In April of 1787, when spring was in full swing, the sunny branches of the willows along the Seine were only sprouting buds the size of half meters, while elsewhere the cold of winter was not far away.
"You know what, Joseph. I actually prefer April to the flower-filled month of May." While walking slowly along the bank of the Seine River, Armand said this to Joseph, who was walking side by side.
"Why?" Joseph asked.
"For April is the season of budding, the season of greatest hope. Though the cold has not yet subsided, and the snow and ice have not yet completely melted, and if you raise your head and look out of the city, you can still see the remnants of the snow that has not melted in the backs of those hillocks outside of the city, but look at the willows along the river - the coming of spring is, after all, unstoppable." Armand said as if he had a point.
"There's some truth in what you're saying." Joseph said, "But April is also the cruelest season ever, ah."
"Why do you say that?" Armand asked.
"You know what, Armand?" Joseph looked around and finally pointed to a small, bare tree not far away and said, "Let's take that lilac, for example. In the last year, this lilac has produced millions of seeds. All these seeds, Armand, will try to germinate in April."
"What's wrong with that?" Armand said in disbelief.
Joseph walked over to the bare lilac tree, reached out and stroked the rough trunk, and turned his head: "Armand, how many of the millions of seeds of this tree will grow even a small sprout? How many of those seeds, which by some fluke sprouted, will grow into such a big tree that will be full of flowers in the spring? Consider, Armand, that even in the harshest of winters, these millions of seeds are alive, but in this April, the vast majority of them die silently in the soil. Think about how many lives die without a word, how many hopes are dashed without a word, in the month of April? Even as you think about it, right now, perhaps in the dirt beneath our feet, countless lives are dying ... April is one of the cruelest months, when the lilacs grow on the wasteland, mingling memories and desires, and again letting the spring rains urge those sluggish root buds. Winter keeps us warm, and the earth is called to be covered with snow that helps people forget, and to provide a little life to dry root balls ..."
"You wait ..." Armand said, "Joseph, I find it a shame that you are not a poet. Well, that's certainly an interesting statement on your part as well. I've heard a similar statement from another person, though, only he ended up with a different exclamation than you. He said that in a revolution, many people will pay a price, even their lives, and a lot of people will die. But that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with revolution. Because if there is no revolution, if there is always a winter covered with snow and ice, life may pass away slower, but a continued harsh winter will surely wither all life. After all, the withered root ball alone won't last long. And the revolution, while it will cost us a lot in the short run, will win us more in the long run."
"Who said this to you?" Joseph asked.
"Mara, a doctor." Armand replied.
'Mara? Is that the one who was stabbed in the bathtub, sent to the Pantheon after his death, only to be moved out again not long afterward?' Joseph thought this but asked, "Is that the same man who wrote Recherches Physiques sur le Feu? I heard your uncle mention him."
"Then my uncle must not have said anything good about him." Armand laughed. This also simultaneously confirmed that the Mara that Armand was talking about was the same Mara that Joseph had in mind.
"Mr. Lavoisier was only mentioning those incorrect points in passing. Indeed, Mr. Lavoisier has nothing more to say about him than 'absurd', the word used to describe his conclusions. What, he had a conflict with your uncle?"
"There's no conflict to talk about." Armand replied, "It's just a disagreement in academic opinion. My uncle ridiculed him hard though, and was probably a little more intense in his words, so he and my uncle weren't on good terms. But that's between him and my uncle, the man is actually quite talented. Well, I hope for you to meet him as your friends."
At this point, Armand lifted his head to look ahead and added: "Almost there, just up ahead is Abel's Tavern where the friends I told you about are waiting for us."
"Why did you get such an out-of-the-way place." Joseph said.
"Not so much for anything else, but mainly because the wine is cheap here." Armand said, "Of course, the wines are all privately brewed and untaxed."
The two spoke as they continued to walk ahead. After about a hundred paces, they turned to the right into an alley, then another twenty or so paces before they came to a house.
