Autumn, 890 holy calendar, Paris.
Furina was woken up by the chirping of birds.
A flock of sparrows had moved into the plane tree outside the window at some point, and they would start chirping incessantly as soon as the day broke every morning.
She had once asked Lord Uther to find a way to drive them away, but later discovered that they would just come back after being driven off, so she simply let them be.
She opened her eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling for a while.
She hadn’t slept very well last night.
She didn’t know if it was because the recent performances were too intense, but her mind was filled with chaotic dreams.
She dreamed of her past life, of Grandpa Grandpa Pierre, and of that great fire.
She turned over, and the table clock on the nightstand pointed to a quarter past seven.
“It’s still early.”
She muttered, pulling the quilt up.
But she couldn’t sleep anymore.
She simply sat up, put on her robe, walked to the window, and pushed it open.
The autumn morning breeze hit her face with a chill; the plane tree leaves had already turned slightly yellow and were swaying gently in the wind.
Paris in the distance had just awakened, with wisps of cooking smoke rising and mingling with the morning mist, forming a hazy scene.
Furina took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.
Today was just another ordinary day.
There was an interview in the morning, a rehearsal for a new play in the afternoon, and a performance in the evening.
Days passed by like this, one by one; there was nothing wrong with it, but nothing particularly good either.
She turned around, preparing to wash up.
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
“Master?”
Mrs.
Hévima’s voice came from behind the door, carrying a rare hint of hesitation.
“A guest has come to visit, saying they wish to see you.”
Furina was stunned for a moment.
So early?
Who would come to visit so early?
“Who?”
“He says his name is Georges Clemenceau.”
Clemenceau.
Furina knew this name.
There were few people in all of France who didn’t know this name.
He was the leader of the Radical Party, the sharpest opposition in parliament, that old man famous for “cursing the government.”
It was said that when he spoke in parliament, half of the ruling party members opposite him would cover their ears, and the other half would cover their hearts, for fear of being angered to death.
But what was he coming to see her for?
“Did he state his purpose?”
“No.
He only said he has something important he wants to discuss with you in person.”
Furina was silent for a few seconds.
She wasn’t a political figure; she was just an actress.
What connection could an actress have with an opposition party leader?
But she still nodded.
“Please ask him to wait in the living room; I’ll come down after I change.”
Twenty minutes later, Furina walked into the living room.
Clemenceau was standing in front of the window, his back to the door, looking at the street outside.
His silhouette was very thin, but his shoulders were held straight, like a taut bowstring.
Hearing footsteps, he turned around.
The first thing Furina saw was a pair of eyes.
They were the eyes of an old man, with wrinkles at the corners and slightly sunken sockets.
But the light in those eyes was sharper and brighter than many young people’s.
They were like two unsheathed blades, as if they could see right through a person.
But immediately, the sharp light receded a little, replaced by a gentle smile.
“Ms.
Furina.”
He bowed slightly.
“Please forgive my intrusive visit.”
Furina returned the courtesy and gestured for him to sit.
Mrs.
Hévima served tea and withdrew, leaving only the two of them in the living room.
Furina sized up the person opposite her.
He was in his fifties or sixties, his hair already gray, his face etched with deep and shallow wrinkles, as if carved by time with a knife.
He was wearing an old suit, his tie tied meticulously, the fabric at his cuffs worn shiny.
He was completely different from the suited, slicked-haired politicians in the newspapers.
He didn’t look like he was going to a banquet; he looked more like he had just come from the battlefield.
“Mr.
Clemenceau.”
Furina picked up her teacup, deciding to get straight to the point.
“You’ve come to see me so early, so surely it’s not for idle chatter.
If there’s something on your mind, please feel free to speak directly.”
Clemenceau smiled.
There was no hypocrisy typical of politicians in that smile; instead, it carried a hint of appreciation.
“Good, then I won’t beat around the bush.”
He set down his teacup and looked directly into Furina’s eyes.
“Ms.
Furina, would you like to become the President of France?”
Furina’s hand paused.
The teacup hung in mid-air; she thought she had misheard.
“…What?”
“President.”
Clemenceau repeated.
“President of the French Republic.”
The living room was quiet for a few seconds.
Furina slowly set down the teacup, looking at the serious face opposite her, confirming that he was not joking.
Then she smiled.
“Mr.
Clemenceau, have you found the wrong person?
I am an actress, not a politician.”
“I know.”
“I am only twenty years old this year.”
“I know.”
“I know nothing about politics.”
“I also know.”
Furina’s smile faded slightly, and her brows furrowed slightly.
“Then why did you come to find me?”
Clemenceau did not answer immediately.
He picked up his teacup and took a slow sip, as if organizing his thoughts.
“Ms.
Furina, have you read the newspapers recently?”
“Occasionally.”
“Then you should know what France is like right now.”
Furina was silent.
She knew.
How could she not know?
The newspapers reported on those frustrating things every day: members of parliament throwing chairs at each other, arguing endlessly over trifles;
The cabinet collapsed every few days, replaced batch after batch, with no real change; prices skyrocketed, the people were destitute, and beggars were everywhere on the streets…
“Do you know how the public views those elections?”
Clemenceau continued.
“They don’t care at all.
Anyway, no matter who is elected, it’s all equally rotten.
Vote?
Vote for whom?
Vote for the corrupt one, or the one colluding with capitalists?”
His tone was very calm, without anger or agitation.
It was as if he were stating a fact.
“Even me.”
He pointed to himself.
“The leader of the Radical Party, the one with the loudest voice in parliament.
Do you know how the public views me?”
Furina did not respond.
“They watch me for entertainment.”
Clemenceau smiled, a hint of bitterness in that smile.
“Every time I take the stage to curse the government, the audience applauds and shouts, ‘Well cursed!
Curse them harder!'”
“But after I finish cursing, they go back to doing whatever they were doing.
No one really believes I can change anything.
I don’t even believe it myself.”
“Then why do you still…”
“Why do I still curse?”
Clemenceau picked up the thread.
“Because besides cursing, what else can I do?”
For the first time, a hint of exhaustion appeared in his voice.
“The Radical Party is a minority party, with only thirty-some seats in parliament.
The bills we propose are rejected without even a chance for discussion.”
“The corruption cases we want to investigate, we can’t even see the files.
We want to reform, we want to do things, we want to do anything, but we can’t do anything.”
He raised his eyes and looked at Furina.
“Do you know this feeling of powerlessness?
Watching this country rot day by day, watching those people being driven to a dead end, watching those bastards still living in luxury, while you can do nothing.”
Furina did not answer.
But she remembered those years before Grandpa Grandpa Pierre passed away.
Prices were getting higher and higher, and the pension was worth less and less.
The old man wouldn’t say it, but she knew that he had to be meticulous every time he went out to buy groceries, splitting a piece of bread into three meals.
She remembered the audience who came to see her performances.
The noble ladies in silk in the front row and the workers in patched clothes in the back row—what separated them was not an aisle, but the distance of an entire world.
“Then you came to see me, what do you want me to do?”
She asked.
Clemenceau looked at her.
“I want you to be President.”
“But those problems you just mentioned, can I solve them if I become President?”
“You can solve a part of them.”
Clemenceau said.
“At least you can solve the most important one.”
“The most important one?”
“Hope.”
Clemenceau stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Furina.
“The public is already desperate.
They don’t believe in anyone, and they don’t believe in anything.”
“You tell them about elections, they say it’s the same whoever is elected.
You tell them about reform, they say it’s a deceptive trick.
You tell them about the future, they say to hell with the future.”
He turned around and looked at Furina.
“But you are different.”
__________________________________________________________________