The Fox of France - Chapter 374: Mockery

During the journey ahead, Victor opted for a carriage ride. Riding a horse for a few minutes could be quite refreshing, but after a few hours, fatigue set in, and if one rode for several days, goodness, it’d be utterly exhausting. Along the way, the accompanying cavalry and torch-bearing riders would rotate at intervals. Yet, Victor had to accompany this fire and torch across half of Europe.

“If it weren’t for coming to Russia, I wouldn’t have realized how vast the world truly is,” Victor reminisced to his friend about his journey. “You know, one day, I’d been on the carriage for a full eight hours. Apart from changing horses at some checkpoints, we hardly stopped.”

I asked a Russian cavalryman riding alongside the carriage, ‘Hey, friend, how much farther to today’s destination?’ The trooper cheerfully replied, ‘Ah, not far, almost there, just a hundred versts.’ I didn’t catch it immediately, it took me a moment to realize that a verst is very similar in length to a kilometer. So, there were still over a hundred kilometers to go. Goodness, that was considered ‘not far,’ nearly there.

But even more absurd, before long, I found myself familiarizing and accepting this notion of distance. Yes, a thousand kilometers seemed somewhat distant, five hundred kilometers felt closer, a hundred kilometers? Ah, that was within reach. So much so that when I returned to Europe, I struggled to adapt to their sense of distance.”

Apart from the considerable distance, Victor’s journey was fairly smooth. The first major Russian city the sacred flame reached was Kiev. The entire city warmly welcomed Victor and his companions. The Mayor of Kiev granted Victor the title of Honorary Citizen, while the residents organized a torchlight procession throughout the night to celebrate the arrival of the sacred flame.

Victor rested in Kiev for two to three days. Despite his robustness, the continuous journey had left him equally fatigued. During these days, he stayed with the local noble family, the Lebiedzowski’s. The host, Lebiedzowski, had also studied in France, focusing on painting and literature. He mentioned to Victor that his son was currently in Paris, studying mathematics.

“He initially wished to study physics or engineering. But I worried if he learned those subjects, he might not return to manage our family estates. Mathematics is better; at least it doesn’t require a laboratory. He can research in my study without feeling troubled about applying what he learned in France but finding no use for it in Russia. Like my cousin’s son, who studied architectural engineering in France, only to return to Moscow and find no cement or steel there… Eventually, he couldn’t bear it and went back to France. He wasn’t lacking in money, but despite all his skills, he had nowhere to apply them… I know it’s tough, just like…”

“Like holding a hammer but not finding a nail to strike,” Victor added with a smile.

“Yes, my friend, precisely so. That analogy is perfect,” Lebiedzowski chuckled. But then he sighed, “Russia is still too backward. Our systems, many things are terribly outdated, and the Russian people are too conservative. Everything needs to change; we believe joining the Olympics, organizing an Olympic committee, is a great idea. Through sports, we can introduce new ideas to more people. I read ‘The Scientific Truth Gazette,’ and I really admire one line there: ‘Civilize the spirit, barbarize the physique.’ That’s truly apt.”

Lebiedzowski’s stance essentially represented the views of a significant portion of the Russian nobility. This was one reason Victor had received such warm hospitality throughout his journey. Perhaps because distance enhances beauty, Russian nobles generally held a better view of the French, who had overthrown the aristocratic rule, compared to the nobility of Italy and Austria.

After spending three days in Kiev, Victor turned towards Moscow.

Moscow, the former capital of Russia since Peter the Great, although the capital had shifted to St. Petersburg, Moscow remained one of Russia’s most important cities, its second capital. Many claimed St. Petersburg was merely a facade, while Moscow was the true essence of Russia.

The straight-line distance from Kiev to Moscow was roughly under eight hundred kilometers. However, considering the winding roads and various terrain obstacles, the actual distance exceeded a thousand kilometers, making it an arduous journey.

Although Victor had traveled similar distances before, covering over a thousand kilometers entirely through almost barren plains was a first.

Moreover, the Russian roads amazed Victor. The land froze in winter and thawed in spring and summer. When frozen, the water within the land would expand, loosening the previously compacted soil. Once the ice melted, the roads turned into mud pits. This made maintaining Russian roads extremely difficult and prone to damage.

Victor contemplated while traveling, concluding that under current circumstances, any European country invading Russia would easily succumb to these blasted roads and the consequential logistical nightmares.

“Especially our French army. In recent years, the French military has become stronger than ever, yet, on the other hand, it’s more dependent on logistics than ever before,” Victor thought, having served as a military advisor in Ireland for a while, he was acutely aware of this issue.

“Moreover, vast lands, intricate terrains, these are ideal for guerrilla warfare. Here, sending in a million troops would feel like sprinkling pepper into a large pond. It’d be a waste without any impact. And yes, the Russians, they are conservative, backward, but they have a unique culture. And unlike many countries, every Russian I’ve encountered has the ambition of a great nation. Combine that with their harsh environment, shaping their characters resiliently—they are naturally suited for guerrilla warfare, even more so than the Irish.”

As he pondered, the carriage suddenly jolted again, and Victor heard the coachman, Marklov, curse, “Damn it, it’s broken again!”

Meanwhile, in another part, the Olympic flame had made its way into Rome, and the idle Roman citizens had wholeheartedly embraced their innate love for festivities. Nearly all the citizens poured onto the streets, turning the entire city into a carnival.

Truly, those Italians treated the torch relay as a carnival. People dressed in masks swarmed from all directions—some ran out of doors, others dashed from windows. Carriages streamed in from every street and corner. Carriages filled with jesters donning white clothes, white trousers, and white masks, ludicrous characters in floral attire brandishing wooden swords, men and women wearing half masks, imitating aristocratic ladies, courtiers, knights, and peasants. Everyone shouted at the top of their voices, tossing paper bags or eggshells filled with flour at each other. Some sprinkled tomato juice on themselves, mimicking blood, portraying zombies. If Pauline were here, witnessing all this, she’d be thoroughly delighted.

However, the clergy didn’t share the same enthusiasm upon witnessing all this. Especially when they saw a few individuals on a float.

At that moment, Bishop Leonardo had just comforted a destitute girl and, assuming the demeanor of a sage, left the residence he had charitably provided for a girl who could’ve been his granddaughter’s age. He boarded his carriage, heading towards his church to enlighten some theology students on how to draw closer to the Almighty. But as the carriage emerged from a narrow alley,

it encountered the frenzied crowd and got swept into the revelry. Then he witnessed something peculiar on one of the floats.

Someone wore a paper-mache bishop’s hat, quite evidently mimicking the Pope’s appearance. This ‘Pope’ was half-kneeling on the float, holding a golden foil-made crown, extending it to a person seated on a high chair, clad in French military attire.

“Blasphemy! This is blasphemy!” Bishop Leonardo fumed, nearly leaping from the carriage to confront whoever dared to maliciously attack the Pope’s dignity.

But Bishop Leonardo refrained from acting upon remembering the intelligence reports the Vatican had issued earlier: “The Austrians are extremely displeased about losing the Roman crown. They’re bound to throw a tantrum and do some petty tricks. But ignore them, let them vent. After this incident passes, we still need to reconcile with His Majesty, Franz.”