children.
However, the countess had several beautiful nephews, who often diluted the
atmosphere of the widow's apartment with their laughter. The rest of La Depat's
time was devoted to public life. She was known as a hospitable hostess and a great
connoisseur of French history. The house where students gathered today constantly
took on the color of high society: eminent aristocrats, politicians, clerics and
artists. Perhaps for this reason, or for something else, the Countess la Depat was
sentenced to trial and executed during the Republic. It is not known for certain
what crime she was convicted of, but undoubtedly it was extremely terrible.
After that, the apartment, like all the property of the deceased, was transferred to
the management of the state and soon sold to some enterprising
bourgeois. However, soon the owner of the property changed again due to unclear
circumstances. Probably, after the return of the royal Bourbon dynasty, the
apartment could be returned to the descendants of the countess, however, be that as
it may, there was absolutely no one to return. Almost 30 years after the death of its
noble mistress, the house seems to have been owned by a Spanish merchant. It was
not particularly necessary for him, so the whole building, along with the basement
and attic, was rented by students of the University of Montpellier. To be more
precise, the club "Recti aspectus".
The club was an example of the communities of young intellectuals that were
fashionable in France at that time. Formally, it was created as an association of
thinking connoisseurs of art and history, informally, its participants discussed
everything from the social situation in the country to foreign policy. "Recti
aspectus" could not be called a revolutionary club, firstly, because its members
were not engaged in any revolutions, and secondly, because for such a prefix it was
already possible to get a lot of trouble. Yet, at heart, many of these young men
were true old-school revolutionaries. Tulips that cry for daisies. Even the name of
the club itself had something protest in it. "Recti aspectus" was translated from
Latin as "Direct views". And though, it would seem, in itself did not say anything,
but the name not only described the ideas of its creators quite specifically, but also
referred to ancient culture, in particular, the well-known myth.
The young men climbed the stairs to the floor above, and soon found themselves in
a spacious, bright guest room. The furniture here was already new, but the
wallpaper, ceilings, chandelier and all the like had been seen in pre-revolutionary
times. The room was densely filled with young people who had broken into groups
and communicated with each other. "And here is the loss, gentlemen!" announced
Joseph solemnly as he entered the drawing-room.
- Bonjour, Henri!
- Bonjour, Claude.
The latecomer took off his cloak and, hanging it on the counter, sat down on the
sofa next to Joseph. Now anyone, if they wanted to, could easily consider it. A
slender, rather strong figure, dressed in a fashionable snow-white shirt with
decorated cuffs and a patterned light vest. His hands were strong, but not
immensely large, like those of some men. He was quite tall, and it was probably
best to call him pretty. Not a beautiful man or a repulsive freak, but just a pretty
one. Henri's face was clean-shaven, and therefore thick dark eyebrows stood out,
much darker than the rest of the blond hair, neatly trimmed according to current
trends. His nose was straight and slightly flattened, his lips were lush, and his eyes
were kind. He had a baby face.
- Believe me, the Bureau refused to show his new picture until everyone was
gathered.
- It's quite in his style. He wants everyone to find the public birth of a child.
Joseph continued to smile broadly.
- I guess that's true. There he is, - the young man pointed with his hand, -
chatting with Leon. I guess they're still arguing about who really was the
author of Antinous Mondrogan. I will never tire of watching their absurd
conversations. And there is the picture itself. - Indeed, in one of the corners
of the guest room, there was a tall easel covered with a thick gray cloth.
- Have you heard, - Henri quickly changed the direction of the conversation,
-- of Dujardin's recent hearing?"
- Which one? Joseph looked incomprehensibly, with a slight tinge of
boredom
 - Hearing in the case of the cook of Baron Lacroix.
- Aaa... Yes, yes, yes. I remember something. - Joseph leaned back on the
sofa, - I think she was accused of attempting to assassinate the Baron?
- But this is absurd, Joseph! - Henri cried out, - You know Lacroix as well as
I do, he is a hangman and a charlatan. Know, reveling all day molesting
young girls. And this girl, her name was Katerina, she worked in his kitchen
for only a few months. The Baron's cousin says that he behaved with her like
an absolute nonentity.
- And what follows from this? - Joseph asked with deliberately exaggerated
interest
- And it follows that Dujardin found her guilty of attempting to assassinate
Lacroix. By poisoning his soup with arsenic! Why would this girl poison
him? That is, why would anyone, at all, poison Lacroix? Even if an edict had
been issued throughout France on the necessity of exterminating the nobles,
he would have been the last to be executed. Because he looks more like a
port drunkard than a nobleman!
- I agree, it sounds silly. After all, who's going to poison the soup? So
vulgar. Nowadays, it is customary to poison only wine.
- It's not funny, the girl was sentenced to death. She will die on the guillotine
for something she did not do. Most likely, Lacroix harassed her, could
threaten her with violence, and when she eventually refused him, he could
not stand it, and turned to Dujardin with a complaint.
- And, of course, the faithful guardian of order satisfied her.
- Yes, Joseph. It's terrible. Dujardin pours guilty verdicts right and left. He is
a tyrant. Murderer. Who seems to enjoy people's suffering. This is arbitrary.
- And at the same time, he is a respected Montpellier judge.
- Something needs to be done about it.
- Unlikely. Gilles Dujardin on a short leg with the royal court. They were in
exile together for many years. Do you want to go against the king and his
ministers?
- No... But we have to...
Their conversation was interrupted by Auguste Bureau, who, apparently, for a
while ended his discussion with Leon, and decided to address all those present. In
fact, unlike Joseph and Henri, Bureau was not just a wealthy bourgeois, but a real
lord with an outstanding pedigree. However, it seems that Auguste was not
interested in his own family and ancestors, as, indeed, other worldly topics. It was
dedicated to art.

