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The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 232
🕑 Added 2025-05-30 19:02:01 +0000 UTCChapter 232: Famine
The officers frowned and turned to look at the Duke of Orléans.
The duke, however, merely smiled. “The corps controlled by the royal family is expanding rapidly. From what I know, they recruited nearly a thousand new soldiers shortly after returning to Paris.
“With the addition of the Moulin Corps that has aligned with the royal family and the Swiss mercenaries, the royal family now commands at least ten thousand soldiers.”
“You forgot the Flanders Brigade, or as it’s now called, the Paris Corps,” Count Morneau added, stepping forward. “They’ve been cozying up to the royal family for a while now.”
“Thank you for the reminder. That makes it thirteen thousand,” the Duke of Orléans said, casting a sidelong glance at the Marquis de Saint-Priest. “At this rate, it won’t take long before the royal family amasses a powerful army, and you gentlemen will find yourselves irrelevant.”
General Astu scoffed dismissively. “Thirteen thousand is barely enough to maintain law and order in France.”
The Duke of Orléans chuckled. “Do you know about the Berthier Corps’ weaponry?”
As he spoke, he retrieved an Auguste fire cap gun and a small bag of caps, tossing them to General Astu. These weapons, already in mass production, could be easily obtained from armories for the right price.
When the assembled military leaders figured out how to use the fire cap gun and took turns testing it, their expressions turned grim.
“You’re all seasoned experts,” the Duke of Orléans continued. “You must see how dramatically this gun enhances a soldier’s combat effectiveness.”
Before the officers could voice their dissent, he added, “But the most dangerous aspect isn’t the weaponry—it’s the new promotion system being implemented in the royal army.”
“Promotion system?”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” The Duke of Orléans feigned surprise. “In the royal army, commoners can earn promotions through merit alone, with no restrictions. They can even rise to the rank of general! Not only that, but promotions come without any ‘advancement fees’ and include a substantial bonus.”
The officers’ expressions immediately darkened.
Such a system was tantamount to digging up their ancestral graves!
For generations, they had monopolized military officer positions based on lineage and status. If commoners could now ascend to the rank of general, their descendants might lose control over the military, along with the vast wealth and privileges that came with it.
Count Morneau muttered at just the right moment, “Oh, perhaps one day you’ll find yourselves following the orders of some lowborn nobody, fighting a bloody battle while he mocks you from the safety of a command post…”
“Unacceptable!” General Astu roared. “This is a desecration of military tradition!”
Other officers joined in the curses, but the Marquis de Saint-Priest regarded the Duke of Orléans with a grave expression. “Your Grace, we’ve long wanted to express the military’s stance to the royal family. But to do so requires an opportunity—one that arises when the royal family faces an insurmountable enemy.”
“That opportunity is imminent,” the Duke of Orléans declared. “Before long, the royal family will find itself in a dire predicament.”
“Oh? What makes you so certain?”
Count Morneau interjected, “Because a large-scale famine is about to erupt. Riots by mobs will follow.”
“Mobs?” The Minister of War shook his head. “A rabble like that poses no real threat.”
The Duke of Orléans smiled slyly. “If we ‘maneuver’ the situation, it will be an entirely different story.”
He proceeded to outline his plan, concluding with, “This time, we also have the support of the Assembly of Notables. Yes, the royal family has overstepped recently, and everyone agrees the King’s errors must be corrected.”
The eyes of the dozen or so officers in attendance lit up.
...
“I’m such a fool—truly!”
A modest carriage trundled toward the Saint-Germain District under the setting sun. Inside, Anna Solène clasped her hands tightly, bowing her head in self-reproach. “I actually thought those two were Céline’s saviors and recklessly begged His Highness the Crown Prince to pardon them!”
She angrily shook her slightly curled black hair. “The Crown Prince probably thinks I’m their accomplice now…”
Across from her, a dashing young man in his twenties offered reassurance. “Tulip, you mustn’t blame yourself so harshly. Anyone can be deceived. Besides, we’ll soon help you make amends.”
