Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

Police Affairs Department, Intelligence Team’s office.

Fouche, with a dark face, coldly stared with his dead fish eyes at several intelligence team leaders in front of him, his voice hoarse, “Disgrace! This is simply a disgrace!”

The members of the Intelligence Team bowed their heads in aggrievement, not daring to respond at all.

Fouche paused after every word, “I’m giving you another 10 days. If you can’t come up with anything useful by then, I’ll find a few journalists to take your places! Do you understand?!”

“Yes, we understand!” the group said in unison.

They were genuinely helpless—they had gone to great lengths to find a mere hint of dirt on the judges of the High Court and had gleefully passed it to Mala via a “mole”. Unexpectedly, Mala had smiled and handed the “mole” a booklet. Their “big discovery” had already been printed in it, and was much more detailed than what they had found. By the next day, the whole of Paris had known about it.

They couldn’t fathom how these journalists, who were not even in the professional intelligence field, could obtain information faster than them…

The group could only quietly resolve to procure such significant intelligence that would astound these journalists and redeem their previous shame!

Fouche huffed and puffed as he left. The intelligence team leaders immediately began to whisper amongst themselves:

“My people have cracked Vergniaud’s family safe and we’ve infiltrated two agents, but there hasn’t been a chance to act…”

“I’ve copied all those judges’ letters. Do any of you want to see?”

“My informant can enter the archives of the High Court. If all else fails, shall we just steal all the records?”

…

Paris High Court.

In the conference hall, Magistrate Wezignia’s speech was repeatedly interrupted by the noise of protesters outside. He angrily rushed to the window and yelled down, “Can’t you keep it down? You uncultured bunch!”

Some incredibly strong protester immediately hurled a fist-sized clod of earth that nearly flew into the third-floor window.

Wezignia, taken aback, quickly retreated back to the conference table and, with a dark face, bellowed, “What are those police doing? Why haven’t they arrested the rioters yet?!”

A melancholic-eyed judge sitting to the left covered his ears with his hands, saying, “Those pamphlets are the key. It’s them inciting hatred towards the High Court. Without those, the crowd will disperse quickly.”

Wezignia nodded slowly but was very puzzled as he said, “Viscount Dibor, aren’t those types of pamphlets mostly under the control of that person in the Royal Palace? Why would they target the High Court?”

“Who knows?” Dibor replied, “Perhaps we need to go and find out from him.”

The eagle-nosed judge beside them spoke in a grave tone, “You go to the Royal Palace. I’m going to Police Headquarters! These damned police, they just know how to slack off. I’m about to be driven mad by this rabble!”

Soon, a few carriages, amidst the jeers from the protesting crowd, awkwardly squeezed out of the High Court and went off in two different directions.

…

In the study of the Royal Palace, the Duke of Orleans looked at the two middle-aged men in front of him and asked, “So, what do you think?”

Just moments before, a judge from the High Court had left after lamenting the recent oppressive public opinion against the court and urging him to come up with a solution.

He too was aware that there were pamphlets in circulation that were out of his control, and it was time to strike back. Therefore, he immediately summoned the two most formidable writers at his disposal to discuss a counterstrategy.

The man with the high nose bridge, who bore a resemblance to an Italian, flipped through the booklet in his hands and hesitated, “Your Grace, to be frank, these novels are quite captivating… I mean, the unenlightened common folk would find them quite interesting.”

The handsome man with blue eyes added, “And they’re very cheaply priced. I’ve heard they sell for just 1 livre and 5 deniers. You see, they even come with 5 illustrations.”

“So,” the Duke of Orleans nodded, “I need you to write something more interesting as soon as possible to overshadow these booklets.

“As for the price, you needn’t worry.”

As an old hand at manipulating public opinion, he was well aware that the cost of a 16-page booklet with 5 illustrations was between 5 and 6 livres. But to take back control of the public discourse, he could only sell it for 1 livre and 5 deniers.

Moreover, judging by the scale of those booklets’ circulation, at least tens of thousands must have been sold. That meant, to match the same sales volume, he would have to suffer a loss of three to four thousand livres a day.

The Duke of Orleans furrowed his brow; he could afford the money, but who was behind this, willing to lose so much to go against the High Court?

Could it be Brian?

He revealed a sneer, thinking to challenge me with public opinion tactics? Let’s see them try!

…

Vergniaud hurriedly arrived at the town hall and made a beeline for the Police Headquarters but was informed by a clerk that the Director of Police Services had gone to Brittany to purchase police equipment.

Brittany was far on the west coast of France, and a round trip would take at least a fortnight.

Vergniaud asked helplessly, “What about the Assistant Director of Police?”

The clerk replied respectfully, “He’s gone to Brittany as well.”

Vergniaud angered, “Who’s in charge here now?!”

“The Director… didn’t say…”

Vergniaud felt stifled but had no choice but to return to his carriage, preparing to visit the Police Commissioner of the Louvre District.

However, upon his arrival at the Louvre District police station, he learned that “Commissioner Alden, along with all the principal officers, has gone for training at the Paris Police Academy.”

The next day, Vergniaud, travel-weary, made his way to the Paris Police Headquarters, only to find out that Alden had gone to the training ground opened by the academy in the southern suburbs, more than ten kilometers away.

In this manner, he circled around looking for Alden for three days but never managed to catch him.

Finally, he planned to request some police force from the nearby Saint-Germain District to disperse the protesters outside the High Court. But the Saint-Germain District Police Commissioner expressed willingness to help, only if he had a cross-district authorization from the Director of Police…

Mirabeau looked out of the carriage window as the scenery flew past, subconsciously caressing his cane, his brow involuntarily furrowing.

To tell the truth, he was truly reluctant to partake in today’s meeting—he had already received news about the previous Cabinet meeting and was well aware that the Crown Prince was now aligned with Brian. Having attended a gathering denouncing Brian just a few days earlier, what could he possibly have to discuss with the Crown Prince?

Yet Mr. Dupont insisted that the meeting was of utmost importance and repeatedly requested his presence.

Although his relationship with Dupont was rather ordinary, Dupont was a significant financier behind several politicians he was on good terms with and was also the president of the French Chamber of Commerce. As he himself operated numerous workshops and shops with a lot of business relying on the Chamber of Commerce, he couldn’t simply snub Dupont’s face.

A child blessed by God, he mused with a chuckle and a shake of his head, no matter how exceptionally gifted, was still just a thirteen-year-old child. Was Brian planning to use his status to negotiate terms with him?

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