- Gentlemen... Friends! It seems that everyone has gathered, and we are not
waiting for anyone else? In that case, as you've probably already guessed, I'd
like to introduce you to something. My new job. My new picture. - the artist
turned around in confusion, shrugging his shoulders, - And ... Claude, could
you do me the courtesy and help me move the easel to the center? Just ask
you to be careful. And don't accidentally drop the fabric down.
They carefully moved the easel to the center of the room and, thanking his
comrade, Auguste began to tell something, while gesticulating twitchily. It was his
usual manner of speaking in front of the public. Standing next to a curtained piece
of art, they were already creating some kind of bizarre composition. A square
something under a canvas cloth and skinny, elongated like a rod, the author. Henri
found this somewhat ironic. Auguste Bureau's appearance had nothing to do with
the color of his blood. A good tailor or an experienced fashion designer would
have immediately determined that the cost of his suit was a good hundred francs,
but for any other person, this did not mean anything at all - he looked so bad and
awkward on him. Therefore, he made an impression ... Chaotic.
The artist's skin was painfully pale, there was neither aristocratic charm nor
romantic beauty in it. Unlike fashionable Parisian ladies, he did not use any
cosmetics, he just spent all his time either within the walls of the university or in
his own workshop. In "Recti Aspectus" it was well known that if Auguste was fond
of working on a new project, he could not appear among people for weeks. His
arms were caricaturally long, and his hands were girlishly thin. Brown hair curled
and seemed to dance a wild native dance on his head. Auguste's lips were large and
conspicuous, and his eyes were as small as grains. His whole face was very
oblong. It never grew a beard, so it didn't need to be shaved. Only a small rare
mustache, which he, every now and then, left. The image was completed by oval
glasses attached to his nose.
- ... So, please, friends, my last picture! - he famously pulled the cloth from
the easel in a somewhat theatrical way, and everyone present saw a
handsome man looking at them, from top to bottom, sitting on a horse, - I
called it "Napoleon comes out of Saint-Cloud."
Indeed, the person depicted in the portrait was easily recognizable, it's undoubtedly
Napoleon Bonaparte. Former Emperor of the French. The composition was made
in such a way that it seemed as if he was looking directly at you. It's like you're
standing in the courtyard of Saint-Cloud's estate right now. Rather, of course, he
doesn’t' look, but simply casts a fleeting glance in your direction, looking around
at the sides of the people accompanying him. And he is... He really makes an
impression. Sitting on a white, massive horse decorated with Roman symbols,
Napoleon really looked like the ancient ruler of antiquity. The canvas showed him
as a slender, well-built man in the prime of his years. His face, sharp and
expressive, was rare among the French, even here in the South. It seemed to refer
to the Corsican origin of Bonaparte. At the same time, the eyes of the emperor
attracted the most attention. His brown look carried a whole palette of emotions
and sensations. In that brief moment that he looked at you, and which was captured
in the picture, you could see the melancholy mixed with thoughtfulness, and the
determination backed by the firmness of his own character, and the wisdom of the
"Liberator of Europe" and the sorrows of the provincial poor. Everything that
emperor knew during his life and that formed his essence, and everything that he
had yet to learn. Of course, it was in the view of the Bureau that he tried to reflect
his idea of the personality of Napoleon.
Bonaparte was dressed in a recognizable general's uniform, mostly navy blue and
white, which was reminiscent of the man's revolutionary past. It was decorated
with golden epaulettes and several large orders on the chest. On his head was a
branded hook hat. Behind the emperor was a clear, blue sky. It was a beautiful
picture. In many ways, not perfect, it seems, repeating the motifs of Jacques Louis
David, but nevertheless, performed very worthily. Henri couldn't help thinking
how different they were: the hero depicted on the canvas and the author who
depicted him.
When the work appeared before the audience, the guest burst into applause. "Great
job!" - came from one side, "Bravo, Auguste!" - came from the other. The audience
accepted the picture. It was the very moment of triumph of the premiere, when
shortcomings and doubts had not yet had time to manifest themselves, and
everyone was seized by a single euphoria from a new work of art. Such moments
never lasted long.
- Yes thank you. Thank you very much. Please, you can come and take a
closer look if you want. - it seems that the degree of tension has subsided a
little with the Bureau, - As you understand, the picture depicts Emperor
Napoleon Bonaparte. Specifically, May 1812, when, as you know, he left his
estate of Saint-Cloud and soon went to Dresden in order to discuss the
deteriorating political situation in Europe. That, later, resulted in the
beginning of the Russian company.
- That is, when did he start the disastrous war against Russia? - Joseph asked
with characteristic irony
- Nonsense! - when Auguste was indignant, waving his arms, he became like a
frightened parrot. Realizing in time that such emotionality was excessive, he
continued more calmly, - All educated people know that Bonaparte did not
want to start a new war. In general, almost no one in Europe wanted to. It
was beneficial only to a number of British ministers and, of course, to the
cowardly, envious Russian Tsar Alexander. It was the incessant
provocations of the Russians that forced the emperor to start a retaliatory
war, otherwise it was impossible to talk about any well-being of the French
people. And they stopped our advance only by throwing corpses at
Bonaparte. These Russians... They are always short of everything, and they
always grab a piece more than they can swallow.
- Why Napoleon, Auguste? - shouted one of the members of the club
- Emm… what?.. Why did I decide to depict Napoleon Bonaparte? Well, it's
simple enough... - in Auguste's head it was really extremely simple. So
simple and obvious that it should have been clear to everyone
initially. Therefore, in order to formulate an answer, he had to think about it
- He was an outstanding person. Perhaps the most outstanding in the last few
decades. And, of course, the worthiest of us. Having gone from a poor
 nobleman to the emperor of France, Napoleon always remained faithful to
the principles of freedom and revolution, the principles of law and man. He
ensured the law and its enforcement, ensured the well-being of all segments
of the population. He strengthened the position of our country on the world
stage.
- And at the same time, - Joseph continued again ironically, - he closed
newspapers, executed opponents, and consolidated power. What if he was an
ordinary despot on the throne?
- Bravo, Monsieur Joseph! - a new voice sounded, - Bravo. You are decidedly
right about absolutely everything, except where you are wrong.
The young man turned around. In the short distance, sitting in a burgundy chair
under a bushy flower, he was applauded by a recent member of the club - Blaise
Kleber. He came to Montpellier from the center of France and was not a university
student. However, he was well versed in medicine. His foul-smelling ointment,
which he gave to one of the "Recti aspectus," removed the red rash on the poor
fellow's back in just a few days.
- Napoleon Buonaparte was indeed a despot in politics and in life, as anyone
who knew him can attest. But ordinary? - Blaise waved his hand in the air, -
No way! He was never ordinary. People like Napoleon are born on Earth
once every few centuries and this is a great success for those who can live
with them at the same time. Formally, - he smiled, - we are all his
contemporaries too.
- What do you mean?
- Only that you need to understand who is considered ordinary. Emperors
George, Alexander and Franz, the Duke of Wellington and Prince Suvorov,
Pope Pius - all of them, and even King Charles, you can call ordinary. But
never Napoleon Buonaparte.
The young man spoke in a very unusual way. First, he stubbornly used the
outdated Italian form of the surname "Buonaparte". Secondly, and more
importantly, even here, in the community of free-thinking students, few could
afford to humiliate the lion's share of the monarchs of Europe, the Pope and the
current French king in one sentence. At the same time, saying it as if he were just
counting the flowers in the garden. This young man was clearly not afraid of the
possible consequences of his words. Or just didn't understand them. Joseph, like
Henri, was surprised by such frankness, but they decided not to show it.
- You seem to admire the figure of Bonaparte as much as our friend Auguste,
don't you, Monsieur Kléber?
- Admire? - He gracefully threw his leg over his leg, - Maybe. To the same
extent that I despise. I give him credit.
- But how do you know all this? Can't you base your thoughts on personal
sympathies? Judging by the fact that you and we are about the same age, you
are unlikely, even hypothetically, can be a good friend of the emperor. -
 Henri got stuck in the conversation, who was always more peculiar to the
analysis of the situation than Joseph
- Of course. - Kléber laughed, - Of course, I didn't know Buonaparte
myself. But my uncle knew him. You know, for obvious reasons, I don't
want to mention his name. I heard a lot from him, and from other
knowledgeable people of the era.
Auguste Bureau's face showed thoughtfulness and regret.
- If I had known earlier... Perhaps your stories could help make this picture
better.
- Flapdoodle! - Kléber slapped his leg, got up, walked over to the artist and
put his arm around him, - You have painted a beautiful picture. My stories
would only make it worse. They would distort your author's view. A true
creator does not seek to convey the world as it already is. He creates
something new in this world.
- Indeed, Auguste, friend, - Joseph chimed in, - it's a great job! When will you
introduce it to the public?
- I've already introduced it to... you. I don't think people will see "Napoleon
coming out of Saint-Cloud" anytime soon. This can be misinterpreted. To
say that I am advocating the old regime or opposing the current
foundation. Problems will begin. At the university. But that would be a
small misfortune ... May interfere with the creation of the following works. I
wouldn't want that. At the end of the day, I paint for the sake of art, not for
the public.
- Sounds reasonable. - Joseph grunted
- Completely unreasonable! - Henri was indignant, - Just think. We live in
France. Most of Europe is equal to us. They learn our language, they imitate
our manners. And what is happening with us at this time? - during such
speeches, his manner of speaking became more and more expressive, - And
at this time we, the "Great Frenchmen", are afraid of some consequences
because of the display of the picture.
- Go on, Monsieur Moreau! - Kléber exclaimed happily, while Joseph only
rolled his eyes slightly
- Gentlemen! - He already addressed everyone present, - Why did someone
arrogate to himself the right to decide for us what we can do and what we
can't? Is there a provision in the Constitution that Auguste Bureau is
forbidden to paint a portrait of Bonaparte? Or maybe a similar bill has
recently been issued? I'm sure Dujardin would gladly ratify it. - he knew
how to connect the general theme with what bothered him personally, -
While the world is inexorably moving into the future. While other blood-
born Frenchmen are defending their rights in the America, what do we have?
Fear, inhibitions and regression! Mossy old men in offices made of Persian
silk, who want only personal enrichment and are so afraid of change that,
obviously, Prime Minister Martignac will soon be removed, putting in his
place the narrow-minded Duke Jules. Perhaps we will move back to the
 Middle Ages? – he paused for a moment, looked around at his listeners, and
realizing that they were interested in his speech, continued, - Don't think,
Auguste, dear, that I condemn you for not wanting to show the picture to the
others. You are right. Now it will be a careless decision. We can't afford
that. But what we also can't afford is inaction! We cannot afford to abandon
the ideals of freedom for which our fathers fought and died. We cannot
afford to fold our hands and silently watch the arbitrariness around us. We
must continue to promote the knowledge and values of human rights, the
equality of everyone before the law, and the ability to think and speak freely.
So that, even if this is not possible today, tomorrow the whole world can see
and applaud "Napoleon coming out of Saint-Cloud." Otherwise, They will
tighten the nooses more and more, They will come for each of us in turn.
Fighting is the only way to the future!
Henri ended his speech at the highest point. Members of the club responded with
applause. Even Joseph, who considered his friend's fixation on politics
unnecessary, and Auguste, who did not like public speaking at all, could not deny
that this speech was very well said. It was inspiring.
- Bravo, Monsieur Moreau! - Kléber's voice sounded as follows, - You are no
less a talented speaker than Monsieur Bureau is an artist. Your place is
definitely in the square, in front of enthusiastic crowds of people.
- I hope, but not in the guillotine. - Joseph's irony did not leave him.
- I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. - Henri smiled relaxedly
- Not sure. Personally, I now think that it would be nice to wet my
throat. Especially to you, Henri, after such a performance. - Joseph nodded
in his direction in a friendly way, - Come, friends, let's raise a few glasses to
our health, the future of France, and, of course, to freedom. - He was a little
ironic again.
 Chapter II "Luoyang on Fire"
The next month passed in Montpellier quite calmly. Warm, sunny days were
replaced by rain only a few times. After them, nature blossomed even more. A few
weeks after the verdict was announced, Catherine, a servant of Baron Lacroix, was
executed by hanging. It was brutal. But she was found guilty not only of the
attempt on the life of the baron, but also of state espionage. It is not clear what
state secrets cook could learn in the dining room of the joker Lacroix, but probably
the court was better versed in the details of the case. For Henri and a number of
other people, this day was gloomy ... But for everyone else, it was still warm and
sunny. Soon a touring theater from Marseille arrived in the city, their "Illegitimate
Son" was beautiful. Even though Constance was wheezing. The Duc de Sardou
became a grandfather for the first time. A new wonderful tea shop has opened on
Market Street.
Henri spent his time in university studies, meetings of the club "Recti Aspectus",
personal affairs and small youthful entertainments. Must say, he was not very
enthusiastic about the latter, which made it possible not only to save family money,
but also to delve into the study of topics of interest. Montpellier's education did not
cause difficulties, most of all it differed in history, literature and
philosophy. However, few disciplines were really interesting to him. It mainly
depended on the teachers themselves. Only a few of them who read at the
university could convey information without polluting it with endless assessments,
rules and morals. The rest told only dogmas. Henri was bored with listening to
dogmas and this invariably drove him into melancholy.
Sometimes the usual pedagogical set was diluted by honored guests. Not always a
meeting with them left a pleasant aftertaste, but, in any case, it added some color to
those merciless gray everyday life that has dominated young people since the dawn
of civilization. Guests could be different: writers, philosophers, scientists,
bureaucrats, retired military. In general, all those who have already achieved
something in life and could share their knowledge with young
people. Unfortunately, no one knew the criteria by which it was determined who
had already "achieved" something in life and who had not.
A little after lunch, the rays of the spring sun, breaking through the large
panoramic windows, no longer blinded so much, but in return only baked. Those
who sat right below them were out of luck today. Students were saved by the large-
scale size of the spacious auditorium, which refused to heat up so quickly and kept
a lot of cool corners. Designed according to the principle of an ancient
amphitheater, the seats grew from bottom to top. In such a way that everyone
sitting behind can see the center point as well as those sitting in front. This central
point was the teacher's eminence, which included a table and chair, a large
blackboard, and an oak, smooth-hewn, light-colored pulpit.
An extremely elderly gray-haired man, slowly spreading his feeble, withered
hands, was telling something. His voice has long lost its strength and sonority,
which is why in the last rows it was sometimes difficult to make out what, in
general, he was saying. Nevertheless, the remaining notes of barely fluttering
suggested that he had once had a gentle tenor. It must have sounded
wonderful. Seems that the professor of Middle Eastern history, Mr. Trudeau, really
sincerely believed in the significance of what he said. The significance of
everything that happens at the university. In fact, the lecture today was supposed to
be given by one of the unannounced guests. Someone from the legal
field. Therefore, everything that the professor said did not have any applied
meaning. Only an exclusively ceremonial nature.
- ... Gentlemen, - he cleared his throat and hissed, - the one for whom we have
gathered today must come to us at any moment. Truly an honorary citizen of
our city, outstanding... Ah, and here he is... Please. Gentlemen, greet
Monsieur ...
Hearing this name, Henri perked up, and, throwing aside the reflections that had
seized him, glanced at the door. They opened wide and a figure entered the
audience. A figure that is difficult to describe. Perhaps it should have been said
that there were two figures. Since one could not take up so much space... And yet,
there was only one figure. A tall, absolute breadth man. Who, nevertheless, did not
clumsily wander forward, as many people of his masses do, but confidently
stepped on with strong legs. To call it clumsy, in general, would be wrong. Rather,
he was formidable. His gigantic rough hands seemed to be designed to grip the
dora and hoplon tightly. And it was decidedly unclear how he was governed by
them in the peaceful world. The man was dressed in a classic black suit consisting
of a raincoat, trousers, vest and shirt. However, in order for all this to converge on
his body and not interfere with breathing, it was obviously sewn to special
standards. His lush, bushy resin beard covered his neck entirely. He was clearly not
one of those who sought to follow the trends of momentary fashion. And even vice
versa. This was evidenced by a white ribbon proudly attached to the chest - a
symbol of the royal family. His hair was as black as his beard, but it was combed
back. The man's face exuded calmness and confidence. He walked boldly and
triumphantly, as the generals who have just utterly defeated the enemy's troops go.
Here he is. Gilles Dujardin. President of the Montpellier Court. Titular Marquis of
Saint-Vérité. Guest of Honor, as well as in the halls of the Élysée Palace and the
Tiulri Gardens. In fact, Dujardin was no more than 15 years younger than
Professor Trudeau. However, at the moment when the latter was already saying
goodbye to the smoldering sparks of being in his mummified body, the judge was
still burning with life. But it was not the kind of beautiful fire that can be seen
between two swans in love, dancing in the pastel sky like young snowflakes. It was
a fire of insane power, the fire of a pack of crocodiles that, while playing, tear the
unfortunate antelope to pieces. Perhaps Gilles Dujardin could tear apart not only
the antelope, but also the crocodile itself with his own hands. However, if the
crocodile and antelope still had a chance of salvation, then, say, poor Professor
Trudeau, if he were in their place, would not have had it at all. It seemed that the
judge could, if desired, break a defenseless neck in a few moments.
Henri had met Dujardin before, several times he attended court hearings,
sometimes seen in the square during speeches or executions. The judge's carriage
often passed through the city, and everyone knew perfectly well who its owner
was. It was very difficult to confuse Dujardin with anyone. Henri believed that he
was doing a huge number of terrible things as a judge. But nevertheless, he was
glad that he was only the chief judge of the city. Not a marshal or a king. The
young man's political dislike for Charles X or the Duc de Polignac was
incomparable with his personal contempt for Gilles Dujardin.
The audience stood up, according to the rules, greeting the person who
entered. Judging he smiled and, shaking hands with the professor, stood at the
lectern himself. It should be noted that it was placed only barely. He waved his
greeting, and the students sat back down.
- Bonjour, gentlemen. - The voice of the chairman fully corresponded to his
appearance and reputation. Like a powerful roar, it filled the entire
audience. When the verdict was announced in such a voice, only few would
have been able to find the strength to appeal it. He spoke measuredly and
firmly. - It is an honor for me to stand in front of you today. And it is a great
joy for me, - he nodded towards Trudeau, - to be invited to such an
honorable institution. Once upon a time, many years ago, I was a young
student like you. Believe me, life has become much easier since then. You
no longer need to gnaw out your place in the world with sweat and blood, as
we had to. Now the whole universe is open to you. Almost limitless
possibilities and prospects. But how did this happen? - He smiled
intriguingly, - I don't like guessing games that were popular with my
teachers, so I'll answer myself... Thanks to the law! - Dujardin added
strength to his voice and it was clear that even if there were not an audience
of students sitting in front of him, but dozens of beautiful Blanche-Neige in
coffins of transparent moonglass decorated with golden willow twigs, then
at the very moment when the thunder of his voice rang out, he would
instantly sweep away the stupid curse of the old witch and bring them back
to life, - I know, that you are all given to different specialties: not only
lawyers, but also philosophers, mathematicians, historians and, of course,
the pride and foundation of the University of Montpellier - doctors. But the
law! He stands above all of you. Above all of us. It unites us. Because it
exists for the benefit of every person. The law is what keeps us above the
abyss of chaos and provides the possibility of the future. You know that I am
the chairman of the court in our city. Some call me the face of the law. But
I'm not a face. I am his servant and protector. The one who carries out his
will, the one who protects him from encroachments and lies. And today I
would like to talk to you about this. Not about the theory of law - professors
 will tell you about this, but about its practical application in the life of every
Frenchman.
Dujardin led his lecture for quite a long time. It dealt with a variety of aspects: the
law, its application, significance, consequences, origins, personal examples and
interpretations. There was something surreal about it all. A man who seems to have
to lead the northern garrisons to exterminate the imperial eunuchs reads social
topics in front of young people. But times change, and with them people change,
who find new opportunities and applications for their abilities. Henri could not
help but note that the students were interested in listening to the chairman. He was
different from most of the speakers who spoke within these walls. He was not
constrained by rules that he didn’t' understand. Dujardin said what he wanted to
say. The way he wanted. No matter how crude or merciless some of his phrases
sounded, he apparently believed that this was how the law should work. And he
just continued his line. Dujardin had everything necessary for a successful dictator.
He possessed strength, confidence, charisma, cunning and inflexibility. But more
importantly, he had a clever mind. It was his lively mind that made this lecture so
interesting. The judge perfectly understood the issues he was talking about,
understood their causes and effects, and could connect one thesis with another with
a strong logical relationship. Therefore, no matter what he said, no matter what
cruelty he voiced, painted in the colors of arguments and arguments, it acquired the
