Investigation into Corsican Social Strata and Armand's Script

"How do we determine who is our friend and who is our enemy?" Joseph smiled. "My brother, you have finally asked a question that isn't entirely foolish. Well, Napoleon, think about it: what kind of people desire change in their lives? What kind of people wish to maintain the status quo?"

Had it not been for their previous conversation, Napoleon might have immediately replied, "Those who are brave, adventurous, and heroic desire change, while those who are mediocre, lacking ideals and ambition, wish to maintain the status quo."

However, having largely caught up to Joseph's line of thinking, Napoleon naturally avoided such a naive answer. He pondered for a moment and replied, "Those who are dissatisfied with reality and believe they deserve a larger share want revolution, while those satisfied with the current distribution wish to maintain the status quo. Is that what you mean, Joseph?"

"Ah, Napoleon." Joseph smiled. "Though I often call you a blockhead, in truth, you are quite clever compared to most. Your reasoning is sound. Now, you must consider who the friends are that your revolution should rely upon, and who your enemies will be. I think your idea to write History of Corsica is actually not a bad one."

"What do you mean?" Napoleon asked, looking thoughtful.

"Writing History of Corsica will provide you with an opportunity to engage with all of Corsican society—from the highest echelons to the lowest. By taking this opportunity, you can conduct a comprehensive survey of Corsica, allowing you to gain a thorough understanding of the island. You see, my brother, without thorough investigation, there is no accurate judgment, and thus no right to speak."

Napoleon thought it over, nodded, and said, "Joseph, what you say makes sense. I shall start with that."

"Yes, and let me tell you, you..." Joseph was just about to share some methods from the future regarding how to conduct social surveys when he heard a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" Joseph asked, walking toward the entrance.

"It's me, Armand," came the voice from outside.

Joseph opened the door to find Armand standing there with dark circles under his eyes, looking as though he were suffering from sleep deprivation or perhaps an excess of some "nectar of Hebe," holding a bag in his hand.

"Armand? Come in and sit." Joseph ushered him inside and pulled up a chair.

"It's a bit messy in here, I hope you don't mind," Joseph said while clearing away the draft papers from the table.

"Oh, it's fine. My place is even messier," Armand laughed. "Say, do you have any wine? I've been walking, and I'm thirsty enough to smoke."

"I'm afraid not," Joseph said with a smile, shaking his head. "My friend, you know I don't drink much. I only have plain water. Will that do?"

"Damn it! Fine, as long as it's liquid! I should have known better than to expect anything else here," Armand said.

"Napoleon, go fetch the pitcher for me," Joseph said, turning to his brother.

Napoleon went to retrieve the pitcher.

"Is this your brother?" Armand asked.

"Yes, this is my foolish brother," Joseph replied casually.

"I think if he were dressed in ancient robes, he would be the living image of King Pepin, or even Alexander the Great," Armand remarked. "Perhaps you are too harsh on your brother."

Hearing this assessment, Joseph couldn't help but stare 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 to see if you had sobered up from your 'nectar of Hebe' yet."

"Ah, you think I am babbling?" Armand replied in a tone as dramatic as an aria. "O, vulgar man! Do you not know that the greatest prophets of the world, those favorites of Apollo, all spoke the truth of the world while in that state of mystical intoxication? You think I am talking nonsense because you have never seen your brother before? Foolish mortal, you do not realize that divine intuition is at work. It was in this god-given frenzy that I saw, at a single glance, the light in your brother's eyes and the fire in his heart. In that instant, I was reminded of the statue of Alexander the Great! Believe me, my friend, your brother will be extraordinary one day. Truly!"

Napoleon, who was carrying the pitcher over, felt quite pleased upon hearing Armand's assessment of him. As he came over to pour the water, he couldn't help but glance at Joseph, his face beaming with a smile.

"Very well, Princess Cassandra, your words have merit," Joseph replied, also using an aria-like tone. "But since you have graced my humble abode, surely you didn't foresee my brother being here and come to deliver this prophecy, much like the witch who spoke to Macbeth?"

