Fouché's Decision

When Fouché's carriage arrived in Paris, Fouché learned that all his plans on the carriage had been in vain, as both Desmoulins and Danton had already been sent to the guillotine. That night, the lights in Fouché's residence remained on, and no one knew what Fouché was doing.

The next morning, Fouché went to the National Assembly immediately. He was almost the first person to arrive at the assembly. When he entered the assembly hall, the entire hall was empty except for a cleaning staff member.

Fouché, feeling uneasy, sat down in his seat in the Mountain. Gradually, more councilors entered the hall and sat down, but no one spoke to or greeted Fouché. In fact, this indifference didn't necessarily mean anything else, as the councilors themselves didn't speak to or greet each other either.

In Fouché's memory, the National Assembly was always bustling, sometimes as lively as a marketplace. No one gave a speech; members were constantly whispering among themselves, some discussing the current situation, others admiring the beauty of a certain socialite. When a member spoke from the podium, those in agreement would applaud, those in opposition would whistle, and some would even take off their shoes and bang them on the table, making the assembly even more lively. But now, many members had already entered the assembly hall, yet they all sat silently in their seats, motionless, like stone statues in a cemetery. The entire assembly hall resembled a quiet and somber mausoleum.

Time passed, and it was time for the meeting. However, most of the seats in the parliament hall were still empty—the seats on the right had been vacant for a long time, as those who used to sit there had long since disappeared; now even the seats on the left were mostly empty. Fouché only needed to glance around to see that the seats of Chaumette, Danton, Desmoulins, Chabot, Hébert, Fabre de Gennady... dozens of people were empty.

Looking further over, Fouché saw a man with a sallow face and a low, receding forehead, who was also looking at Fouché with his small eyes—it was Robespierre. Robespierre noticed that Fouché was also looking at him, so he smiled back at Fouché —like a lion smiling at a rabbit already under its paws.

Fouché's heart clenched. In that terrifying smile, he saw Robespierre's undisguised malice. He couldn't help but tremble, cold sweat pouring down his back despite the spring heat. His hands and feet were icy. What had become of this society? Everywhere seemed to be oppressing a pitiful chameleon like him. Tears almost welled up uncontrollably (fortunately, Fouché had large, resilient eyes). Hell was empty, and all the devils were here on earth...

Fouché knew he couldn't wait any longer. He stood up, walked to the podium, and said to the host, "I am citizen Joseph Fouché, special envoy to the Marseille region, ordered to return to Paris to report to the 'Committee of Public Safety.' But I think it might be better to discuss these matters here."

Fouché's actions were a challenge. It was not the National Assembly that ordered him back to Paris, but the Committee of Public Safety, and it was not the National Assembly that required him to report, but the Committee of Public Safety. However, instead of reporting to the Committee of Public Safety, he directly requested to report to the National Assembly, which was theoretically the Committee of Public Safety's superior body. This was bypassing the proper channels of communication, a challenge to the Committee of Public Safety, and a challenge to Robespierre.

Fouché gazed at the host, who hesitated for a moment, then looked up and glanced towards the audience—perhaps he was looking at Robespierre. Then he said to Fouché, "Very well, citizen Fouché, you may come up and speak."

Fouché up to the podium and habitually glanced at the audience. He noticed that Robespierre was looking at him with great interest, just as Tom looked at Jerry was already caught in his clutches.

Fouché took a deep breath and began his speech.

Fouché's speech was rich in content, sincere in emotion, and took a considerable amount of time. However, if we were to summarize it, it would be relatively simple: I shed blood for the Jacobin, I served the Jacobin, and I want to continue being Jacobin dog; you cannot do this...

The assembly listened in silence. No one applauded, no one whistled, and no one tapped their shoes on the table. Only Fouché's voice echoed in the empty hall, just as it would echo in an empty cemetery.

Finally, Fouché's speech ended, and the room remained silent, as if everyone had died and only clay figures and wooden sticks remained.

Fouché didn't know how he finally stepped down from the podium. He returned to his seat, trembling with fear. He knew that his resistance had been a complete failure. The National Assembly no longer the same; the courage of that time had been worn away by a series of changes.