appearance of plausibility and justice.
Perhaps the only thing Dujardin lacked for the role of dictator was personal
ambition. Otherwise, Henri couldn’t explain why he was still content with the
position of president of the court somewhere in the south of France. The young
man did not think about it deliberately, but the thought flashed through his mind
that Gilles Dujardin was perhaps the most dangerous man he had ever met. Such
thoughts, at times, visited each of us in our younger years and, praise heaven, if
they were wrong. But it was impossible to know for sure. "If the judge had stood at
the helm of France," - Moreau continued his momentary reasoning: "he would
certainly have achieved for the country heights inaccessible even to the
hypothetical planning of Charles X. But the price for this would be thousands of
killed people." And in this situation, the young man couldn’t be sure whether the
French people would have been able to win the battle with such an opponent.
In the meantime, the chairman concluded his speech on a high note. For the entire
time of his performance, he never lost his fuse or slowed down the pace of the
narrative. It seemed that he could have performed much longer. Professor Trudeau
thanked him for the lecture and invited, if the guest did not mind, the students to
ask their questions. The judge nodded approvingly. At first, several ordinary topics
were raised. They asked about the man's biography and certain legal aspects. He
cheerfully answered them and skillfully closed interests. Suddenly, a loud question
from an unknown student flew through the audience.
- Monsieur Dujardin, tell me what you like best, Aristotle's "Ēthika
Nikomacheia" or the execution of innocent girls?
The faces of the students took on a discouraged look. Professor Trudeau was filled
with either anger or fear. Everyone was waiting for the referee's reaction to this
impudent attack. However, to everyone's surprise, Dujardin at first cunningly, like
a fox, threw a glance around the hall, and then, quite calmly, as if nothing had
happened, laughed.
- Who says that? Show yourself, my friend. I can't have a conversation with
the Void.
Approximately in the middle row of the audience stood a slender young man. It
was Henri Moreau. He understood the danger that his impulsive act carried. But he
was not afraid of the chairman. Here he felt protected, not only because of the
ordinary students who could support him, but also because of the other members of
the "Recti Aspectus" who were present at the lecture. Nor could he afford to miss
the opportunity to publicly show everyone the real face of the chairman. Which, as
it sometimes seemed to him, worried only him.
- And... Young Monsieur Moreau! - A benevolent, menacing face did not
leave Dujardin, - Forgive my unceremonious interest, but what are you
doing here? I thought your family had renounced the company of urban
society in favor of cow and pig manure.
- To be honest, this is not surprising, Mr. Judge. If we take into account that
cow dung is prettier and more worthy than some representatives of this
urban society.
A slight laugh went through the audience.
- Moreau! - Professor cried out discontentedly. As much as the decayed
ligaments allowed him
- Nothing, nothing, monsieur. - the judge reassured him, - Let the young man
practice satire. So, what did you want to tell me?
- Two weeks ago, according to your verdict, a young girl, Katherina, the cook
of Baron Lacroix, was executed. It is obvious to every sane person that she
was not guilty, and the baron remains an unscrupulous charlatan. How many
more innocent girls have you condemned to death?
- None, Monsieur Moreau. - His answer sounded instantly, he was firm and
devoid of doubt. The debate with Gilles Dujardin was extremely difficult. –
Seigneur! - he threw up his hands and turned to the rest of the audience, -
Please, raise your hands, which of you was personally acquainted with the
cook Katherina?.. Any?.. But you, Monsieur Moreau, must have known each
other in order to intercede so zealously for her soul? Isn't it either?
- I spoke to knowledgeable people.
- I, spoke to knowledgeable people too, - Dujardin's smile grew, - they told me
that the Antichrist would come down to earth today. It's already one o'clock
in the afternoon, and he's still gone? Well, nothing, maybe he will still have
time to appear.
Henri was silent. He understood that Dujardin was playing a cunning game and
hitting out of place would be tantamount to a complete fiasco. It is better to wait
until he exhibits all the figures.
- And I knew her. I listened to her testimony, like all the other defendants.
You are young people. Your blood is playing. You don't want to see the
world as it is, you want it to become the way you see it. But it doesn't
happen that way in life. And behind a beautiful face, a slender waist and sad
eyes, a terrible evil can be hidden. Tell me, Monsieur Moreau, how would
you react if because of this "innocent girl" you will have lost your eye, say,
in a couple of years? Or condition. Or own father. I've known a lot of stories
like that... You and your comrades. Perhaps with this decision we saved
some of you. Or maybe even all together. After all, a student lunch can be
poisoned no worse than any other... I am not telling you all this because I
want to argue with you, young Monsieur Moreau. This is enough to me in
the service. It's just that I'm once again showing how the law works in the
realities of life, what challenges it faces and what it leads to.
- You know how to speak beautifully, Monsieur Dujardin, it would be
wonderful if your actions were just as beautiful.
Henri stopped arguing and sat back down. It was a draw. He advanced on the
enemy, far superior to him in strength and having on his side the effect of surprise,
but was thrown back by the experience of the enemy. He still had arguments that
he could implement, but the risk of losing increased more and more. Now was not
the time or place. Most of the audience also considered it a draw, if he continued,
he could embarrass himself. Perhaps, after their skirmish, someone thought about
the actions of Gilles Dujardin as president of the Montpellier court, if so, then this
is already a victory. The ability to retreat in time, as well as to attack in time, is the
basis of warfare.
In spite of everything, Henri was satisfied. He did not miss the opportunity to prick
the hated judge. He will not torture himself in the evenings for giving the
authorities tacit consent to further arbitrariness. He didn’t disappoint himself. Even
if he wasn’t greeted with applause and friendly approval in the corridor, the
reaction was what he had hoped for. Respectful understanding. And although
Joseph called it boundless stupidity, he noted the amazing courage and sincerity of
his friend. In the end, it is better to take such a risk and live than to die of the
boredom of everyday lectures. There has yet to be no reaction from Professor
Trudeau. Perhaps his age simply didn’t allow him to come to his senses before
Henri and his friends left the audience. Most likely there will be a reaction. It must
be. Well, he'll be interested to hear what they have to say. And it will be interesting
to object to something in your defense.
After leaving the university, Henri, Joseph and several other members of the club,
went to the café "Queue de Paon", which was located in the next quarter and was
very much appreciated by noble youth. Its design was made with a bizarre touch of
oriental notes. The creator was clearly inspired by Persian canvases. Inside, there
was always a slight twilight, the walls and tables were decorated with rich colors,
such as purple or dark green. The patterns turned into stories about wondrous
plants, rebellious animals and ancient heroes. There were also very nice waitresses
working in it. This was the "Queue de Paon" - one of the centers of youth life in
the city.
It was still quite hot outside, so the company ordered some refreshing Absinthe
Frappe with appetizers of salted roast and morning mussels. Roasted meat helped
to reveal the sweet anise taste of the drink and brightly set it off with its contrast,
while the mussels added interesting marine details. Contrary to popular belief, the
French youth didn’t like to eat to the dump at every opportunity, and appreciated
good aperitifs and snacks much more than the inhabitants of England or
Prussia. Art always comes in small envelopes. If a whole mountain of something is
poured on you, it can be anything but not art.
For a little over an hour, they discussed everything in the world, and, in fact, talked
about nothing. Which, of course, is the best and most dignified form of
conversation possible. Henri said goodbye to his friends long before it was
supposed to get dark. He needed to work at home. Joseph said that they would sit
in the "Queue de Paon" a little longer, and then maybe go to the theater. Henri
didn’t want to rent a cab, and he went home on foot. He liked to ventilate his
thoughts with a walk. Watch the tall light columns and neat stucco molding of city
houses. Passing street after street, the appearance of Montpellier changed and it
seemed that it was never the same. Of course, this was already completed by his
youthful love.
Walking along one of the busy streets, Henri heard a carriage stop near him. He
wouldn't even turn around if he hadn't also heard a disgustingly familiar voice. A
voice that had been ringing in his ears all too recently. Henri looked back and saw
Dujardin's massive bearded face smiling at him from the shiny coupé-dos-à-galles.
He invited him to join and ride a little together. Such an offer carried a mortal
threat to the young man, and yet he understood that refusal would not give
anything. If the judge intends to do something bad, he will do it in one way or
another. If he really just wanted to talk, then it was foolish to refuse, even without
knowing the topic of conversation. In addition, crowds of people walked around.
Won't the chairman kill him in a carriage in front of hundreds of citizens? No,
that's stupid. On the other hand, what was the probability that they crossed paths by
accident? Did Dujardin keep an eye on him? If so, he'd definitely better figure out
why. Henri bowed and, in accordance with the norms of etiquette, entered the
coupe. It was stuffy and difficult to breathe because of the pungent smell. While
the young man sat on one side of the carriage and felt quite at ease, his companion
occupied the other to the very walls.
The man took out a voluminous engraved case from an inner pocket and extracted
an oblong dark object from it. Cigar. Here is the explanation of the smoke in the
carriage. Holding it between his teeth, Dujardin took a silver match and set fire to a
cigar. Inventive and convenient, although it required some skill. The judge dragged
on with great taste and understanding of the case. Exhaling smoke, he finally
began to resemble a huge, sinister Siegfried dragon, whose fury, according to the
songs, brought destruction to entire villages. However, unlike the glorious knight
of the "Elder Edda", the young man did not have several deep ditches for poison
and blood and he, in this narrow carriage, could never escape from the dragon's
blow. As for tobacco, it was undoubtedly the best. Must have been brought from
Cuba.
- Don't you want a little?
- I don't like the smell of smoke.
The chairman laughed.
- Yes I know. Young people now have other addictions. - Henri guessed what
he meant. Such a hint in high society could easily be considered a direct
insult, - The weather is beautiful today, isn't it, Monsieur Moreau?
- Yes, the sun shines all day.
- Oh yes! You're absolutely right. - he dragged on again and exhaled dense
clouds of smoke, - The sun is over our city. The sun is now shining over the
whole of France. And we will no longer allow the clouds to close the sky.
- What do you mean?
- The time of chaos and indulgence is over, Monsieur Moreau. We will no
longer turn a blind eye to the actions of individuals, simply because they
"shout so much for freedom." Enough! - Abruptly, like an unexpected storm
or a sudden eruption of a dormant volcano, he burst into a cry and struck the
wall of the bale with his free hand. However, the next moment it again
acquired a peaceful and calm appearance-
Hunger. Disease. Misery. Thousand. Hundreds of thousands of French
people who remained forever in the land. More than ever before. Children
deprived of fathers. Wives saying goodbye to their husbands. Mothers
burying their sons. It's all your doing, Monsieur Moreau.
- My? - Henri did not understand Dujardin's line, which began to smack of
madness
- Yes, yours, and peoples like you. After all, in fact, there is no difference
what a person looks like, how old he is, or what name he has. If he performs
the same action. People like you. Always dissatisfied with
everything. Always knowing how to do the right thing. So kind-hearted that
you care about the world, which you read only in books… 30 years
ago... You certainly can't remember that. You weren't even born at that
time. People like you plunged our country into the abyss of Hell, and there
was no end to torment, tears, blood. Do you know why? Because they
decided that someone didn't have enough freedom. That the law does not
protect everyone. But now. Now rest assured, the law not only protects
every citizen, but is also ready to punish anyone, even if he is the lamb of
God.
 - This is just your personal position. - Henri could not stand it and was
indignant
- Listen to me, boy, - he leaned closer, and his huge body began to hang over
the young man, - you are walking on a dangerous road. It will not lead you
to anything good. You dream of the stars, but you bring only
decay. Remember, the word "liberal" no longer gives a bull to do whatever
your heart desires. And I will stop anyone who intends to commit evil
against our people.
- Are you threatening me, Monsieur Dujardin? - Henri was able to withstand
the pressure and answer ironically.
- Of course, no. - he exhaled smoke right in the face of the young man and he
could hardly restrain himself from coughing, and then leaned back in his
seat, - I only do what every respectable man is supposed to. I give life advice
to young people. Ah, and here seems to be your house, isn't it, Monsieur
Moreau?
Henri understood that Dujardin didn’t just bring him right under his house. It was a
gesture emphasizing the judge's awareness of the young man's life. He didn’t show
any emotion, only thanked his interlocutor for the pleasant company and the fact
that he gave him a ride, and easily got out of the carriage. The Chairman didn’t
extend his hand in farewell. Without saying anything more, Dujardin shouted to
the cabman, and the coupe rode forward. Henri's heart was beating actively. He
realized that he had just experienced an encounter that could change his
life. However, it did not depend on it, or even on Dujardin. It is up to him to make
a decision that will lead him forward. As always in human history, the fate of man
depended on himself. Exhaling, he went home, opened the door, and entered the
dimly lit corridor. Work will help distract from bad thoughts, and coffee tones the
senses.
 Chapter III “The letter”
Our world is disgusted by constancy. If there is one thing that remains unchanged
in it, it is only the law that everything will change. Try to name any familiar thing
that can prove the opposite, and most likely you will be wrong. Continents join and
divide, seas dry up and flow, mountains crumble, and glaciers melt. Stars are born
and die. The sun is doomed to go out sooner or later, and with it the Earth will go
out. Even the seemingly inviolable exact laws of physics, chemistry and
mathematics change throughout human history, since man never possesses the
fullness of knowledge. The evidence that these changes will continue to occur is
endless paradoxes that science cannot explain and therefore seeks to simply turn a
blind eye to them. But the equation will not be solved if one of the conditions is
thrown out of it, simply because it defies our understanding. People make this
mistake everywhere.
Nevertheless, precisely because of the limitations of our perception of the world,
some things that are repeated from century to century, regardless of external
factors and conditions, seem to us absolutely unshakable. Those that have always
existed before us, and will always exist after. This is an axiom. For example, the
unwritten law that peasants must get up before sunset, and the intelligentsia wake
up in the late afternoon. Neither the Napoleonic Wars, nor the Great French War,
nor even the Industrial Revolution, which was already marching through Europe,
could do anything about it. Perhaps this was embedded in the genetic code of the
genus Homo Sapiens itself. Still, there were rare exceptions. Talented generals,
round-the-world travelers and, of course, diligent students. They woke up early in
the morning, which did not correspond to their status or origin at all.
In Montpellier, Henri used to wake up around 6 o'clock in the morning. The valet
served him a light breakfast: a mug of fresh black coffee or fragrant chocolate,
crispy fluffy buns and croissants, to which Henri asked to apply a little Norman
butter with a deep creamy aftertaste and a variety of moderately sweet fruit jams.
As a breakfast, the young man also recognized soft, juicy scrambled eggs with
slices of eppois, camembert or, of course, the well-known brie. He did not want to
see meat in the morning. After breakfast and changing into a casual dress, Henri
took off the cab and drove straight to the university, where he found himself in a
short time. The pros of living and studying away from the center, rather than in
overcrowded Paris.
Contrary to popular belief among sans-culottes, an intellectual's day may be as
monotonous, if not more, than that of a farmer. The only difference was in the
nature of their activities. However, what seems like incredible torment for a hawk,
for a pike is just an ordinary hunt under water. Despite the fact that Henri's days
were extremely similar to each other, each of them was filled with many events
and he did not complain. But still, in his heart, like the most sentimental romantic,
he fantasized about amazing travels, distant countries and wonderful adventures.
What pushed him to fight for human freedom pushed him in the other direction -
towards the boundless breadths of life. The dilemma of an intelligent person was
often not so much the choice itself as the impossibility of choosing everything at
once. Since the first half of the day was usually always busy, he left his projects for
the second. Locked in a small office on the second floor of a rented apartment, he
studied and worked. Among this work, the most important was the authorship for
the "Héraut montpelliérain". For more than six months, Henri Moreau wrote texts
for the local "free-thinking" newspaper. He saw this as the realization of his
mission and his own contribution to the life of the French people. Ahead of your
thoughts, it should be noted that "Héraut montpelliérain" could not be called a
revolutionary publication. They did not set themselves the goal of discrediting the
authorities or overthrowing the existing order. However, they actively criticized
many of their actions as part of news policy. The newspaper wanted to show
people the world as it really is, or at least as it seemed to them. By their activities,
they did not violate the law on the press, but many of the officials sincerely wished
that the "Héraut montpelliérain" did not exist at all. One way or another, the days
of absolutism are long gone, and they had to put up with a lot of things.
The newspaper carried out its work with the money of the Comte de Coligny, a
noble and compassionate man from the vicinity of Montpellier. In recent years, the
count rarely appeared in the city, but this was not at all necessary. He was quite
successful in writing checks by mail. De Coligny owned several factories in
France, and two more in England. Therefore, unlike most other aristocrats, his
fortune did not decrease, but rather increased. Obviously, the count was a great
supporter of freedom of speech and education of the population, which pushed him
to sponsor the press in his hometown. His estate still stood by the Mediterranean
Sea, a few hours away. Now the count's aunt lived there. Henri visited the walls of
this wonderful estate, made in the early Rococo style, was familiar with the
relatives of the count, but never saw him himself. Instead, he had an acquaintance
with Monsieur Porcelli, an elderly Frenchman of Italian roots, la mandataire
Monsieur de Coligny in Montpellier and throughout the South Coast. He had a
huge nose and pretty eyes. Mr. Porcelli was engaged in all the interests of the
Count in the region, and was equally versed in finance and law. He also acted as a
patron for the “Héraut montpelliérain”, and once over a glass of Château Latour
praised Henri's writing style, calling it "brief but insanely intriguing." In particular,
apart from Mr. Porcelli, other members of the editorial board and several members
of the club "Recti Aspectus", no one knew about the "journalistic" activities of the
young man. He was proud of his activities, but understood that although they were
not illegal, it could cause undesirable consequences. It would be unwise to
deliberately expose oneself to them for no reason.
That May morning, when the sun had already become outrageously cheeky, the
valet, along with breakfast, brought Henri the morning correspondence. There were
several useless letters, a news bulletin, and a message from Mr. Porcelli. Henri
recognized him immediately by the company seal of the house of de Coligny with
the image of an impressive elephant. With this seal la mandataire fastened letters,
if he wrote in the interests of his master. Without looking up from his coffee, the
young man unfolded the message and began to read:
Mon cher Monsieur Moreau,
I am writing this late in the evening, when you are already undoubtedly asleep.
Nevertheless, I hope that you will read the letter as soon as you wake up. The
recent news is urgent. As recently as the day before yesterday, our mutual friend,
my lord and your patron, the Comte de Coligny, has departed from Alexandria,
and will soon, after a series of stops in Malta and Sicily, be in France.
The Count has asked you to be informed before his arrival that, among other
things, he is also bringing you an excellent offer of work and cooperation related
to your recent success as a writer for the newspaper "Héraut montpelliérain". He
is aware of your studies at the University of Montpellier, but believes that such a
chance falls "once in a decade" and he does not know a more suitable and talented
candidate than you.
The master would like to share this news with you personally, but, unfortunately,
he will be able to stay in Montpellier for only a day, and would like to leave the
city gates already knowing your answer. Since the manners of the ancient family
do not allow him to leave you without time for reflection when making such an
important decision, he instructed me to lay out before you all the nuances of this
story.
Therefore, I dare to invite you today for an important conversation. Please come
immediately. I can't wait to see you face to face. I will be waiting for you in the
new office of our office at 114 rue de l'Ançon. There is no sign on the door yet, as
we have just moved in. However, do not worry. Just knock on the door and a
servant will guide you. I suppose I should prepare a bottle of champagne for such
an occasion.
Best wishes,
yours sincerely, Julien Porcelli!
"What an amazing news!" - a wide smile spread across the young man's face. Of
course, he understood that he had certain skills and seemed to be writing well. But
for the Comte de Coligny himself to be interested in this? There could be no
thought of such a thing. What attracted him? What could he be interested in? The
Count must have traveled all over the known world, met with the mysterious sages
of Arabia and the most progressive scientists of Yale. What could a humble student
from the French province give him? Nevertheless, people of his status and position
don’t scatter words just like that. If he had an offer, it was undoubtedly extremely
serious. Henri didn’t want to lose this opportunity, and, in the end, what did he
risk? In the worst case, if nothing comes of it - a few missed classes at the
university. Well, the healthier his mind will be.
The valet came into the room to pick up breakfast. He found the young man
finishing his coffee and distinctively excited.
 - Is everything all right, Mr. Moreau? - His voice sounded calibrated and
courteous as always, - Does something seem to have turned you on?
- It's all right, Greg. Nothing, breakfast will wait. Be so kind as to have a cab
waiting for me.
- To the university, monsieur?
- No, I have an urgent matter. I think I'm going to wear a gray suit about that.
- Of course. It fits your face perfectly.

