Armand's Friend

In April 1787, spring still carried a chill. Only tiny, grain-of-rice-sized buds had appeared on the sun-facing willow branches beside the Seine River, while winter's cold had not yet left the rest of the world.

"Did you know, Joseph? Actually, compared with May, when the flowers are in full bloom, I like April better." Armand walked slowly along the banks of the Seine River and said this to Joseph, who was walking beside him.

"Why?" Joseph asked.

"Because April is the season of budding, the season of greatest hope. The chill hasn't faded, and the snow and ice haven't completely melted. You can look up and gaze beyond the city, where you'll still see patches of snow lingering in the shaded hollows of the hills. But look at these willows by the river—the coming of spring is, after all, unstoppable." Armand spoke with a deeper meaning.

"You have a point," Joseph said. "But April is also the cruelest month."

"Why do you say that?" Armand asked.

"Do you know, Armand?" Joseph looked around, then pointed at a bare sapling not far away. "Take that lilac tree, for example. Last year, it produced thousands upon thousands of seeds. Armand, every one of those seeds will try to sprout in April."

"What's wrong with that?" Armand asked, puzzled.

Joseph walked over to the bare lilac tree and ran his hand over its rough trunk. Then he turned back and said, "Armand, out of the thousands upon thousands of seeds this tree produced, how many will manage to grow even a single tender leaf? And of the seeds lucky enough to sprout, how many will grow into a great tree like this one, covered in flowers in spring? Think about it, Armand. Even in the harshest winter, all those thousands upon thousands of seeds are still alive. Yet here in April, most of them die silently in the soil. Think about how many lives end in silence in April, how many hopes quietly perish. Just think: even now, perhaps right beneath our feet, countless lives are dying... April is the cruellest month, lilacs growing in the wasteland, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering the earth in forgetful snow, and giving a little life to dry root bulbs..."

"Wait a moment..." Armand said. "Joseph, it's a real shame you didn't become a poet. Yes, what you've said is quite interesting. But I've heard a similar argument from someone else, though his conclusion was different from yours. He said that in a revolution, many people would pay the price, even with their lives; many would die. But that didn't mean the revolution was wrong. If we didn't revolt, if winter and snow lasted forever, lives might be lost more slowly, but an endless winter would eventually wither every living thing. After all, dry root bulbs can only sustain life for so long. A revolution may cost us a great deal in the short term, but in the long run, it will win us much more."

"Who said that to you?" Joseph asked.

"Marat, a doctor," Armand replied.

"Marat? Could he be the one who was murdered in his bathtub, sent to the Panthéon after his death, then taken out again not long afterward?" Joseph wondered. But aloud he asked, "The same man who wrote Research on the Properties of Fire? I've heard my uncle mention him."

"Then my uncle must not have had anything good to say about him," Armand said with a laugh. This also confirmed that the Marat Armand meant was the same one Joseph had in mind.

"Lavoisier only mentioned his views in passing while discussing erroneous theories. In fact, aside from the word 'absurd,' which he used to describe Marat's conclusions, he had nothing else to say about him. What, did he and your uncle have a disagreement?"

"Not exactly a disagreement," Armand replied. "They simply had different academic opinions. But my uncle mocked him mercilessly, and his words may have been a little harsh, so the two of them didn't get along. Still, that's between him and my uncle. Marat is quite talented in his own right. Yes, he's one of the friends I hope you'll get to meet."

At that, Armand looked ahead and said, "We're almost there. The Abel Beer Hall is just up ahead. The friends I told you about are waiting for us there."

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

"It's not for any particular reason. The main thing is that the beer here is cheap," Armand said. "Of course, it's all home-brewed and untaxed."

The two of them continued on their way as they talked. After about a hundred steps, they turned right into a narrow alley, then walked another twenty paces or so and stopped in front of a house.

They were already close to one of Paris's poor districts, so most of the houses here were low and shabby, all the same dull gray, like the expressions on poor people's faces. This house was no different. Its door was shut, and there was no signboard or anything else outside. From the street, it looked almost exactly like the houses beside it.

Armand went to the door and knocked. It didn't open; a voice from inside simply asked, "Who is it?"

"I'm a friend of Albert's," Armand replied.

The door opened a crack, but it was pitch-black inside, and Joseph could only just make out a pair of eyes scrutinizing them. Then he heard a voice say, "He's a friend." The door swung fully open.

Armand led Joseph inside, and the door closed behind them. As soon as it shut, the whole house went dark. It took Joseph a while to adjust, and in the process he made out the person standing in front of them.

The young man looked about Armand's age. He had black, slightly curly hair and a pair of eyes that glittered like lightning even in the darkness.

The young man clearly knew that their eyes needed time to adjust after coming in, so he stood quietly and waited. Only once Joseph and Armand had grown accustomed to the dim light did he say, "Armand, and this gentleman..."

"Joseph Bonaparte," Joseph quickly introduced himself.

"Then, Mr. Bonaparte, please come with me," the young man said. He turned and walked farther inside.

After leading them down a corridor, the young man opened a door and ushered them into a larger room.

The room faced the back courtyard and had relatively large windows, so it was somewhat brighter. A large round table stood in the middle, with several people sitting around it.

At the sound of the door opening, they all looked over. One man even stood and waved at Joseph and Armand. "Hey! Our great scientist and great writer have finally arrived."

Joseph knew him. It was his classmate Oreno. After graduating, Oreno had become a lawyer and left Paris for the provinces. He and Joseph had exchanged quite a few letters, but rarely met in person. Joseph hadn't expected him to be back in Paris now.

"Oreno, what are you doing here? You didn't even write to let me know you were coming," Joseph said, pleasantly surprised.

"I had some work that brought me to Paris. It was a last-minute decision, and I figured a messenger probably couldn't get here faster than I could. Once I arrived and finished my business, I'd meant to come find you. But Armand told me you were coming here with him today, so I came straight here to wait for you," Oreno said. "Welcome, Joseph."

After welcoming Joseph, Oreno and Armand began introducing the people present.

"This is our great lawyer, Danton," Oreno began, introducing the somewhat stout giant in his twenties seated beside him. "He's one of my teachers. He's taught me a great deal lately."

Joseph knew this was Danton, one of the three famous leaders of the Jacobins, and couldn't help taking a closer look.

He was an unkempt giant, dressed in a loose, bright-red wool coat. His untied cravat hung below the front of his waistcoat, leaving his neck bare. His coat was open, with some of its buttons missing, and he wore long boots with turned-down cuffs. His hair stuck up in disarray, and his wig clearly contained horsehair. His face was pockmarked, but a kindly smile played at the corner of his mouth. He had thick lips, large teeth, huge fists, and bright eyes.

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

"I'm honored to meet a future great scientist as well," Danton replied.

"This handsome devil, who looks like an angel and makes me so jealous I can't sleep at night if I look at him for too long, is our friend Louis," Armand said, introducing the young man who had just led them inside.

"Hello. I've read some of your works. If I have time in the future, I hope I can ask you some questions about mathematics," the young man called Louis said. Joseph returned his greeting and noticed that Louis really was as handsome as an angel, just as Armand had said. His slightly curly flaxen hair, skin smooth and luminous as cream, and eyes as clear and lively as autumn waters... If he would only smile, those eyes could be enough to open the roses in any young woman's heart, even if his gaze merely brushed past her like a soft May west wind. But there was hardly a trace of a smile on Louis's face, as if he really were carved from marble.

If he'd been born in a later age, he wouldn't have needed to do a thing. With that face, he'd never have had to worry about putting food on the table. Joseph couldn't help thinking, a little enviously.