Armand's Friend

It was April 1787, a time when the chill of spring still lingered. On the banks of the Seine, the sun-facing willow branches had only just sprouted buds the size of half a grain of rice, while elsewhere, the winter cold had yet to retreat.

"Do you know, Joseph? Actually, compared to the blooming flowers of May, I prefer April." Armand said this to Joseph, who was walking alongside him, as they strolled slowly along the riverbank.

"Why?" Joseph asked.

"Because April is the season of budding, the season of greatest hope. Although the chill has not yet faded and the ice and snow have not fully melted—if you look up toward the hills outside the city, you can still see patches of unmelted snow in the shadows—look at these willow branches by the river. The arrival of spring is, after all, unstoppable." Armand said, implying something more.

"There is some truth to what you say," Joseph replied, "but April is also the cruelest month."

"Why do you say that?" Armand asked.

"Do you know, Armand?" Joseph looked around, then pointed to a small, bare sapling not far away. "Take that lilac, for example. Last year, this lilac produced thousands upon thousands of seeds. Armand, all of these seeds will attempt to sprout in April."

"Is there something wrong with that?" Armand asked, puzzled.

Joseph walked over to the bare lilac tree, reached out to touch its rough trunk, and turned back. "Armand, out of the thousands of seeds from this tree, how many can grow even a single small sprout? And of those seeds that manage to sprout, how many can grow into a tree like this, capable of blooming with flowers in the spring? Armand, think about it. Even in the harshest winter, these thousands of seeds were all alive, but in this April, the vast majority of them die silently in the soil. Think about how many lives die silently in April, how many hopes are extinguished without a sound. Even now, think about it—perhaps right beneath our feet, in the soil, countless lives are perishing... April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering earth in forgetful snow, feeding a little life with dried tubers..."

"Wait a moment..." Armand said. "Joseph, I find it a great pity that you are not a poet. Hmm, your perspective is indeed very interesting. However, I have heard a similar sentiment from someone else, though his final conclusion was different from yours. He said that in a revolution, many people will pay a price, even the price of their lives; many people will die. But this does not mean that the revolution is wrong. Because if there is no revolution, if it remains a winter covered in ice and snow forever, the passing of life might be slower, but the persistent, harsh winter will inevitably cause all life to wither. After all, one cannot rely on dried tubers for long. And revolution, while it may cause us to lose much in the short term, will win us much more in the long run."

"Who told you that?" Joseph asked.

"Marat, a doctor," Armand replied.

"Marat? Could it be the one who was assassinated in his bathtub, sent to the Panthéon after his death, only to be removed not long after?" Joseph thought to himself, but asked aloud, "Is he the same man who wrote Research on the Properties of Fire? I have heard your uncle mention him."

"Then my uncle must not have said anything good about him," Armand laughed. This confirmed that the Marat Armand spoke of was indeed the one Joseph had in mind.

"Mr. Lavoisier only mentioned his views in passing while discussing those erroneous theories. In fact, aside from the word 'absurd' used to describe his conclusions, Mr. Lavoisier had no other comments about him. Why, did he and your uncle have a conflict?"

"Conflict is not the word for it," Armand replied. "It was merely a disagreement in academic opinion. However, my uncle mocked him quite severely, perhaps with rather harsh language, so he and my uncle are not on good terms. But that is between him and my uncle; the man is actually quite talented. Hmm, I hope he is among the friends you are about to meet."

At this, Armand looked ahead and added, "We are almost there. The Abel Beer Hall is just ahead, and the friends I mentioned are waiting for us there."

"Why choose such a remote place?" Joseph asked.

"Not for any other reason, mainly because the beer here is cheap," Armand said. "Of course, this beer is privately brewed and untaxed."

The two continued walking as they spoke. After about a hundred paces, they turned right into a small alley, walked another twenty paces or so, and arrived in front of a house.

This area was close to the poor districts of Paris, so the houses here were mostly low and dilapidated, all of a uniform, gray color, much like the expressions on the faces of the poor. This house was naturally no exception. The door was closed, and there was no sign or anything else outside. From the outside, the house looked almost identical to those next to it.

Armand walked to the door and knocked. The door did not open; instead, a voice came from within: "Who is it?"

"I am a friend of Albert," Armand replied.

The door opened a crack, but it was pitch black inside, and Joseph could only vaguely see what seemed to be a pair of eyes examining them. Then he heard a voice say, "It is a friend." The door then opened fully.

Armand led Joseph inside, and the door closed behind them. As the door shut, the entire room plunged into darkness. It took a while for Joseph's eyes to adjust to the change, and he finally saw the person standing before them.

It was a young man about the same age as Armand, with black, slightly curly hair and a pair of eyes that shone like lightning even in the dark.

The young man clearly knew they had just entered and that their eyes needed time to adjust, so he stood there quietly until Joseph and the others could see in the dim light before saying, "Armand, and this is..."

"Joseph Bonaparte," Joseph quickly introduced himself.

"Then, Mr. Bonaparte, please come in with me," the young man said. He then turned and walked deeper into the house.

Passing through a corridor, the young man pushed open a door and led them into a larger room.

This room backed onto a courtyard and had relatively larger windows, making it somewhat brighter. In the middle of the room stood a large round table, with several people sitting around it.

Hearing the door open, these people looked toward them. One man stood up and waved at Joseph and Armand: "Hey, our great scientist and great writer have finally arrived."

Joseph recognized the man; it was his classmate Oreno. After graduation, Oreno had become a lawyer and left Paris for the provinces. He and Joseph had exchanged many letters, but they rarely met. He had not expected him to be back in Paris now.

"Oreno, why are you here? You didn't even write to tell me you were coming," Joseph said, pleasantly surprised.

"I had to run to Paris for some work. It was a last-minute decision, and I figured the messenger wouldn't be faster than me. Once I arrived in Paris and finished my business, I intended to look for you, but when I heard from Armand that you were coming here with him today, I just came here to wait for you," Oreno said. "Joseph, welcome."

After welcoming Joseph, Oreno and Armand began to introduce the people present to him.

"This is our great lawyer, Danton," Oreno first introduced a slightly chubby, burly man in his twenties sitting next to him. "He is one of my mentors. During this time, he has taught me many things."

Joseph knew this was Danton, one of the future "Big Three" of the Jacobins, and could not help but take a few extra looks at him.

He was a slovenly giant, wearing a wide, bright red woolen coat, his untied cravat hanging below his lapels to reveal his neck, his coat open with some buttons missing, and wearing turned-down boots. His hair stood up in a mess, and there was clearly horsehair in his wig. His face was slightly pockmarked, but his mouth held a kind smile; his lips were thick, his teeth large, his fists sturdy, and his eyes bright.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Joseph said, bowing slightly.

"I am also honored to meet a future great scientist," Danton replied.

"This fellow, who is as handsome as an angel—the kind that makes me jealous enough to lose sleep just by looking at him—is our friend Albert," Armand said, introducing the young man who had just led them in.

"Greetings. I have read some of your works. If there is time in the future, I hope to ask you some questions regarding mathematics," the young man named Albert said. Joseph returned the greeting, noting that as Armand had said, Albert was as handsome as an angel. His slightly curly flaxen hair, skin as delicate and smooth as suet, and eyes as clear and lively as autumn water... If he were willing to smile, paired with those eyes, even if his gaze were as gentle as the west wind of May, it would be enough to bloom the roses in any girl's heart. Yet, there was almost no smile on Albert's face, as if he were truly carved from marble.

If he had been born in a later age, he wouldn't need to do anything; just relying on this face would be enough to never worry about a meal, Joseph could not help but think with a touch of jealousy.