A quarter of an hour later, the kalesh was already waiting for him at the door, and
Henri went out, acquiring a surprisingly stately and businesslike appearance. Age
didn’t prevent him from being serious. On the contrary, how interestingly
contrasted the playful youth with a restrained, strict appearance. The most brilliant
paintings are born only when the artist skillfully combines things from completely
opposite worlds. The road to the specified address took a little longer than to the
university, but for Henri, immersed in anticipation of the meeting, it slipped
through in a few moments. Getting out of the carriage, he gave the cabman a few
coins and went to the elongated stone house. As indicated in the letter, the entrance
was from the side of the courtyard. In appearance, it was a completely
unremarkable building, without a sign or any décor elements. The first, obviously,
really didn’t have time to hang, and the second, everywhere, began to become a
thing of the past. Now influential people now and then thought that the best way to
show their character and consistency was not pompous, refined forms, but restraint
and coldness. Someone once said that the absence of emotions is the worst possible
emotion.
The young man approached and struck the door several times with a steel ring.
Movement was heard from within. Soon, in the aisle that opened, a well-groomed
short man with a fancifully twisted mustache formed in front of him. He glanced
quickly at Henri, and then said:

- Monsieur Moreau?
- I have the honor.
- Oh, very well, Monsieur Moreau. Follow me, you are expected.