Cassandra was the legendary princess of Troy and a priestess of the god of prophecy, Apollo. Because she rejected Apollo's advances, he cursed her so that she could see the future clearly, but no one would ever believe her prophecies.

"Ah, you still don't believe me," Armand said. "But just wait and see. As for my purpose here, well, I certainly did not foresee meeting your brother. Joseph, do you remember that play we mentioned last time? The one about Spartacus?"

"I remember. You finished it?" Joseph looked at Armand in surprise. "This doesn't sound like you, Armand. It isn't your style; you know, your style is usually no more than twenty words a day."

"Ah, you are right. But that is only under normal circumstances," Armand did not deny his usual habit of writing fewer than twenty words a day. "But this time was different. A mysterious power drove me to write without rest. The ancient Greeks believed that playwrights were not truly creating themselves, but that the gods were creating through their hands. When I was writing Spartacus, I had that very feeling—the gods gripped my hand and made me write, and I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. Joseph, I did not create this; the Muse created it through me. I was merely a driven scribe. Therefore, even though this play was written faster than any of my previous works, its quality far surpasses them. Compared to this, my previous works are like the Graeae compared to Helen. Don't you want to take a look?"

"Alright, stop singing your own praises," Joseph said. "You look like a peddler of indulgences. Hurry up and give me the script."

"Here!" Armand handed the bag to Joseph.

Joseph took the bag and opened it to find a stack of bound manuscripts.

"Amuse yourself for a moment; I'm going to read this," Joseph said to Armand as he began flipping through the pages.

"As you wish," Armand said.

Napoleon leaned in to read along with Joseph.

Armand leaned back in his chair, looking around in boredom. He soon noticed Louis, who was standing to the side and not saying much, and began enthusiastically trying to engage him in conversation.

Sunlight streamed through the window, falling onto Joseph's desk. As time passed, the patch of sunlight crawled across the desk like a snail. By the time Joseph finished reading the entire play, the sunlight had moved from one end of the desk to the other.

"Well?" Seeing Joseph put down the manuscript, Armand asked hurriedly. During this time, although he had been chatting idly with Louis, trying to fill the boy's head with things harmful to his development, he had actually been keeping a close eye on Joseph and Napoleon.

Joseph did not speak for a long while, then sighed and turned to Napoleon. "Napoleon, I once told you that even if a person has talent, they must work hard to achieve anything. Look at the example before you. This bastard Armand is an absolute scoundrel, a playboy, a classic example of someone wasting his life. You think this play is good, don't you? That's only because you haven't seen the trash he used to write; compared to this, that was pure garbage! If this bastard were serious and worked hard, he might even catch up to Corneille, or perhaps even touch the heels of Aeschylus, Euripides, or Sophocles. Yet this bastard spends most of his time drinking and carousing! ...But speaking of drinking, Armand, your play does make one want to have a glass. It's dinner time now—why don't you treat us to a drink?"

The turn in the conversation was a bit abrupt, leaving Armand momentarily stunned. However, he quickly realized that Joseph held his play in very high regard.

"Very well, I'll pay," Armand said readily. "We can talk while we drink. I know a place where the Poitou brandy is excellent..."

The group headed out, hailed a carriage, and soon arrived at a small tavern called "May Lilac." Armand was clearly a regular; as soon as he entered, he greeted the owner and his wife—whose waist was nearly twice the size of her husband's—with practiced ease. "Get us a quiet spot, and bring a dozen brandies!"

"Certainly, Armand, the usual spot, the one with the view of the Seine," the landlady called out loudly. The owner personally led them over.

As they sat at the table, Armand said to the owner, "Philipe, just bring us something drinkable; I have no interest in looking at your unchanging menu."

The owner acknowledged him and left. Before long, various dishes and the brandy were served.

"Napoleon, you may have a little, but no more than one glass. Louis, you are not to drink," Joseph said, pouring himself a full glass of wine before turning to his brothers.

"Having an older brother is truly a misfortune," Armand remarked.

"Armand, there is still a problem with this play of yours, and a major one at that," Joseph said.

"What problem?" Armand asked urgently.

"It is too sharp. If it isn't modified, it will be banned. But if you do modify it, it will lose its soul-stirring power," Joseph replied.