"How do we tell who our friends are and who our enemies are?" Joseph laughed. "My brother, you've finally asked a question that isn't quite so foolish. Well, Napoleon, think about it: what kind of people want life to change? And what kind of people want to preserve the status quo?"
If they hadn't just had that conversation, Napoleon might have answered at once, "The brave, adventurous, and heroic want change, while the mediocre, those without ideals or ambitions, want to preserve the status quo."
But now, Napoleon had more or less caught on to Joseph's way of thinking, so of course he didn't give such a foolish answer. After thinking it over, he replied, "Those dissatisfied with reality, who believe they deserve a bigger share, want revolution. Those satisfied with the current distribution want to preserve the status quo. Well, Joseph, is that what you mean?"
"Ah, Napoleon." Joseph laughed. "Though I often call you stupid, the truth is that compared with most people, you're quite clever. You're right. Now you should think about who your friends are—the people your revolution will depend on—and who will be your enemies. I don't think writing A History of Corsica is a bad idea at all."
"What do you mean?" Napoleon asked thoughtfully.
"Writing A History of Corsica will give you a chance to meet people from every level of Corsican society, from the top to the bottom. You can use this opportunity to conduct a thorough survey of Corsica and gain a comprehensive understanding of it. Well, my brother, remember: without thorough investigation, you can't make sound judgments, and you have no right to speak."
Napoleon thought it over and nodded. "Joseph, you make sense. I'll get started that way."
"Well, let me tell you, you..." Joseph was just about to explain some methods from the future for conducting social surveys when he heard a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" Joseph asked as he walked toward the door.
"It's me, Armand," came Armand's voice from outside.
Joseph opened the door and found Armand standing there with dark circles under his eyes, looking sleep-deprived—or as if he'd had too much of some kind of "Herb's divine wine." He was holding a bag.
"Armand? Come in and sit down." Joseph ushered him inside and pulled out a chair for him.
"It's a bit of a mess in here. I hope you don't mind." As he spoke, Joseph gathered up the sheets of draft paper and other things strewn across the table.
"Oh, it's fine. My place is even messier." Armand smiled. "Well, do you have any wine? I'm parched after the walk over."
"I'm afraid not." Joseph shook his head with a smile. "My friend, you know I don't drink much. All I have is water. Will that do?"
"Damn it! Fine, any liquid will do! I knew I couldn't count on you for anything like that," Armand said.
"Ah, Napoleon, go get me that pitcher." Joseph turned to his brother.
Napoleon went to fetch it.
"Is this your brother?" Armand asked.
"Yes, this is my stupid brother," Joseph replied casually.
"I think if he put on ancient clothes, he'd be the spitting image of Emperor Pepin—or even Alexander the Great," Armand said. "You might be too hard on your younger brother."
At that, Joseph couldn't help staring at Armand, scanning him from head to toe several times, until Armand finally asked, "Is there something dirty on my face?"
"No," Joseph replied. "I was just checking whether you've sobered up from 'Herb's nectar.'"
"Ah, you think I'm talking nonsense?" Armand immediately replied in a declamatory tone. "O vulgar people, understand this: which of the greatest prophets in the world, those favorites of Apollo, has not revealed the truth while in that mysterious intoxication? You think I'm talking nonsense because I've never met your brother before? Foolish mortals, you don't know that sacred intuition is at work here! In that divinely granted frenzy, I saw the light in your brother's eyes and the flame in his heart at a glance. For one instant, I even thought of a statue of Alexander the Great! Believe me, my friend, your brother will be a great man someday. Truly!"
Napoleon was just coming over with the pitcher. Hearing Armand's praise, he felt rather pleased. As he poured the water, he couldn't help glancing at Joseph, his face practically splitting with a grin.
"Very well, Princess Cassandra, Your Highness, you make a good point," Joseph replied in the same declamatory style. "But you haven't come to my humble abode because you foresaw that my brother would be here and wanted to deliver this prophecy to him, like a witch prophesying to Macbeth, have you?"
Cassandra was the legendary princess of Troy and priestess of Apollo, god of prophecy. When she rejected Apollo's advances, he cursed her with a clear vision of the future—but no one would ever believe her prophecies.