Hearing the confirmation that they were waiting for him, the young man's heart
began to beat again, as recently at breakfast. So, this is not a mistake, not
someone's stupid joke. Something serious was going to meet him.
A wise listener with experience and life situations may think why Henri behaves so
stupidly? After all, it's not natural at all. Why, having learned the news about a
possible business cooperation, he bursting with emotions? Why do his fingers
tremble and his throat dry up? This is completely absurd! Anyone in such a
situation would most likely treat it as an ordinary story from which something
worthwhile is unlikely to grow. And, in general, my listener, you would be right. If
only you hadn't missed one small detail. What distinguishes you and my friend?
What is different between you - with graying hair, dull vision, creaking bones and
Henri? His youth! The same human youth, which, although inferior in the power of
colors to childhood, still retained most of its boundless latitudes, and somewhere
even multiplied. Youth hasn’t yet rusted, it has not been covered with coarse bark
and hasn’t been sealed on shutters from all over the world. It’s ready to live. It’s
ready to believe. It’s ready for something that has never happened before.
If we had taken Old and thrown it off the roof, it would have flown down and
fallen with a booming sound. It wouldn’t have crashed, but knocked out the ground
beneath it. Because it has become so hard and tough. The only thing that Old really
cares about is survival. The whole life around it turns into survival. Everything
around becomes a threat, a prey or a tool. Some believe that Old is not afraid of
death, that it is ready for it. This is a delusion. Old is afraid of death more than
anyone else in the world. And the more dilapidated and narrow-minded it becomes,
the clearer it manifests itself. I wish I could say that old people don't believe, aren't
afraid, and don't ask. But of all this, only the first statement is true. They ask more
than anyone else, asking for everything they once had and what they never ever
had. But they refuse to take it. Precisely because they don’t believe anything and
are afraid of everything. This is the paradox of Old. Build walls that protect you
from the whole world, but from which you can never get out. Make yourself a
willing prisoner of your weakness. Was it worth it? Old will not be able to answer.
It doesn't think about it.
At the same time, if we had thrown Youth off the roof, it would have flown
forward. It flew easily and wonderfully, like a white bird or the first December
snow. And for Old, this would be an unimaginable trick. Someone's hypocritical
witchcraft, cunning illusion and deception for profit. But Youth wouldn’t care, and
it would fly forward, violating all the laws of the universe. Delighting everyone
around. Of course, sooner or later, it would fall. Would have fallen painfully,
breaking bones and shedding a lot of blood. At that moment, it would have lost
own wings forever and began transformation into a disgusting, persistent Old... But
those units that, by some unheard-of providence, manage not to fall, and fly to the
very end... They are the most amazing of us. Capable of fantastic scientific
discoveries and quivering musical sonnets. They are the best people. They seem to
see the world as clearly as no one else does. And maybe the whole world lives only
for them.
Old thinks that it was the world that made itself so. That Old built barricades
because it was forced, against will. Because it was the only way out. It's all a lie.
We always have a choice. Where we ended up or who we ended up becoming. It
depends on nothing, but only on us.
That is why, climbing the circular staircase, Henri breathes so intermittently. That
is why his mind is dotted with a variety of pictures of the future. That is why he
believes so passionately in what can happen.
Entering the third floor, a mustachioed servant led him to a burgundy, carved door
and obligingly opened it, inviting him to come forward. Servant himself was left
behind in the corridor. The room where the young man got seemed to him
spacious, but empty. There was very little furniture, apparently, indeed, the office
of the Comte de Coligny was just settling in here. So much the better, so they
expanded, and new specialists, including himself, could come in handy. A window
located directly opposite the entrance filled the room with light. There was a desk
in front of him with some small thing on it, and a man was sitting at the table.
At first Henri thought that this was Monsieur Porcelli, and the smile grew more
strongly over his face. But the man looked up from the letter, raised his head and it
became obvious that it was someone else.

- Bonjour, Monsieur Moreau. We have been waiting for you. - the stranger
looked friendly
- Em ... Hello!.. I'm sorry, I don't know your name... I suppose Mr. Porcelli
hasn't arrived yet?
- That's okay. Come in, don't stand in the doorway. The fact is, Monsieur
Moreau, that we would like to inform you of a small circumstance. -
suddenly, he stood up, resting his hands on the table, his face changed. Then
he spoke sharply and decisively, - You are arrested on suspicion of
participating in a conspiracy to incite the masses to overthrow the
constitution, the current government and threaten the life of the royal family
of His Majesty Charles X!
- Forgive me... What? - not having time to understand the meaning of the
phrases just said to him, Henri muttered in surprise and stepped back. At the
same moment, two men, apparently standing on the sides of the room and
having escaped his attention at first, jumped up to him and deftly twisted
their arms behind his back. –What does that mean?!
- Soon you will be able to familiarize yourself with all the elements of the
charges against you in more detail. - the stranger replied without much
involvement, - Take him away. - he commanded the men holding Henri and
they led him out of the room.

The young man tried to resist or try to explain something, but it was useless. The
men, and as it soon turned out, the police, were much stronger than him and
resolutely didn’t want to listen anything. A few moments later he was being
pushed into a dark, four-wheeled prison carriage. I'm not sure if Sun Tzu wrote
about it, but if the enemy is superior to you equally qualitatively and tactically,
resistance will only lead to an increase in losses. In such situations, all that remains
is to capitulate. Which is what Henri had to do.
Thoughts were confused in his head, and he could not really understand what was
happening. One assumption replaced another, then to break together about the
third. The panic that embraced his mind made the construction of any logical
chains completely impossible. He looked out from behind the bars and tried to
figure out where he was being taken. At first, he didn't succeed either. The young
man could not dismiss even the craziest theories. Even if he was charged, and he
rode in the "box" of the guards, nevertheless, could it not be, say, a kidnapping?
Yes, a kidnapping disguised as an arrest. For what purpose? Definitely, there had
to be a goal. Various options came to mind, but not one of them was at least
somewhat convincing.
However, his destination soon became apparent. Fortress of Saint-Prix. So it's not a
hoax? Was he really taken to prison? What ruthless fate descended upon him?
This, of course, must have been a mistake. A mistake that he can explain.
Continuing to maintain an aggressive silence, he was led through the narrow
corridors of the fortress, everywhere covered with mud and fungus, and pushed
into one of the closed cells. His attempts to speak, shout or ask again ended in
nothing. No one seemed to want to listen. "Is this how all suspects are treated?" - a
thought came to him for a second, but then quickly dissolved under the influx of
the stream of events that had fallen. The cell was disgustingly damp, there was a
sweetish, sickening stench, vaguely reminiscent of a mixture of smells of urine,
decay and sweat. The floor was dirty and sticky. Henri didn't even want to think
about what exactly he was from. It's better just not to know. An iron bed with a
shabby mattress in the corner also didn’t inspire confidence. The twilight that
reigned in the cell, due to the fact that a tiny window was not able to illuminate
even such an area, pressed, but at the same time facilitated the fate of not allowing
to consider everything in detail. Let the imagination itself draw that everything is
not so bad. It could have been worse.
How many times did he think about the French prisoners, how many times read
about their difficult fate from domestic and foreign authors. He even had to visit
some former prisons, which during the revolution, were dissolved and given over
to other needs. It couldn’t be said that he had never imagined himself or any of his
comrades in such a situation. They were playing an unsafe game and sooner or
later it could catch up with someone. It was logical. Perhaps even somewhat
romantic. But not now. Not now. After all, he did nothing. There are a number of
things in life that you can endlessly prepare for, but when they come, they always
take you by surprise. In particular, marriage, childbirth, death, war, or, of course,
imprisonment. Henri wasn't ready either.
It was difficult to say exactly how much time had passed, but it seemed to him that
it was already dark in the cell when footsteps were heard in the corridor directed in
his direction. The heels of the boots slenderly hit the stone slabs. Accompanied by
several guards, a man in an expensive suit approached the cell. The smell of his
perfumes cut through the standing stench, which made the composition even more
disgusting. Seeing the guest, the young man burningly wanted to say something
about the total injustice that had occurred here. But for some reason kept silent.

