The Labour Party’s headquarters was in the 11th arrondissement of Paris, in a building even more dilapidated than the Radical Party’s headquarters.
If the Agrarian Party was a loose collection of sand, then the Labour Party was a hodgepodge.
It contained the lowest-level laborers, union leaders, petty bourgeoisie, and the middle class.
Their classes were different, their demands were different, and they didn’t even like each other.
But they all wanted to change the status quo.
This was their only common ground.
Furina’s first target was labor representative François Duval.
Duval was a blacksmith in the 14th arrondissement of Paris and held great prestige among the workers.
He was in his early forties, burly, and his arms were covered in burn scars.
When he met Furina, his attitude was very cold.
“Ms.
Furina.”
He sat in a chair, arms crossed over his chest.
“To be honest, I don’t know what you’ve come to find me for.
You are an actor, and I am a worker.
What is there for us to talk about?”
Furina was not angry.
“Mr.
Duval.
I am indeed not a worker.
But I have seen the places where workers work.”
“Oh?
Where?”
“A textile factory in the 10th arrondissement of Paris.
I saw those children, seven or eight-year-old children, still working even after their fingers had been crushed by the machines.”
Duval’s expression changed.
“You went to such a place?”
“I did.
And I saw a lot more.”
Furina looked at him.
“Mr.
Duval, how many hours do you work every day?”
“Fourteen.”
Duval’s voice dropped.
“Sometimes sixteen.”
“And your wages?”
“Enough to buy bread.
Only enough to buy bread.”
“Then what do you think should be done?”
Duval was silent for a moment.
“Raise wages, limit working hours.”
He said.
“These are the most basic demands.
But we’ve been saying this for twenty years, and no one listens.”
“If I am elected, I will listen.”
Furina said.
“I will legislate to mandate a maximum of ten working hours per day, prohibit the employment of child labor, and set a minimum wage.”
Duval looked at him.
“Do you know what those factory owners will say?
They will say this is madness, they will say that France’s economy cannot afford it.”
“That is their excuse.”
Furina’s voice was calm.
“They are unwilling to earn one franc less, even if that was earned with children’s blood.”
Duval was silent for a long time.
“Ms.
Furina.”
He finally spoke.
“Everything you said, others have said before.
But those people left after saying it, and did nothing.”
“I will not leave.”
Furina said.
“On what grounds?”
“Because I am Furina.”
He looked at him, and in those heterochromatic eyes was a power that made it impossible for people to look away.
“Because I am already the most famous person in France, because I have fifth-tier magical strength, and because I have tens of thousands of audience members willing to do anything for me.
Is this enough?”
Duval looked at him and suddenly smiled.
“Enough,” he said, “it is enough.”
…
After settling things with Duval, Furina went to find union leader Émile Proudhon.
Proudhon was the secretary of the Paris General Labor Union, a lean middle-aged man wearing round-rimmed glasses, who liked to quote classics when he spoke.
“Ms.
Furina.”
He received him in his office.
“Duval told me about you coming to find him.
To be honest, I am very surprised.”
“Surprised by what?”
“Surprised that an actor would care about the life and death of workers.”
“I am not caring about the life and death of workers.”
Furina said.
“I just think that people should live like people.”
Proudhon pushed up his glasses.
“That is well said.
But just saying good words is useless.
What do you intend to do?”
“If elected, I will legislate to guarantee the rights of unions.
Enterprises cannot arbitrarily fire workers, cannot arbitrarily lower wages, and cannot arbitrarily extend working hours.
The will of the union must be respected.”
Proudhon’s eyes lit up.
“This is no small matter.
Those capitalists will fight tooth and nail against it.”
“I know.”
“Are you not afraid?”
“Afraid.”
Furina said honestly.
“But even if I am afraid, I must do it.”
Proudhon looked at him and was silent for a long time.
“Ms.
Furina.”
He stood up and extended his hand to him.
“If you can really achieve these things, I, on behalf of the Paris General Labor Union, will support you.”
…
Next were the citizen representatives and middle-class representatives.
Furina talked to them one by one, breaking through one by one.
He promised the petty bourgeoisie stable prices, promised the middle class restricted monopolies, promised intellectuals increased investment in education, and promised businessmen improved infrastructure.
He was not a politician, but he was an actor.
He knew how to talk to different people, and knew how to make everyone feel understood and respected.
This was not just acting.
This was his innate Talents; those eyes, that smile, that temperament that made people subconsciously want to get close to him.
Clemenceau was right; he stood there, needing to do nothing, and would make people want to believe in him.
By the end of October, six of the Labour Party’s seven main factions had declared their support for Furina.
The remaining one was the far-left faction.
Their leader was a young man named Louis August, only twenty-eight years old, but already the most radical representative among the workers.
When Furina went to find him, he was giving a speech to workers in a basement.
“Those politicians, those capitalists, what do they take us for?
As cattle and horses!
As tools!
As trash that can be discarded at will!
They sit in palaces eating steak, while we gnaw on black bread in factories.
They sleep in silk quilts, while we lie on straw piles.
On what grounds?
On what grounds!”
“On what grounds!”
Furina stood at the doorway, listening quietly.
August finished speaking, walked off the podium, and saw him.
“Ms.
Furina.”
His attitude was very cold.
“You have come.”
“Mr.
August.
Your speech is very powerful.”
“Powerful?”
August sneered.
“What use is just power?
What we need is action.”
“Then what do you think should be done?”
“Revolution.”
August said without hesitation.
“Overthrow this corrupt government, overthrow those vampires, and let the workers be the masters of their own house.”
Furina looked at him.
“Mr.
August, what do you think will happen after the revolution?”
“A just society will be established.”
“How will it be established?
Who will establish it?
Who will manage it after it is established?”
August was stunned for a moment.
Furina continued.
“I know your anger.
I am angry too.
But anger cannot solve problems.
After overthrowing the old government, can the new government be better than the old one?
If no one cares about those at the very bottom, it will be the same no matter who takes power.”
August was silent.
“Everything you said, I have thought about.”
He finally spoke.
“But besides revolution, what else can be done?
Elections?
Those politicians, those electors, when have they ever cared about us?”
“I care.”
Furina said.
August looked at him, his gaze complex.
“Ms.
Furina, you are a good person.
But a good person cannot necessarily be a good president.”
“Perhaps.”
Furina said.
“But at least, I am willing to try.
Mr.
August, I will not persuade you to give up on revolution.
But I would like to ask you to give me a chance.
Give me 5 years.
If after 5 years, I have achieved nothing, it will not be too late for you to revolt.”
August looked at him, for a long time.
“5 years.”
He said.
“Are you sure 5 years can change anything?”
“Not sure.
But if I don’t try, it will never change.”
August was silent.
“Fine.
5 years.
I will wait 5 years for you.”
_______________________________________________________________