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The Fox of France - Chapter 236
🕑 Added 2023-11-13 19:54:42 +0000 UTCChapter 236: The Thief
After the peace agreement, it seemed like a golden age for British merchants. Their ships were laden with various goods, including woolens and cotton fabrics. While they had engaged in smuggling to access European markets before, it was a clandestine affair. But now, they could operate openly.
After defeating Prussia in France, the economic conditions in Britain, which had suffered due to the loss of European markets, began to improve. Many factories that had been shut down reopened, and the air in the streets of London grew more polluted.
Young Oliver, coughing and observing the hurried crowds on the streets, searched for potential targets.
This was Oliver's first mission. He needed to muster his courage and choose the right target. The voice of the gang leader, Fagin, echoed in his mind.
"Oliver, don't believe those tales you heard in the orphanage. Yes, 'thou shalt not steal' is one of the commandments, but taking back what's rightfully yours isn't theft. Look at those factories, look at the workers, women, and children toiling away. They work tirelessly, often sixteen to twenty hours a day. They go hungry, poorly clad, and if they fall ill and can't work, they starve. Most of them, men, women, and children, won't live long. They'll die in poverty and despair.
Oliver, are these people not hardworking? Are they not laboring from morning till night, never resting? Why do they have such a fate? The priest would tell you it's because of original sin, that their suffering is God's will, right? But did the priest ever tell you what happened when Adam defied God's will and was expelled from the Garden of Eden?
God said, 'In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground.' Even in punishment, God offered our forefather a promise: that if one worked hard, sweated, they could make a living and sustain themselves.
But, my dear Oliver, tell me, those who labor, sweat, but can't make a living, can't feed themselves, why is it? Does God not keep His promise? Is God deceiving us?
No, God doesn't deceive us. So, why, when a person labors and sweats, can't they make a living, only to die in misery? Oliver, my child, take a closer look at this world. Is it true that every man sweats for his daily bread? No, it's not. Look at the 'respectable people,' those who dine on delicacies and drink wine smuggled from France. Do they break a sweat? Can they barely make a living?
Why is that? God says one must labor and sweat to make a living. Then why do some people, who work tirelessly, still can't make ends meet? Some live in ease while others starve. Why, Oliver, why?"
"I don't know," Oliver whispered to himself, standing alone on the street corner.
"It's because these 'respectable people' have stolen everything from us! According to God's will, every man should toil but also be able to eat. But these 'respectable people,' these real thieves, have stolen everything from us!"
Fagin's voice rang in Oliver's mind again.
"Oliver, they call me a thief, and my brothers are thieves too. Look at Jim, do you know how he lost his hand? It was in the factory, caught in a machine. Was it his fault? No, it was because he was overworked. He toiled in the factory, nonstop, for eighteen hours every day! Oliver, a man is not a machine; even machines need rest.
Oliver, God created day and night, allowing night to take up half of a day. Why is that? Because God believes that a person should have at least half a day to rest. Forcing someone to work for eighteen hours straight is an un-Christian sin.
Oliver, these factory owners, businessmen, noble 'respectable people,' they're all thieves, including the King of England—he's a thief too! They live well because they've stolen what should have been ours!
Oliver, they say I'm a thief. They hunt me down, offering a reward of fifty pounds for my head—let me boast a bit, that's even more than the reward they offered for Judas to betray Jesus (according to the Bible, Judas betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver). But, you see, Oliver, I've committed so many big crimes, stolen so much money, do I eat well, dress well, and have as much money as a 'respectable person'? Where has my money gone?
Oliver, that's not my money; it belongs to all the poor. I've taken every penny back from those thieves and returned it to its rightful owners. That's why they can't get rid of me."
"Oliver, in the past few decades, they've hanged five Fagins, and maybe tomorrow, I'll be the sixth to dangle from the gallows. But as long as the true thieves who defy God's will are still around, Fagin will never die. Oliver, do you know what I like most about you? I love your honesty and kindness. I believe that one day, your name might become synonymous with Fagin.
Oliver, remember, we're not thieves; we're only helping people reclaim what's rightfully theirs. Our hands only reach out to the 'respectable people,' never to those who truly toil and can barely, or cannot, make ends meet."
"I'm not a thief. I'm just following God's will, helping those people retrieve what's rightfully theirs," Oliver whispered to himself. Then he spotted the finest grapes, silk, and genuine luxuries entering a bookstore across the street.
The clientele of the bookstore consisted of well-to-do individuals, and the fellow he had his eye on seemed foolish, as if he had no defenses.
Oliver, with worn but relatively clean attire, ventured closer, although his shoes were far from respectable, one of them sporting a hole through which his toes could enjoy the fresh air, like a blade of grass emerging from the earth in spring.
As long as he could enter the bookstore, he could swiftly approach the seemingly foolish "respectable person." The fellow was standing at the counter, eyeing the books on the shelves.
Perhaps due to his poor eyesight, the "respectable person" stretched his neck like a duck, his head seemingly held by an invisible hand, raised high. His pocket bulged like a wallet.
Oliver touched the small blade hidden in his pocket, then nonchalantly strolled into the bookstore. As long as the fellow at the door didn't notice his conspicuously toe-ventilated shoe, he could proceed. He soon found himself inside the store, his target well within sight.
The seemingly foolish "respectable person" appeared to hear something, glanced in Oliver's direction, and then continued his conversation with the bookstore owner. "Sir, do you have a copy of 'Spartacus' in English?"
"Only a few left. Would you like one too?" the shopkeeper asked.
"Yes, my friend mentioned it. He said the French version is even better. Is this book selling well?" the "respectable person" inquired.
"It is. You see, the French are excellent storytellers. The story is quite fascinating," the bookstore owner replied. "But if you're interested, you should get one soon. They might run out soon."
"If it's selling well, they'll probably print more, won't they?" the "respectable person" asked.
"Of course, but, you see, some are still accusing it of blasphemy. Ah, may God bless us." The bookstore owner made the sign of the cross over his chest. "So, who knows if there'll be a second edition."
"Ah, I see. In that case, this book is likely to become a collector's item. All the more reason to buy it," the "respectable person" said as he reached into his wallet.
"How much is the book?" asked the "respectable person."
The bookstore owner quoted a price, and the "respectable person" opened his wallet. Oliver saw the wallet was filled with colorful bills.
The "respectable person" paid, nonchalantly stuffed the wallet back into his pocket—not very discreetly, as a corner of the wallet stuck out—and picked up the book. He began reading as he strolled out of the bookstore. Oliver quietly followed.
Unaware of Oliver, the "respectable person" kept his head down, reading, and hummed softly to himself. Oliver cautiously approached, extended his hand to snatch the wallet. But just as his hand closed around it, the "respectable person's" hand reached out from nowhere and seized Oliver's wrist.
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