- Good evening, Monsieur Henri Moreau. - he spoke without coming close to

the bars, - Do you know who I am? - the question sounded a little strange
- I think ... no..? - the guest sighed in response.
- This is imprudent frivolity, Monsieur Moreau. For a person who is engaged
in activities of a character like yours, do not know your opponents by sight.
- This is a mistake! - finally fell from the lips of Henri, but the guest, it seems,
did not even hear it and continued his monologue
- Perhaps my name will tell you more - Michel Etienne Reshard.
- The Prosecutor of the Crown - the young man muttered with disappointment
and chagrin, despite the overshadowing.
- And you, of course, know that the people of my position do not engage in
trifling pranks. I confess that you have surprised me, Monsieur Moreau.
- It's all a mistake! - Henri jumped closer to the bars, - I did not do anything
that violates the law. I was confused with someone ... Or something was
mixed up ... Or framed. - versions appeared in his language one by one
- No, no, it's pointless to refuse. I have seen the case file. - there was no
hatred, no threat, no pity on the prosecutor's face... If only a note of fatigue,
and that's all, - To your great misfortune, the Montpellier police have been in
contact with the "tong" of your glorious brethren for a long time.
- It's impossible. - Henri could not perceive what he heard. It seemed that he
was being told the plot of some newfangled theatrical drama
- Everything is exactly like that. He informed the law enforcement agencies
about your "revolutionary", or should I say, Jacobin club? What is the
interesting name – "Recti Aspectus", you were the author? But, of course,
the pinnacle of history was your leading role in organizing subversive
conspiracies against our country and the king. - the young man did not know
what to answer to such accusations, he was taken aback
- Its not true ...
- That is what impressed me, Monsieur Moreau. To do this kind of training, to
organize people, to print materials – all at such a young age. You're probably
a really unusual person. Perhaps your place is in the hospital, not prison...
But it's not for me to decide.
- I can explain everything!
- Be sure to explain. In court. The meeting will take place very soon. Of
course, they will take note of your young, not fully conscious age. However,
I am afraid that with the severity of such accusations - the threat of
undermining national security and stability, involvement in the murder of
the king himself, it will not help you much. So, be sure to explain. Tell
everything you can tell. You may be able to redeem the softening of the
term. - he paused, and then turned, it seems, to himself, - I have everything. I
saw what I wanted... Come along. – and the prosecutor, along with the
guards, headed for the exit
- Wait!
- See you soon, Monsieur Moreau. It will be interesting for me to hear you. –
and shortly after these words, the door leading from the narrow prison
corridor upstairs closed with a crash.
When their footsteps were completely removed and could no longer be heard,
silence again hung in the cells, interrupted only by various rustles and distant
sounds of the city that came from a window in the back wall. Henri knew that,
most likely, even in this corridor he wasn’t alone. Other prisoners are also sitting
here. Is he lucky that they are silent now? Maybe. The young man wouldn’t like to
listen to what these criminals are talking about ... Heh... But are they criminals?
What if they are as innocently thrown here as he is. What sad story could they tell?
He had never thought of it that way. Of course, Henri was well aware that the
Justice of the Authorities was far from justice, and that a person could be convicted
of crimes he did not commit. But considering how easily and unceremoniously he
was placed here. How many more could also be caught? How many more
objectionable people were hidden from the sunlight? Previously, when he thought
of prison prisoners, he usually imagined rude, uneducated men, with rotten teeth
and twisted nails. The only ones interested in profit and entertainment. But what if
it's not? What if for every 10 prisoners, there were, say, only two? And all the rest
are victims of the vicissitudes of fate, like him. Was it possible? Was it possible
that the lawlessness and impunity of the authorities reached such proportions,
remaining completely hidden from society? One answer led to carelessness, the
other to paranoia. And among the two evils, there was no lesser.
This string of thoughts led him to the fact that he finally began to try to figure out
how he got here. Was he caught along with a bunch of other people? Unlikely.
Even if many were arrested, he was called a leader, the prosecutor of the crown
came to him, so they gave him a special place. What an nonsense! But nonsense
can sometimes be a threat. Did they have a "spy" among the members of the club?
It also didn't sound intelligible. Even if they have, what could he tell? About their
free-thinking conversations? Senselessly. The worst thing that could follow after
that was excommunication from the university, but not arrest in such a harsh form.
However... He knew about it. He understood this. But if they tell a story about a
revolutionary club to people, lots of can believe it. Believe, and under due
influence, demand punishment for these "provocateurs". What else has happened
lately? Letter? Of course, this morning he received a letter that he didn’t doubt for
a second. The seal of the house and the handwriting clearly indicated the sender -
Mr. Porcelli. Was it possible that such a noble and intelligent man took part in this
coven? Henri wanted to assert that this was out of the question. But it seems that
today's events have shown him that nothing can be ruled out until the end. On the
other hand, the letter could have been forged. Yes, this would be a problematic
task, but with the proper desire and capabilities, it could be coped with.
But who dared to create such intricacies? Who could interfere with an ordinary
student, perhaps, sometimes writing sharp notes in the newspaper? Unless... And
then it dawned on him. Like a bolt from the blue, the young man's mind was
pierced by thought. "Dujardin!" It was an answer for which he had no particular
proof, but nevertheless didn’t doubt it. Of course, the Siegfried dragon wouldn’t
stop at anything if he considered it necessary. There is probably no problem too
small or big for him. If the judge decides to do something, he will do it. Following
the insight and short-term relief came fear. If it was true that Dujardin had taken
care to throw Henri into prison, what could he expect next? It was stupid to even
think about that. But he knew Dujardin had no empathy for people. He could want
exile, life imprisonment, or even... Death. For nothing. For personal hostility. For
the phantom images in his head. At this moment, the young man felt that he would
rather fight the ferocious Attila on horseback than go against Dujardin's will in
court. This is his fiefdom and territory. He is smart and determined. Everything
become clearing up. The police could indeed have evidence - an unlimited number
of evidence of the most impressive nature. Every single one created by Gilles
Dujardin. After all, it's not that hard to cheat a system if you know every cog in its
mechanism. Perhaps the state really protects people from other people, but who
will protect people from the state?
That night, Henri fell asleep only in the morning, and the reason wasn’t the stench
or a damp, hard mattress. The young man's mind was raging with the strongest
storm he had ever known.
 Chapter IV " Through hardship to the stars"
Henri spent the next few days in his cell, unable to leave it. With few exceptions,
his only interlocutors were security guards and police officers, who came in from
time to time to visit. They weren't friendly. They didn’t want to answer questions
and only occasionally asked their own - completely absurd, about his subversive
activities of the conspirator. The only really useful thing that the young man
managed to find out was that the trial was scheduled for Thursday. They didn't
even say who would lead it. But he already guessed that at the consideration of
such significance, the chairman would undoubtedly appear in person.
There were indeed other prisoners in the adjacent cells. Henri didn't know exactly
how much. But all of them were not talkative and he didn’t want to start
conversations in such circumstances first. Perhaps it's part of the prison ethic to
remain silent out of respect for your neighbor. Or maybe they just had nothing to
say. He also drew attention to a large number of rats, now and then snooping
around. Mostly, they ran quickly down the hallway, but sometimes, were brazen
enough to get closer to the bars. And then the young man drove them away. He had
no anger towards rats. If he was disgusted - no more than to the whole place. He
wondered what they ate if divorced in such numbers. Probably supplies for feeding
prisoners. Another person of his origin would have felt bad at such a thought, but
Henri digested it relatively calmly. In general, although his appetite was small,
prison portions were even smaller. Therefore, he easily ate his daily allowance. It
was impossible to call it tasty. However, no one asked her to be called at all. The
chef did not expect compliments. Brought - eat. That was the end of the
gastronomic romance.
However, he was soon warned once again that a trial would take place tomorrow
afternoon. Indeed, on Thursday, after the morning rations, a convoy came for him.
They briefly explained that the meeting would take place in a few hours. Before
that, he has the right to wash and change clothes. Already this news brought him
joy. After just a few days behind bars in Saint-Prix, he felt as if he had spent a
month in a swamp. At least he will be able to appear before society in his present
form, in the form that corresponds to his character and personality. And not a
tramp. If people are really greeted by their clothes, then maybe it will help
somehow. He washed in a tub on the fortress territory and didn’t get the
opportunity to go home even to take things. A servant was sent for them. "How
amazingly tough and effective they work." - flashed through the young man's head.
He was taken to the courthouse to be there in the afternoon. The prison carriage
that carried it looked almost indistinguishable from the previous one, but it seemed
to Henri that they were different. This idea was prompted by the distinctive color
of the rods. Passing through the streets of the city, he drew attention to passers-by,
now and then interested in looking in the direction of the carriage. Of course, if he
didn't want to, they wouldn't even be able to see the prisoner's face, and yet, it
seemed that they were looking directly at him. Henry himself often saw such
carriages passing by. But he never thought about what people on the other side of
the cell feel at this moment.
When he was taken out outside the Palais de Justice, he felt wildly squeezed, aware
of the flood of eyes that saw him in shackles. But at the same time, for the first
moment in the last few days, he felt relief. For the first time he stood on "free" land
outside the walls and bars. It seemed to him that in some inconceivable way, the
surrounding crowd could protect against the cruelty of power. Both were only a
manifestation of the herd instinct of man.
The Palais de Justice was striking in its beauty and decoration. It was a pompous
building with high carved facades decorated with Ionic drawings and Dorian lines.
Art breathed and played here. How different the court was from the gloomy,
inhospitable fortress of Saint-Prix, although only one step separated them from
each other. Henri fervently wished that his accusatory saga would end here, and he
didn’t return to the cramped walls of the musty cell in any case. However, it didn’t
depend on him. Most likely, not on the law. And it is quite unlikely on God,
otherwise, if he certainly existed, why would He allow all the arbitrariness that fell
on the young guy. The young man had been to the Palais de Justice before, but
never before had he evoked such bright, sharply contrasting emotions in him. On
the one hand, it seemed more beautiful than the incomprehensible gardens of
Semiramis, he would like to linger and closely examine all the classical charm of
this place. On the other hand, he understood the danger hidden by the local vaults.
A danger from which he wanted to rush out immediately. But against all odds,
Henry just went ahead. He went where he was led. To the Chamber of Meetings.
The massive doors opened and he was ushered inside. It was already quite
crowded.
Repeating the rectangular shape of the room, inside there were places for all
participants in the process, spectators and guards. A large number of seats near the
entrance, exactly opposite - the line of the panel of judges, rows of benches and
tables on the sides. In the center there is a podium for speeches. Above it, a little to
the side, hung a beautiful chandelier shimmering in the rays of the sun. He was
seated on the left side of the courtroom, where the defendants usually were. Henri
ran his eyes over those present. Many faces were familiar, many were completely
unknown. There were also some university teachers with students. However, he
didn’t notice a single member of the club. As he didn’t see his father. The young
man had a glimmer of hope that he would find out about the incident with his son
and come to the case as a lawyer. Well, now Henri could only wonder if he had
found out about all this, not been let in, or if something else had happened.
Previously, he had hoped that his father would help him protect himself, but now
this hope was rapidly sinking. Instead, the lawyer's chair was occupied by
Monsieur Rua. A young man with whom Henri had a distant acquaintance and
therefore could not say anything bad or good. When questioned, Rua confusedly
replied that he was invited to protect the interests of the young man. "It's a good
thing they didn't leave me without a lawyer at all," he thought to himself, and was
quite right. He was not given the opportunity to contact anyone before the trial, and
given the severity of the charges, the court could easily refuse his friends' request
to call someone for protection. Unfortunately, Henri didn’t have time to ask his
lawyer about more, as the meeting began.
Those judges who had been absent earlier slowly entered the courtroom. Their
formation was closed by the immense figure of Gilles Dujardin. Seeing him, the
young man unconsciously gritted his teeth. He still had no clear evidence that
Dujardin had staged this "spectacle" for him, but he had no doubt. The prosecution
was headed by Michel Etienne Reshard, impeccable in his appearance, entirely
according to his position. It seems, with the exception of the costume, he has not
changed at all since the meeting in the fortress, as if he had just been transported
directly from there. The prosecutor made a formal opening speech and after the
shrill exclamation of Dujardin: "The meeting is declared open!" - accompanied by
a blow of a hammer, the hall completely fell silent, ready to contemplate further
events. How right was the sharp Juvenal in his immortal saying. Absolutely, right.
Reschar monotonously announced the participants in the hearing and briefly
recounted the introductory cases, he did it so mechanically step by step that,
probably, if had been woken up in the middle of the night, he would have sounded
exactly the same. Despite the fact that Henri considered Dujardin to be his main
enemy in this room, it was Reshard who legally opposed him. Today he was not
just a prosecutor, but he was interested in the constitution and the king, which were
allegedly encroached upon. He was supremely engaged in what the rank of Crown
Prosecutor was created for. Wonder if he knew about the circle of lies in which the
poor young man was caught, or was he the same tool of behind-the-scenes play?
Man started an accusatory line. Gradually, he told the progress of the case as he
knew about it. Thanks to the efficiency of the Montpellier police, they managed to
reach one of the conspirators, who was a member of the revolutionary-subversive
club with the ornate name "Recti Aspestus". Its participants were mainly young
people - both natives of the city and visitors. After a series of conversations were
held with the conspirator, he realized the fallacy of his actions and sincerely
repented of the criminal activities in which he was involved. In order to somehow
atone for his guilt before his country and God, he joyfully revealed all the
information he knew about this secret club and its activities. The prosecutor noted
that one should not be prejudiced against all members of this "entity". The
informant rightly explained to them that many of them were just naïve youths who
were interested in all sorts of taboo information and its discussion. This is far from
a crime and deserves only - to conduct corrective conversations. After all,
following such innocent ideas, these boys potentially put themselves in mortal
danger. The danger, mainly emanating from the creators of this cell. Of course,
their main goal was to destabilize the situation in the country, through all sorts of
agitation, propaganda, lies and manipulation. When Henri heard about the lies and
manipulations, for a brief moment he was visited by a kind of bitter smile.
Meanwhile, Reschar continued the story, pointing out what methods the criminals
used to achieve their goals. They recruited young people in private conversations,
staged subversive speeches "disguised as free criticism", and also didn’t hesitate to
print propaganda articles, notes, cartoons, leaflets. Since most of them came from
wealthy families, they also didn’t lack the means to carry out such actions. As a
note, it was added that at the moment the investigation doesn’t yet know whether
the families of these "elements" were aware of the activities of their relatives and
whether they were provided with informed support. However, the cunning,
inventive attackers didn’t stop there. The police have every reason to believe that
by deception they attracted third-party sponsors for their projects. Who, in turn,
were absolutely sure that they were allocating money for noble, respectable deeds.
Presumably, among the victims could be the most noble people of the city, in
particular the Comte de Coligny, cynically fooled by schemers.
At the mention of the Count, Henri's heart began to beat faster. This, no doubt,
concerned him personally. But what could it mean? Is Dujardin really so well
aware of his life? It was impossible to think that such a man as de Coligny was in
cahoots with the Siegfried dragon. But all that remained was to listen further. And
the continue was not long in coming. The prosecutor noted that the purpose of the
conspirators remains quite obvious. The creation of political chaos, reprisals
against the current government and the return of the Bonaparte regime or, even, the
Jacobin dictatorship. At the mention of these big words, the audience in the hall
clearly perked up and began to whisper more actively with each other. They didn't
think it was so serious and terrible. Further, Reschar stated that the investigation
had no reason to believe that the activities of the conspirators were supervised by
third countries, most likely they acted out of the interests of their own profit or the
desire to shed blood and hatred of France. However, it’s possible that in a private
format, they could receive some kind of support from third-party states, especially
unfriendly ones. Henri, he thought, by the gravity and materiality of the charges, it
seemed as if the police had managed to catch the main criminals, if not centuries,
then decades. This story was worthy of a Shakespearean drama. In the meantime,
the Crown Prosecutor was nearing the end of his speech. At the moment, they have
managed to catch all the main suspects in the management of this cell. They will
be tried soon. However, among all the names, one stood out most vividly -
Monsieur Henri Moreau.
As Reschar said this, he turned to the young man and pointed at him with his hand.
It was Moreau, according to words from their informator, who was the head of this
network. He created a club and gathered around him all the other dishonest
elements. He was also responsible for planning certain actions of the cell and
always had the final word in their discussion. Undoubtedly, without Monsieur
Moreau, the club "Recti Aspectus" will lose any opportunity to try to destabilize
the situation.