It's close enough to the poorer districts of Paris that most of the houses here are low-standing and dilapidated, and all of them are gray and drab, just like the expression on the faces of the poor. This house is naturally the same. The door to this house was closed, and there was no sign or anything outside the door. From the outside, the house looked almost indistinguishable from those next to it.
Armand walked to the door and reached out to knock. The door didn't open, just a voice from within, "Who is it?"
"I'm a friend of Abel's." Armand replied.
A crack in the door of the room opened, only it was dark inside, and Joseph could only vaguely see what seemed to be a pair of eyes scrutinizing them. Then he heard a voice say, "It's a friend." Then, the door to the room opened all the way.
Armand led Joseph inside, and the door of the room then closed behind them again. With the door to the room slammed shut, the whole house went dark at once. It took a few moments for Joseph's eyes to adjust to the change and the way to get a good look at the person standing in front of them.
It was a young man not too far from Armand's age, with black, slightly curly hair and a pair of eyes that shone like lightning even in the dark.
The young man obviously also knew that they had just come in and that their eyes would need time to adjust, so first, he just stood there quietly, waiting for Joseph's and their eyes to adjust to the dim light of the place before he said to them, "Armand, and this one ..."
"Joseph Bonaparte." Joseph rushed to introduce himself.
"Then Mr. Bonaparte, please come in with me." The young man said. Then he turned around and headed inside.
Crossing a hallway, the young man pushed open a door and led them into a larger room.
This room is located in the backyard and has relatively large windows, so it's going to be relatively a little brighter. There was a large round table in the center of the room, and some people were sitting around it.
When they heard the door open, the men looked this way. One even stood up and waved toward Joseph and Armand, "Hey, our great scientist and writer has finally arrived."
The man Joseph also recognized was his classmate, Honoré. After graduation, Honoré became a lawyer and left Paris for the provinces. He and Joseph still corresponded quite a bit but met much less often. Never thought he'd be back in Paris by this time.
"Honoré, what are you doing here too? You didn't write me in advance when you came." Joseph said rather pleasantly.
"Needed to make a run to Paris for some work stuff. The matter was decided on the spur of the moment, and I think the messenger was more than likely not as fast as I could run myself. When I got to Paris and finished my business, I was going to come and look for you, but when I heard from Armand that you were coming here with him today, I came straight here to wait for you." Honoré said, "Joseph, welcome."
After welcoming Joseph, Honoré and Armand began to introduce Joseph to those present.
"This is our barrister Danton." Honoré began by introducing Joseph to a slightly fatter, larger man in his twenties sitting beside him, "He's one of my teachers. He taught me a lot during that time."
Knowing that this was Danton, later one of the famous Jacobin Triumvirate, Joseph couldn't help but look at him twice.
It was none other than a large, unkempt man dressed in a broad, bright red tweed blouse with a loose tie hanging down below the front trim, exposing his neck, his tunic open, some of the buttons on it having fallen off, and flip-flop boots on his feet. His hair stood up haphazardly, and there was clearly horsehair in his wig. His face was a little pockmarked, but there was a kindly smile on the corners of his mouth. His lips were thick, his teeth large, his fists stout, and his eyes bright.
"It's a pleasure to meet you." Joseph said with a slight stoop.
"I am also honored to meet a future great scientist." Danton replied back.
"The guy who's handsome as an angel and can make me so jealous I can't sleep at night just by looking at him more than once is our friend Louis." Armand, in turn, introduced Joseph to the young man who had just brought them in.
"Hello, I have read some of your work, and if I have time in the future, I would like to ask you some math questions." The young man called Louis said. Joseph returned his greeting like him while noticing that, indeed, as Armand had said, Louis was handsome like an angel. Slightly curled flaxen hair, creamy delicate and smooth skin, eyes as clear and soulful as autumn water ... If he is willing to smile a little bit, and with such eyes, even if his gaze is only as gently as the west wind in May, it is enough to blow open the roses in any girl's heart. But the smile was barely visible on Louis's face as if he were literally carved out of marble.
'If he had been born in the future, he wouldn't have had to do anything, he wouldn't have had to worry about eating just with that face.' Joseph couldn't help thinking about this with some jealousy, either.