"Ah, you still don't believe me," Armand said. "Just wait and see. As for why I came here, well, I certainly didn't foresee that I'd run into your brother. Well, Joseph, remember that play we talked about last time? The one about Spartacus?"
"Of course. Have you finished it?" Joseph stared at Armand in surprise. "That doesn't sound like you, Armand. It's not your style. Your style is to write no more than twenty words a day, after all."
"Ah, you're right. But that's only under normal circumstances." Armand didn't deny that he usually wrote no more than twenty words a day. "This time was different. Some mysterious force drove me to write without sleep or rest. The ancient Greeks believed that tragic playwrights weren't really creating their own works; the gods were creating through their hands. That's how I felt while writing Spartacus. The gods took hold of my hand and made me write without stopping—I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. Joseph, I didn't write this. The Muse was creating through me. I was only a scribe being driven along. So even though I wrote this play faster than anything I'd written before, its quality surpasses all my previous work. Compared with this, my earlier stuff is like the Graeae—those three hideously ugly witches from Greek mythology who shared one eye—next to Helen. Do you want to take a look right away?"
"All right, don't start praising yourself," Joseph said. "You sound like a charlatan selling indulgences. Hurry up and give me the play."
"Here you go!" Armand handed Joseph the bag.
Joseph took it and opened it. Inside was a stack of manuscripts, already bound together.
"Keep yourself occupied. I'll read it first," Joseph said, opening the manuscript.
"Suit yourself," Armand said.
Napoleon also came over to read along with Joseph.
Armand leaned back in his chair and looked around idly. Soon he noticed Louis standing off to the side, not saying much, and eagerly started chatting him up.
Sunlight streamed through the window onto Joseph's desk. As time passed, it crawled slowly across the tabletop like a snail. By the time Joseph finished reading the entire play, the sunlight had crept from one end of the desk to the other.
"Well? What do you think?" Armand hurriedly asked when Joseph put the manuscript down. All this time, he'd been teasing Louis now and then, trying his best to fill the boy's head with things harmful to the minds and bodies of young people, but he'd also been keeping a close eye on Joseph and Napoleon.
Joseph didn't answer. After a long while, he sighed and turned to Napoleon. "Napoleon, I've told you before that even a gifted person has to keep working hard to achieve anything. Look at the example right in front of you. This bastard named Armand is a thoroughgoing bastard, a playboy, and the perfect example of a life wasted. You think this play is pretty good, don't you? That's because you haven't read the rubbish he wrote before. Compared with this, it's all trash! If this bastard applied himself and worked hard, he could probably catch up to Corneille, or even reach the heels of Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles. But this bastard spends most of his time drinking himself stupid and carousing!... Speaking of drinking, though, your play does make a person want a drink after reading it. Well, it's dinnertime now. How about you treat us to a drink?"
The change of tack was so abrupt that even Armand was taken aback. But he quickly understood that Joseph thought very highly of his play.
"Fine, my treat," Armand said readily. "We can talk over drinks. I know a place that serves excellent Poitou brandy..."
They went out, hailed a cab, and soon arrived at a little tavern called May Lilac. Armand was clearly a regular. As soon as he entered, he greeted the owner and the landlady, whose waist was nearly twice the size of her husband's, with practiced ease. "Get us a quiet table, and bring a dozen brandies!"
"Of course, Armand. Your usual table, with a view of the Seine River," the landlady called out. The owner personally led them over.
They sat down at the table, and Armand said to the owner, "Phil, just bring us whatever goes well with a drink. I have no interest in looking at your menu that never changes."
The owner acknowledged him and left. Before long, all kinds of dishes and the brandy were brought out.
"Napoleon, you can have a little, but no more than one glass. Louis, you can't drink," Joseph said to his younger brothers as he filled his own glass to the brim.
"Having an older brother is a real misfortune," Armand said.
"Armand, there's still a problem with this play of yours—and a major one," Joseph said.
"What problem?" Armand asked quickly.
"It's too sharp. If you don't revise it, it'll be banned. But if you do revise it, it won't have this power to shake people to their core," Joseph replied.
Before you continue