- That is why we insist on the use of extreme punishment for Mr. Moreau,
because he poses a colossal threat not only to our social or political aspects.
But also for the lives of the citizens this country. - after he bowed slightly,
and turned towards the judges, - That's all for now.

Not for a moment did Henri doubt what was meant by "extreme measure", he
clearly felt how the sharpened knife of the absurd, capable of cutting the neck,
crept closer and closer. It was a strange feeling, not familiar to every person. But
the surging stream was interrupted by a lawyer who abruptly got up from the table
and declared his protest. He immediately pointed out that in his speech, Mr.
Reschar did not provide evidence to support the positions, although he stated their
presence. And the defense is ready to tell the version of the story as it sees it itself.
One of the judges was about to give the floor to the lawyer, when suddenly he was
interrupted by the measured voice of Dujardin: "I have no doubt that you will still
express your opinion, Monsieur Roy. This should be done on record of the
meeting. However, why don't we hear the accused first? - it seemed to Henri that at
this phrase in the intonation of the chairman flashed an evil mockery, - With such
serious accusations, we cannot deprive him of the right to speak ... Moreover,
Monsieur Moreau, I am aware of your amazing oratorical skills, I think you will
not consider my proposal superfluous?"
The jury turned their gaze to Henri. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded
affirmatively.

- Ladies and gentlemen, - the young man began, not quite knowing what he
was going to say, and, in fact, formulated his thoughts as he went, - I don't
know where to start. Probably, from the truth. Some of those present here
are familiar with me and will definitely be able to confirm. I really allowed
myself to criticize certain actions of the authorities. Certainly in order for
them to notice their mistakes and improve. I believe that this is the civic
duty of every conscious Frenchman. However, in my words there was never
a call for chaos, the overthrow of anyone, or even more so, murder. I spoke
within the law. I also did write for a newspaper sponsored by the noble
Comte de Coligny in question, but these articles were always for
informational purposes only. There was no calculated propaganda or
 agitation in them. And the Count himself knew perfectly well what the
newspaper was publishing and, as far as I know, he read some issues. He
cannot be called deceived. As for the "Recti Apesctus" club, described today
almost as the dwelling place of the Devil on earth, I really was a member of
it.
- Which took place in the old apartment of the Countess la Depat? - Reshar
interrupted him
- Exactly. - Henri replied briefly, somewhat surprised that this was also
known to them, - However, everything said about this club is an absolute lie.
Starting with the fact that I was its leader and founder, since the club has no
leader, and it was created even before I joined. Ending it with revolutionary
activities. Talk to any participant. The only thing we did was communicate.
Basically, a discussion of art. - the young man paused for a moment, - The
respected prosecutor mentioned machinations and conspiratorial networks. It
seems to me that the only nefarious conspiracy that is going on is directed
against me. I don't know, - Henri hesitated in his position to openly
speculate about Dujardin, - who is behind this. But it seems to me that this is
the worst person. If you believe these "arguments", you are probably fooled,
as well as I am. Thank you.

The defendant finished his speech, which was rather brief, and sat back down. The
word was immediately intercepted by Reshard.

- You speak beautifully of your own innocence, Monsieur Moreau, exposing

yourself as a victim of behind-the-scenes intrigues. We did not expect a
person of your intellect to be different. However, you also offered to talk to
another member of your "harmless club", what if we do that? Gentlemen of
the judge, can we invite our witness to the courtroom?
- Do you mean your informant, the prosecutor? - the bald man at Dujardin's
right hand asked intriguedly,
- Yes, monsieur. The one who shed light on the crimes of the conspirators.
- In this case, I see no reason to postpone. Enter the witness! - Dujardin
decided and struck with a hammer

Accompanied by escorts, another young man entered the hall. At first, it seemed to
Henri that he hadn’t recognized something. But no. Auguste Bureau was brought
to the pulpit. The Bureau looked even paler and sicklier than usual. His shoulders
were visibly lowered, his forehead was decorated with numerous droplets of sweat,
and his dress was disproportionate as always.

- Gentlemen of the assessors. - he stood in his seat and bowed slightly. There
was no grace in his bow
- Lord Bureau? - Dujardin inquired
- Glad to serve you. - Henri could not remember the last time someone called
Auguste a lord, and he would answer as his status demanded
 - Tell me, lord, do you know this person? - he pointed to Henri
- Yes, Your Lordship.
- Were you in the same association with him called, - Dujardin looked down
at the papers on the table and then raised it back, - "Recti Aspectus"?
- Yes, Your Lordship.
- And this gentleman was really its head and creator?
- Yes, Your Lordship. - At this answer, Henri wanted to jump up and interrupt
him, but, obeying the voice of reason, he sat still
- Tell me, lord. Is it true that you acted as an informant to the police about the
activities of this entity, as Monsieur Reshard told us?
- Yes, Your Lordship. - if Henri had not known Auguste, he would have
thought that he could only speak one sentence
- Then we would ask you to retell everything that you told the police about the
activities of education and, of course, about the role of Monsieur Moreau in
these processes.

And Auguste spoke. His story almost completely repeated the speech of the
prosecutor, with the exception that in some places it added new details, and
somewhere, on the contrary, it omitted. It turned out that Henri was indeed the
founder of a network of conspirators who coordinated their actions and made
plans. Moreover, he personally gave some instructions. For example, the Bureau,
as an artist, received tasks to create propaganda leaflets, cartoons and posters.
Auguste's speech was always difficult to listen to if it lasted too long. Now it
seemed to be an incoherent set of statements, which were spoken by a creature who
couldn’t speak. When the story came to an end, the lawyer again protested the
statement.

- Your Lordship, in spite of all that we have heard from the lord, how can we
be sure that his words are true? That he, as the defendant said, was not in
ignorance? Is there significant evidence that can be considered?
- I am afraid that ignorance of such magnitude and accuracy could only be
created by magic.
- Mr. Prosecutor, - Dujardin assented, - can you show us other proofs of your
position?
- Certainly, Your Lordship.

