holy calendar 891, January 1st, Saturday.
On this day in Paris, the sky hung low.
Lead-gray clouds, like a waterlogged quilt, weighed heavily over the city.
The Seine River shimmered with a dull leaden sheen; the bare plane trees on both banks stretched their branches like withered fingers toward the sky.
The air was thick with damp chill, and in the distance, the faint toll of church bells echoed, muffled and distant, like reverberations from another era.
Paris had not been this quiet in a long time.
But on the square before the Palais Bourbon, a vast sea of people stretched black and dense.
Over a hundred thousand citizens had gathered since early morning.
Some had arrived since midnight, wrapped in blankets, dozing under streetlamps; some had taken an overnight train from the provinces, rushing straight here without even putting down their luggage; some leaned on canes, some carried children, some pushed wheelchairs.
They stood in the winter wind, their breath forming a hazy fog.
No one complained, no one made noise.
They simply stood quietly, waiting.
Around the square, soldiers of the Paris Garrison stood at attention with loaded rifles at every intersection and vantage point.
The newly appointed commander of the Paris Garrison, Gallieni, personally oversaw the operation.
This forty-six-year-old veteran had survived the nightmare war twenty years ago, and the scar stretching from his forehead to his cheekbone was a memento left by the Bahas Titan.
He had deployed Maxim heavy machine guns at every intersection, and the soldiers’ bullets were already chambered.
No one thought this was an overreaction.
After all, just a few days ago, the Conservative Party had tried to use the army to arrest the president-elect.
Their madness—no one could say it wouldn’t happen again.
Gallieni stood at the foot of the Palais Bourbon steps, his gaze sweeping over the dense crowd in the square, then over the surrounding streets and rooftops.
His hand rested on the sword at his waist, his expression cold and hard as iron.
“General.”
The adjutant hurried over, lowering his voice.
“Ms.
Furina’s carriage has departed.
She’ll arrive in about ten minutes.”
Gallieni nodded without speaking.
His eyes fell on the faces of ordinary people in the center of the square.
An old man held a child, the child perched on his shoulders, waving a small tricolor flag.
A young woman stood at the front of the crowd.
Her clothes were old but clean, her hair neatly combed.
A few workers huddled together, still in coal-stained work uniforms, clearly having just come from the night shift at the factory.
These people—why had they come?
Gallieni recalled the great fire twenty years ago.
Back then, he was just a young lieutenant, retreating with the defeated French Army.
Corpses were everywhere, and cries filled the air.
He remembered an old woman sitting in the ruins by the roadside, clutching a dead cat, muttering over and over, “It’s over, all over.”
Back then, he too thought France was finished. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
But today, looking at the hundred thousand people in the square, a strange feeling surged within him.
Perhaps…
it wasn’t over yet.
At exactly noon, the bell of the Parliament’s clock tower chimed.
The dull sound echoed over Paris—one, two, three…
The crowd fell silent, all eyes turning in the same direction.
A carriage slowly approached from the end of the street.
It was an extremely plain black carriage, without gilded decorations or family crests, and even the curtains were ordinary white linen.
Compared to the ostentatious carriages of the nobility, it was so shabby it hardly seemed fit for a head of state.
But when the crowd saw this carriage, they burst into uncontrollable cheers.
The carriage stopped before the steps of the Palais Bourbon.
The door opened, and Furina stepped out.
She wore her iconic blue suit, a white shirt collar tied with a dark blue ribbon, and a small hat on her head, with gradient blue-white hair falling to one side.
It was almost identical to her campaign attire, except for a badge of the French Republic on her chest—a tricolor emblem, simple and plain, without any extra ornamentation.
She stood there, and the winter sun streamed through a gap in the clouds, landing precisely on her.
Her heterochromatic eyes shone especially brightly in the sunlight—one deep as the sea, the other clear as ice.
Gallieni stepped forward and saluted her.
“Madam President, the Paris Garrison reports to you.”
Furina extended her hand and shook his.
Her hand was cold but steady.
“Thank you for your hard work, General.”
Her voice was soft but clear.
Gallieni looked into her eyes and suddenly understood why so many were willing to follow her.
There was light in those eyes.
A light that made people want to believe.
Furina released his hand, turned, and faced the steps of the Palais Bourbon.
Clemenceau stood at the top of the steps, dressed in a dark gray old suit, his tie meticulously tied.
Behind him stood Zola, Jean Bart, Combes, Duval, Proudhon, August…
the core members of the Republican Party lined up neatly on both sides.
No one spoke.
All eyes were on the figure ascending the steps.
Furina climbed the steps one by one.
She walked slowly but steadily.
Each step felt like stepping into history.
When she stood at the highest step, Henri Aguesseau, the Archbishop of France, approached.
He was a man in his seventies, dressed in a white vestment, with a holy image of the Holy Goddess hanging on his chest.
His face was lined with wrinkles, but his eyes were clear, like two deep, bottomless springs.
Archbishop Aguesseau unrolled the Holy Scripture in his hands—a heavy parchment scroll, its cover embedded with seven gems representing the Seven Divine Envoys.
He cleared his throat, his voice aged and solemn.
“Furina de Fontaine, do you swear before the Holy Goddess and before the citizens of France to assume the office of President of the French Republic?”
Her palm felt the rough texture of the parchment and the cold touch of the gems.
She took a deep breath.
Then, she recited word by word.
“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.”
Her voice echoed across the square.
“And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, but have not love, I am nothing.”
The square was utterly silent.
Over a hundred thousand people held their breath, listening to the voice from the steps, clear as if spoken in each person’s ear.
“Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
“Love never fails.”
Archbishop Aguesseau nodded and closed the Holy Scripture.
“The Holy Goddess witnesses, and the citizens of France witness.
Furina de Fontaine, you are now the President of the French Republic.”
The square was silent for three seconds.
Then, cheers erupted like a tsunami.
“Furina!
Furina!
Furina!”
The voices of over a hundred thousand people merged into a torrent, rolling and surging over Paris, startling the pigeons on distant church rooftops.
Those white birds circled in the gray sky, like a drifting cloud.
Gallieni stood at the foot of the steps, listening to the deafening cheers, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the hilt of his sword.
Twenty years ago, what he heard in this city were cries and screams.
Today, he heard cheers.
The same city, the same Seine River, the same sky.
But everything was different.
Furina raised her hand, signaling the crowd to quiet down.
The cheers gradually subsided, and the square fell silent again.
Everyone watched her—the young woman standing at the highest step.
She stepped forward and stood behind the podium.
The podium had no decorations, only a French tricolor flag hanging beside it.
The blue stripe fluttered gently in the wind, the white stripe pressed against the edge of the podium, and the red stripe hung down, casting a small patch of warm color on the gray steps.
Furina looked at the sea of people before her.
Over a hundred thousand faces, over a hundred thousand pairs of eyes.
Some eyes held tears, some held fire, and some held nothing—just empty stares at her.
Those who had been tormented by life for too long no longer knew what hope was, but they still came, stood here, waiting to hear her speak.
She took a deep breath.
Then she began to speak.