Paris, July 14, 1789 (X Calendar), 9:50 a.m.

Eight ramparts eighty feet tall. A large moat. Steam cannons. The Bastille was a veritable fortress within the city of Paris. For years the prison had housed the most dangerous criminals in France, and was extremely brutal in doing so. No one who went in was ever seen again.

At least, that was what the public believed. The commoners held the idea that the Bastille was a hellish dungeon full of spies and political prisoners being punished for saying the wrong thing or simply being born the wrong person. Stories abound about people like the mysterious masked prisoner kept under guard a century before, along with the Marquis de Sade, and serve the give the prison its colorful reputation.

While there is a certain bit of truth to these stories, only those closely connected with the Bastille can separate fact from myth. Where does imagination end and truth begin?

One man who may know was on this day sitting in his cell within the stone walls of the Bastille. His name was Jacques du Chard. With his sandy-brown hair, simple shirt and grey leggings, the young man did not stand out at all.

 He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and tried to keep himself occupied by counting the cracks. At that moment it was deathly quiet within the chamber occupied only by him and five other empty cells; contrary to popular belief, the prison was not infested with rats scurrying about and gnawing at the feet of prisoners. The few guards who kept watch over the room had about ten minutes ago left to go welcome some visitors.

The prisoner’s thoughts kept going back to that strange message that had appeared on the walls of the adjacent cell the other day. What did it mean? Rumor had it that cell belonged to the Marquis de Sade until just recently. None of the guards would tell him anything; they were keeping their mouths carefully shut.

Suddenly he heard the sound of a door opening. Jacques sat up, looked across the room and saw four people entering the room. He couldn’t get a good look at them until they arrived in the candle-lit center of the chamber. At the head of the group was the Marquis de Launay, the governor of the Bastille, whom the prisoner was familiar with. Jacques would have recognized his fancy brown suit embroidered in gold, along with his white hair that hung limply off either side of his head, anywhere.

The other three were wearing form-fitting suits of silver armor covered by helmets which concealed their faces. Jacques recognized them as members of the Ordre de la Tradition[1], a special group of knights who had been recognized by the king of France for outstanding service in the military, and who answered only to him. They were allowed to wear suits of armor made from irodium, a revolutionary metal developed by the English. Irodium was lightweight, easy to move in, and could withstand anything up to a shot from a steam cannon. In addition, two of them carried a broadsword in a scabbard at their side.

Jacques heard a female voice say, “It’s dark in here.” The voice came from the knight in the center who was somewhat shorter and more slender than the ones flanking her. She carried a rapier rather than the broadsword of her larger counterparts.

 She—along with her two subordinates—

 removed her helmet and Jacques could see her face. She didn’t look to be older than thirty years of age to him (she could even be his own age). Her auburn-colored hair fell to the middle of her back in a braided tail, and Jacques noted the purple eye patch over her right eye, along with the flowing purple skirt which opened around the middle of her Irodium leggings.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” Jacques said. “Might you be the one they call ‘Jeanne le Juste’?”[2]

She looked at him with indifference for a moment, and then responded, “Yes. My name is Jeanne d’Fleur. I’m a knight with the Ordre de la Tradition.”

“Ah, I thought so. You are well known among the Third Estate.” The Estates General was composed of nobility, clergy, and commoners, respectively. “Ah, but you’re supposed to call them the National Assembly now, yes?” The commoners had recently broken away from the other two Estates—whom they had long been at odds with—and declared themselves the National Assembly (although a few members of the clergy and nobility joined them).

“Actually, last week they became the National Constituent Assembly,” Jeanne said. She then turned to de Launay. “Where is this message you spoke of?”

“It is in the cell to the left of the forger’s there.”

He escorted the three knights into the cell next to Jacques’. It was a spacious cell, easily twice as large as the others, and clearly meant for someone of importance. The bed in the cell was also a cut above those normally given to prisoners.

On the wall above the bed there was a series of words carved into the wall: “On July 14 the greatest joke will be told”.

            Jeanne walked over to the wall next to the door they had entered. Jutting out from the wall was a rubber tube with a wide handle. She dialed a number on the panel below the tube and began speaking. “d’Fleur to Minuit Solaire[3]. What’s going on outside?” The Minuit Solaire was the airship of the Ordre de la Tradition. It was supposed to be anchored on a telegraph pole outside the prison. However, Jeanne’s communiqué was met with static. “I repeat: This is Commander Jeanne d’Fleur. Come in, Minuit Solaire. What is your status?”

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