And Reshar demonstrated. His wards got hold of several examples of propaganda
materials allegedly created at the insistence of Henri. They all had a pronounced
revolutionary character. In one poster, stately, cloyingly handsome young men tore
up a dirty, bloody tapestry with lilies. On the other, emaciated peasants threw off a
giant pile of gold a fat aristocrat with a human bone in his teeth. On the third, a
small, angry, twisted old man was drawn, who was led to the scaffold. Obviously,
it was king Charles X. The monarch's family was standing in line behind him.
Which, of course, could be interpreted as a call for an assassination attempt on the
august persons. All the drawings had caustic captions, such as: "Death to the
executioners - is the freedom of France" or "While you chew the earth, they
swallow diamonds." In the corner of the posters were the initials "R.A.", certainly
pointing to the club as the creators and distributors. Henri thought how stupid it
was for the author of forbidden appeals to subscribe to them himself. Nevertheless,
when these pictures reached his hands, he couldn’t deny that they were all painted
by Auguste. Untalented, faded, completely out of his usual level, but he drew
them. What was that supposed to mean? Never before had the artist created
anything like this, at least the young man didn’t know about it. And certainly,
contrary to what the prosecutor said, Henri didn’t give any instructions for this.
Auguste confirmed that all these materials were created by him as part of his
membership in the club for distribution to the population, in particular to the poor.
After that, the judges asked the artist if he had anything to add, and he replied in
the negative. Despite the fact that during his entire stay in the courtroom, he
practically did not look up, when Auguste left the pulpit, their eyes crossed with
Henri. Obviously, quite by accident, against the wishes and unfortunately of the
artist. Contrary to what the defendant expected to find in them: cunning, malice,
greed, contempt - the young man noticed there only fear, powerlessness and panic.
The scrapping of someone who was himself driven into a cage and wanted only
freedom. This moment evaporated all suspicion of his comrade and he no longer
blamed him for anything. Everything seemed to fall into place. As Auguste was
leaving, he almost caught his foot over the threshold.
The trial didn’t end there. Other people were summoned to testify: Henri's
acquaintances, students or teachers. They gave different comments. Someone
noted that the young man was always very decent and gentle in communication,
someone, such as Professor Trudeau, remembered the impudent trick at Dujardin's
lectures. These testimonies didn’t give clear answers, but they also didn’t help the
accused either. The judges asked questions, the parties answered. By the
appearance of the spectators present, it was possible to understand that they were
gradually beginning to get bored and, if it were not for the scope of the exciting
business, probably would have wanted to leave the hall for a long time. Michel
Etienne Reshire worked clearly and accurately, as he was taught by many years of
tedious, monotonous service practice. Monsieur Rua defended fairly and
qualitatively, probably in the way that the best lawyers do. That is why the best
lawyers often lose their cases.
After some time, the panel of judges announced that they had heard enough and
were ready to retire to make a final decision. Despite the fact that they were not so
long, for Henri these minutes dragged on for eternity. They returned, Dujardin
standing at his seat. Striking with a gavel, and making everyone hold their breath,
he proceeded to announce the verdict. His voice was habitually like mountain
thunder.

- Ladies and gentlemen! Today we considered the case of the young Monsieur
Henri Moreau. Certainly a talented and gifted man. Who could devote his
life to the service the ideals of honor and righteousness. But he chose a
different path. The path of deception, blood and suffering. Between God and
the Devil, Monsieur Moreau unequivocally leaned on the side of the Evil
One, and in everything he wished to be like him. It pains me to say this in
the face of such a young man who did not really have time to understand
what life is. But for the sake of our beautiful country and the well-being of
its citizens, I have no right to do otherwise. We are not able to help such a
lost soul. Tell me, Monsieur Moreau, do you admit your guilt in the crimes
mentioned today? - Henri was silent for a few seconds, moved his eyes
around in confusion, and then replied
- No, it's a hoax
- That's what we thought. - Dujardin sighed, - In that case, the only possible
punishment is death! - he struck again with the gavel, but this time it seemed
to Henri that the blow fell directly on his heart, - However, taking into
account the immature years of Monsieur Moreau and how easily he could
succumb to the pernicious influence, which the defense and the prosecution
insisted on alike, we also decide the necessity of execution by the most
humane and painless method - by decapitation by guillotine. For the same
reasons, and also taking into account the noble origin of the defendant, we
consider it necessary on the last day before the execution, to give the
opportunity to dine in the form and with any dishes in which he will be
interested. Of course, at his personal expense. While in the cell and waiting
for the execution of the sentence, it is necessary to supply Monsieur Moreau
with such literature from his own library as he asks for in order to make the
last days as comfortable as possible. However, the prisoner is strictly
forbidden to talk to any outsider, as he may still be capable of having a
disastrous effect. That's all for the panel of judges. Monsieur Moreau will be
informed of the date of his execution in the coming days. The decision is not
subject to appeal. We thank everyone for the hearing and declare it closed! -
Dujardin struck the last time with a hammer.

Henri wasn’t able to say anything. His bundles decayed and scattered in the wind.
Unconsciously, he turned to the side, and saw many eyes riveted on him. Some
expressed contempt, others sympathy. He didn't care about anything. The jurors
began to disperse quickly, a rumble arose. He didn't know if any of the judges or
prosecutors were looking at him. When he looked in that direction, neither
Reschard nor Dujardin was gone. Monsieur Rua, passing by him, put his hand on
the young man's shoulder and offered his apologies and regrets. He said he did
everything he could.
The officers took him out of the Palais de Justice and placed in a familiar carriage.
All the way from the court to the prison, Henri didn’t feel anything. It seems that
his body no longer belonged to him. And he himself was somewhere else. And, in
general, everything that happened didn’t really happen. It was a disgusting dope.
Returning to the cage, he continued to be in this misunderstood, near-fainting state
for several hours, refusing to eat dinner and drinking only a little water. Thinking
began to return to Henri only in the dead of night. This time, he didn't sleep at all.
Small, rare tears ran down his cheeks.
The execution was scheduled a few weeks later. At about the same time as poor
Katherine had been executed. He wonders what she was thinking when waited for
the execution of the sentence? Did she feel the same way that Henri felt sitting in
his fetid box? It seemed to him that she must have been a wonderful, simple girl,
and after the shame she had experienced, when was called a murderer and a spy in
the courthouse, she herself was glad to lay hands on herself in order to cleanse of
such a shame. Henri didn't care about the shame. He didn't feel any shame. He felt
fooled as a boy who would be killed for crimes he didn't commit. That he will pay
only for the fact that he was not afraid to think and wish for the best. He was
willing to fight. It turns out that this is the end of the struggle? It is the one that
overtakes most of his kind. If they were aware of it, as he is now, would they
continue on this path? Of course, they continued. And he would continue. After all,
now it seemed to him only more necessary and significant. That's what he wanted.
Get out of the cage and open the world's eyes to the horror in which it is kept. He
wanted another chance. He wanted to give a just punishment to all those who
condemned him to this. Now he was not just a freethinker and critic, he himself
became justice. Most often he imagined how he put Dujardin under the blade of
the guillotine instead of himself. And publicly accusing him of crimes against
humanity and the era, he triumphantly cuts off his head. It wasn't cruel. It was fair.
As promised, Henri was given the opportunity to request books from his library.
And he did not give up this right. Although he didn't read anything after that. The
fact that his literature was with him just warmed the heart. That he had at least
something of his own. These "privileges" granted before the execution didn’t seem
to be a favor, but a ruthless mockery. He was also not allowed to meet with any of
his acquaintances - for security reasons, which the young man could violate. None
of the jurors came to him. They seem to have lost interest. How easily Siegfried's
dragon destroyed him. How powerlessly he burned in his tobacco fire.
The young man lived out his days lost, not noticing the life around him, and not
having any goals. Cherishing only the desire to get out and repay the killers who
doomed him. Gradually, he began to look less and less like himself and, it seems,
grew old before eyes. He could go to bed early in the evening, or couldn’t sleep for
a whole day. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered as long as he languished
in Saint-Prix. When he fell asleep, he slept anxiously and often woke up, not
understanding why. Then when the young man covered his head with a pillow, he
wanted to dissolve under it.
However, one day he woke up with a completely strange sensation even for his
condition. It seemed to him that frost and fear embraced the body, although it was
a warm, cloudless night outside. Is this the feeling of approaching death that
people are experience in their last days? He ran his eyes over the cell in confusion
and froze in inexplicable horror for a moment. It seemed to him that there, in the
corner of his tiny cage, in the darkness, which the faint rays of light could not
reach, a figure was sitting on the floor. The next moment seemed that the figure
wasn’t there and this morbid fantasy was joking at him. But the eyes gradually got
used to the darkness of the night, more and more clearly distinguishing the
contours, and it became obvious that the figure really there!
Ratio hastened to reassure him. It's probably just another prisoner or a guard. But if
it was another prisoner, why wasn't he warned? How did Henry not wake up when
he was injected? And why the second prisoner was put in his solitary confinement.
He was sure that there were enough empty places in the prison. If it was a security
guard, what was he doing in the cell? Why was he sitting on the floor? And why
was he silent? Never before young man had seen guards behave like this. Henri
could simply get out of bed and come closer to examine the mysterious stranger
and cast aside unnecessary suspicions. But something did not allow him. Over the
past months, he had been in fear of trial, arbitrariness, deceit, death, and Dujardin -
none of it were like the fear that bound him now, as he stared at the dark figure. He
wanted to turn away from the wall and cover with a blanket, pretend that nothing
had happened, and fall asleep again. Hide from this obsession. Run away from the
figure. But it was there! In the same cell with him. In one closed cell, which no one
could just enter... From which he could not escape...
Unexpectedly for himself, Henri found the strength and whispered quietly, deafly,
almost inaudibly. The voice was alien, not his at all.

- Who are you?

Then there was silence again. It made him even scarier. What has he done? Why
did say that? Now the figure knows for sure that he sees it. Now he has no chance
to escape. Henri cursed himself for his stupidity. But suddenly the answer was
heard. The figure seemed to speak with a masculine timbre, though the young man
was not sure that this voice was not coming from his own head.

- The one who can save you. – he sounded sly, friendliness was threatening,
while there was sweetness and disgusting attraction in him
It took even more courage to continue this conversation than to start.

- How... How did you get here? – and then, in fear, he repeated the same
thing, – Who are you?
- I don't have the desire, and you don't have the opportunity yet. You're going
to die in two days. Your head will fall from your shoulders into a wooden
basket, which will then be picked up by a hairy executioner. You want that...
Or do you want to live? - a lump came to the young man's throat when the
figure showed such accurate knowledge of his fate
- What do you want?
- Save you. Offer a second chance. Escape. - he said everything that Henri so
passionately wanted to hear in the last period, the desire began to fight fear
- Is this reality?
- The same reality as the fact that you are sitting in this vile fortress. I repeat.
Do you want to be saved?
- Ye... Yes? - the figure seems to have grunted contentedly in response.
- When you leave these walls, you will get everything that you could not even
dream of. Your wishes will come true. Your fantasies will take on flesh. No
one but yourself can do any more harm. But in exchange... Well, you'll have
to give up everything known before and get used to living in a new way. Are
you ready for this? - the answer was not long in coming, the primal horror
fell under the onslaught of the rebellious youthful will to live
- Yes.
- Good. - the figure sounded satisfied.

Henri didn’t understand what had happened in the next moment. Didn't have time
to understand. He didn't see a face, he didn't see clothes. Only a pair of red eyes
flashed in front of him from the gloom, fear increased to a scale unknown to
human, and then he lost consciousness and fell on bed. In the morning, during the
distribution of breakfast, the guards of the fortress Saint-Prix found the condemned
Jacobin conspirator Henri Moreau dead in his cell without visible damage.