Ever since the executioner stormed into their ranks like Polyphemus (the Cyclops in Greece mythology who once broke into Odysseus's party, captured his companions, and ate them), taking some of them to the guillotine, the remaining members of the National Assembly had become increasingly demoralized, almost like puppets.

At this moment, Robespierre stood up. Fouché was pale and trembling. He knew that if Robespierre spoke and said that he was a traitor, a venomous snake with its tongue out, all the members of parliament would applaud and cheer, and then someone would propose to arrest the traitor Fouché and hand him over to the Revolutionary Tribunal for trial, and then... Fouché was all too familiar with this process.

"Regarding the report of the citizens of Fouché, I suggest that the National Assembly hand this matter over to the 'Committee of Public Safety'," Robespierre said.

This statement completely surprised Fouché. Robespierre could have simply demanded that the National Assembly declare him a traitor and arrest him. If Robespierre had said that, the remaining members of parliament would have all raised their hands in agreement. But Robespierre made this demand instead...

Robespierre's suggestion immediately received the support of all the members of parliament, and the matter was settled. Fouché was like a fish leaping in a fishing net; he tried to escape to the blue sky, but ultimately fell helplessly into the large net that still surrounded him.

Fouché left the National Assembly in a daze and returned to his residence. However, he quickly forced himself to calm down—panic was useless, and if he wanted to save his life, he had to calm down first.

Fouché was not like Danton or Desmoulins, who possessed an artistic sensibility and were willing to face death calmly. He decided that, no matter what, he would struggle to the very last moment.

Then Fouché thought of Robespierre's actions that day. He began to ponder what Robespierre really meant by doing so. Finally, he came to these two guesses.

First, Robespierre did want his life, but he didn't want to just kill him outright. Instead, he wanted to play with his fear and despair like a cat playing with a mouse, and then, after he was done playing, bite off his neck in one fell swoop.

Secondly, Robespierre wanted him to obediently submit to him, surrender, and repent, and then serve him as a dutiful dog.

Fouché felt that the first possibility was more likely, at least based on his understanding of Robespierre. However, the second possibility could not be completely ruled out. After all, Fouché felt that he, as a dog, was still very useful and valuable.

Fouché was a very proactive man, and once he had this idea, he put it into practice without hesitation. Fouché immediately roused himself, left his residence, and went to Robespierre's residence on Saint-Honoré Street. This Calvin of the First French Republic (the leader of the Calvinism Protestantism the Reformation, who once burned Servetus, who opposed his doctrines) rented a small attic on this street to demonstrate his poverty and virtue.

Fouché and Robespierre discussed that evening remains unknown, as Fouché never mentioned it to anyone afterward. However, we can speculate about what Fouché encountered by examining the experiences of others in similar circumstances.

Barras also went there to apologize to Robespierre and beg for forgiveness. Downstairs, he first encountered difficulties with the landlord, a devout follower of Robespierre. Barras was searched by the landlord because he suspected Barras might be an assassin.

Then Barras climbed the wooden ladder to the attic, and in a narrow room with a portrait of Robespierre hanging on the wall, he met Robespierre. Robespierre didn't even offer him a chair, but made him stand there to talk.

Fouché must have, like Barras, humbled himself before Robespierre, weeping and begging for forgiveness. And Robespierre would most likely have done the same to Barras, berating him mercilessly. The only difference was that Barras was forgiven, while Fouché was not.

As Fouché left Saint-Honoré Street, he trembled with fear and rage. He knew Robespierre was determined to behead him. What could he do now? Perhaps tomorrow morning, someone would knock on his door, and when he opened it, he would see several National Guard soldiers, and an officer in charge would say to him, "Joseph Fouché, you are arrested for attempting to overthrow the Republican government and restore feudalism!"

At that point, could he still say, "Sorry, you've made a mistake, Joseph Fouché lives next door," and then take the opportunity to escape? But where could he escape to? There would be no place for him in France. He had killed so many nobles; even if he left France, the exiles wouldn't let him go... Moreover, once he escaped, everything he had fought for would be gone.

On the dark and cold streets of Saint-Honoré Street, Fouché's steps gradually became firm: he could neither wait to die nor run away; he had only one choice, one way, and that was to cut off Robespierre's head before Robespierre could cut off his own!