A towering man, over six feet tall and brimming with muscle, snorted disdainfully beside him. “Hmph, you shouldn’t have gone begging the royal scoundrel in the first place. Why worry about his misunderstandings…”
Anna glared at him. “How dare you speak of the Crown Prince like that! You have no idea—he’s nothing like the rest of the royal family. He’s kind and just!”
The burly man shrugged and turned his head away. “Fine, believe whatever you like…”
The handsome man pushed aside the curtain and glanced outside. “Let’s review the plan. We’re nearing the Bastille.”
The carriage fell silent.
A few minutes later, two carriages pulled up at the street opposite the Bastille. Anna and five young men disembarked, gazing at the ominous fortress.
“This might be the most dangerous mission I’ve ever undertaken,” a lean, red-haired man murmured.
“For fairness and justice, no danger is too great!” the handsome man declared.
Anna nodded. “Dusk is right. The Brotherhood will always stand for justice!”
These individuals were members of Anna Solène’s Brotherhood [Note 1]. The Brotherhood, composed of nearly twenty aristocratic youths, took it upon themselves to act as vigilantes in Paris. While their actions often carried a dramatic flair, they had genuinely helped many in need.
A young man carrying a bow checked the time and said to Anna, “It’s about time. The rest is up to you.”
Anna nodded, pulled up her veil, and strode toward the Bastille.
Her movements were deft and agile. Under the cover of dusk, she quickly reached the fortress wall. Using simple tools, she climbed like a gecko, staying out of the sentries’ line of sight as she scaled over ten meters to a watchtower window.
With practiced ease, she unlocked the window, climbed inside, and lowered a rope from her waist through the opening.
Before long, three Brotherhood members scaled the rope and joined her in the Bastille’s armory.
“Hurry! The guards’ routine inspection is in three minutes,” Anna whispered urgently.
The group quickly donned uniforms they had brought, following Anna through the corridors to a storage room. From there, they climbed through another window to the third floor, slipping past patrolling guards and into the officers’ quarters.
With incredible dexterity and instincts, Anna led the way through the heavily guarded fortress.
After about ten perilous minutes, the group finally reached the west side of the third floor, near the cell holding the Malet brothers.
Hidden behind a protruding pillar at the end of the corridor, Anna Solène peeked at the two guards stationed outside the cell. Pulling back, she whispered to the red-haired man beside her, “Foxhunter, you’ll need to distract those two.”
The man glanced toward the cell and swallowed nervously. “This looks incredibly dangerous.”
Despite his hesitation, he covered his face with a scarf and muttered, “For justice,” before dashing toward the guards. It wasn’t sheer bravery driving him—his father was a renowned count, and even if he were caught, a bribe would easily secure his release.
Seeing the unfamiliar figure, the guards immediately drew their swords and gave chase, shouting, “Intruder alert!”
Anna quickly approached the now unguarded cell. This time, she signaled to her burliest companion. “Rockstone, it’s your turn.”
The hulking man nodded, pulling an iron chisel from his belt. With a mighty swing, he struck the lock.
A heavy clang resounded as the force of the blow left a crack in the cast iron. One more strike would surely shatter it.
Inside the cell, the small window on the door was pushed open, and a narrow-faced man peered out. “Brother, someone’s breaking the lock! They don’t look like guards.”
“Step back,” came another voice from behind. A second man appeared, frowning suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“Foxhunter” immediately deepened his voice and replied, “The boss sent us to break you out.”
This was part of Anna’s plan to rectify her earlier blunder. After learning that Count Morneau’s son couldn’t be convicted due to lack of evidence, the Brotherhood decided to stage a jailbreak to earn the Malet brothers’ trust and extract useful information. If deception failed, abducting and interrogating them was Plan B.
To their surprise, the prisoners inside asked, “Did His Grace change the plan?”
“His Grace?” Anna, standing closest to the cell, froze. The Malet brothers’ leader was supposed to be Count Morneau’s son—how did a duke come into the picture?
Before she could process the revelation, hurried footsteps echoed from the western staircase.
Anna turned to urge Rockstone to hurry, but at that moment, a nearby cell door swung open, and seven or eight heavily armed guards rushed out. It was an ambush.
Startled, Anna and her companions drew their weapons and engaged the guards. Despite being outnumbered, their aristocratic upbringing and lifelong training in swordsmanship allowed them to push the guards back step by step.
The group fought their way to the end of the corridor, where they prepared to escape by leaping out the same window they had entered. But just as they reached the window, the sound of thirty gun hammers being cocked froze them in their tracks.
Anna slowly turned to see dozens of gun barrels aimed directly at them.
A man with lifeless eyes stepped forward, brushing past the guards with a cold smirk. “We’ve been waiting for you. Seize them all!”
Three hours later.
Inside the Bastille’s interrogation room, Fouché frowned as he set down a report, glancing at the young woman across from him. “Anna Solène? From the Frez family?”
Anna nodded nervously.
Fouché exhaled sharply. “So, you were trying to break the prisoners out?”
“No, sir,” Anna quickly replied. “We only wanted to trick them into confessing…”
Fouché suddenly slammed the table, his voice thundering, “Do you realize how long I’ve been setting up to catch their mastermind? And you ruined everything!”
His experienced eye told him the young aristocrats before him weren’t lying.
Irritated, he waved to the guards. “Lock them up for now.”
As two guards began dragging Anna away, she suddenly remembered something and called out, “Wait, sir! I overheard them mention their leader might be a duke.”
“Oh?” Fouché immediately stopped and turned back.
At the Palais-Royal.
The Duke of Orléans looked grim as he questioned his butler. “Someone tried to break the Malet brothers out? Who?”
“That… remains unclear,” the butler replied hesitantly. “The Bastille only reported that four individuals were involved. Oh, and during the interrogation, someone vaguely mentioned a ‘duke.’”
The Duke of Orléans’ eyes narrowed, and after a moment of thought, he stood abruptly. “Quick, begin the mobilization immediately.”
The butler hesitated. “Sir, the northwest provinces aren’t fully prepared yet…”
“They may already suspect something. We can’t delay any longer.”
The Duke paced the room anxiously before issuing further orders. “Make preparations for our departure from Paris. Inform Morneau to leave as well.
“And as for the funds promised to the military, use promissory notes from the Paris Discount Bank directly. There’s no time to channel it through the banks in Britain.”
As the French Reserve Bank increasingly solidified its role as a central bank, its oversight of major French banks had grown. The enormous sum promised to the military would quickly attract attention. Although the original plan was to transfer the money through British banks, the sudden shift in circumstances made that impossible.
…
In the province of Provence.
Nice.
A group of ragged craftsmen braved the biting wind to reach the nearest strategic grain reserve. They found nearly a thousand people already gathered there—citizens who had been told by government grain outlets that supplies had not arrived and had traveled long distances seeking answers.
An official repeatedly explained, “Our grain has been diverted to Montpellier. The warehouse is empty. But more supplies are on the way from Grenoble, and they’ll arrive in just a few days…”
A tall, scarred man loudly interrupted, “You said the same thing five days ago. Where’s the grain now?”
Another man beside him chimed in, “The government keeps claiming there’s enough grain and that we shouldn’t worry. Clearly, we’ve been lied to!”
A gaunt old man in a thin linen coat, clutching a child of about ten, pushed to the front and pleaded with the official. “Sir, bread in the city is selling for 22 sous a pound. We can’t afford it… Please, have mercy and give us some grain.”
Ordinarily, bread in Nice cost no more than 10 sous per pound. For those scraping by on meager wages, this price surge meant weeks of hunger.
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