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Chapter 1007: The Crown Princess's Bakery

Walsh frowned upon hearing the proposal. "If I understand you correctly, you intend for people to burn coal in their homes?"

"It is coal processed into a specific form," Rochefort corrected.

"Good heavens, the smoke would choke them to death."

Rochefort smiled. "French coal is indeed prone to that, but I am referring to the anthracite produced in the Rhineland."

Walsh was well-acquainted with anthracite. Britain was currently the largest producer of hard coal in Europe, and his childhood home had been heated by coal fires. This accessibility was a primary reason why the Industrial Revolution had first taken root in Britain.

However, he still shook his head. "Transporting it from so far away to Paris... the freight costs would be astronomical."

"There is a government subsidy," the chubby man interjected immediately. "Every ton of coal transported to Paris receives a shipping subsidy of six francs."

Walsh’s business involved transporting wool from Britain to Lyon, so he was intimately familiar with logistics costs. A smile finally touched his lips. Transporting a ton from the Rhineland to Paris by water cost roughly twenty francs. The French government was subsidizing nearly a third of that. This brought the price of anthracite in Paris very close to that in London.

Judging by coal sales in London, this business was, at the very least, viable.

Walsh’s eyes instantly lit up. That would significantly increase the profit margins.

As the chubby man detailed the specifics of the honeycomb coal, Walsh nodded repeatedly. "This truly is a magnificent invention. The combustion rate can be adjusted at will, and it can even be used for cooking.

"Now, tell me: what is the required investment for a stake, and what is the monthly sales volume?"

Rochefort spoke with excitement. "You only need to invest five thousand francs for a fifty-percent share.

"As for sales, I have done some rough calculations. If only a fifth of the households in the Saint-Antoine district use honeycomb coal, we could sell over two thousand francs worth a month, with a profit margin exceeding fifteen percent!"

Walsh’s interest suddenly waned. He waved a hand dismissively. "The returns are decent, but to be blunt, I have no desire to waste my energy on such a small-scale venture.

"However, if you could secure the agency rights for honeycomb coal for the entirety of Paris, then we would have something to discuss."

"This..." Rochefort froze. He hadn't expected the opportunity he viewed as a life-changing breakthrough to be seen by others as a measly denier dropped on the side of the road.

His mind raced. Just as Walsh was about to end the conversation, Rochefort suddenly smiled.

"If you wish to do big business, we can start at the source."

"Oh? Pray, elaborate."

"Anthracite in the Rhineland costs only five francs and three sous per ton. If we handle the transportation ourselves, our profits could increase by more than sixty percent."

"That is only forty-eight hundred francs a year. And it requires a massive investment in shipping," Walsh muttered. His wool business brought in at least thirteen thousand francs annually.

"It is more than that." Rochefort stood up and spread his arms. "With our own transport channels, we can sell honeycomb coal to remote towns that have no agents—we would only need to pay a small patent fee.

"This would also drastically increase our purchase volume, giving us the leverage to negotiate prices with the mines, further driving down costs. If managed correctly, I believe the returns could easily double or triple."

The way Walsh looked at the chubby man began to change.

He took out a pen and paper, scribbled an address, and handed it over. "Prepare the relevant documents and come to my office tomorrow morning. We shall discuss this in detail."

Rochefort tapped his temple. "There is no need to wait, Mr. Walsh. The data is all stored right here."

...

Paris New District.

At a cocktail party hosted by Madame de La Trémoille, Portier held a wine glass with a lazy air, but his small eyes were fixed on the window.

When he saw a servant dressed in black enter the villa, he immediately went to meet him at the door.

The servant whispered, "He has left the house, Master."

"Go and keep watch at Baron Prelecy’s house now," Portier instructed.

He turned and beckoned another servant, gesturing toward a room on the west side of the house. "Madame Lavisia asked me to get her a glass of gin. Please deliver it to her immediately."

He then hurried downstairs and snapped his fingers at the carriage driver waiting outside.

Inside the villa, Madame Lavisia, who was currently flirting with her lover, heard the signal for 'gin.' She immediately claimed she had remembered some urgent business, quickly threw on her dress, and called for her maid to leave.

The carriage was already prepared. Portier opened the door for her and said with a smile, "Viscount Lavisia left twenty minutes ago. He will likely arrive here in ten minutes.

"Your appointment with Baron Prelecy is in half an hour.

"I will handle things here. Have a pleasant time.

"Oh, and remember to return home the moment you hear someone hawking newspapers."

"Very well." Madame Lavisia gave him a quick embrace. "Without you, I would be like a sailor who has lost his compass. Until tomorrow, gentleman."

As the carriage pulled away, Portier smiled and prepared to return upstairs to enjoy a few more drinks—Madame de La Trémoille was very generous, and her cellar was stocked with excellent wine.

Just as he stepped onto the stairs, he saw two men, one tall and one short, walking down toward him.

The tall man, wearing an elaborate wig, said impatiently, "I told you, it isn't just about the processing fees. You must also prepare a tribute for His Highness. Otherwise, Monsieur de Barentin will reprimand me."

Portier recognized him—Baron Motte, a minor official at the Palace of Versailles.

The shorter man, whose eyes held a sharp, piercing glint, spoke in somewhat broken French. "I truly cannot produce any more money. Please believe me; once I meet the Crown Prince, he will surely reward you."

"So, what is your business, exactly?"

"It... it is nothing..."

Portier watched the two pass him. He shrugged dismissively and was about to continue upstairs when he suddenly turned back to look at the shorter man.

He couldn't put his finger on why, but he felt something was off about that person.

He grabbed two glasses of wine and hurried after them.

When Baron Motte returned, Portier acted as if they had met by chance, handing him a glass. "Was that a new friend of yours?" he asked casually.

"Salena, a Dutchman," Motte replied, taking a sip. "He claims to admire the Crown Prince and wants an audience."

Portier curled his lip. "Why would His Highness grant an audience to some random foreigner?"

"Exactly. And the fellow only wanted to pay a hundred and fifty francs."

"Ah, a pitiful pauper. Do you know where he is staying?"

"An inn on Rue de Porcher. Why? Do you intend to help him?"

"Oh, certainly not. I was just asking out of curiosity."

At six in the evening, Portier stood outside the inn on Rue de Porcher for a long while before finally following his intuition and stepping inside.

He paid a servant one sou to learn Salena’s room number—Room 203—and made his way there.

Just as Portier turned into the hallway, he saw Salena pushing his door open to leave, muttering something under his breath.

He heard the man speaking English. 'I really should have asked for more funds...' and 'Damn it, everything in France costs money...'

'This fellow isn't Dutch?' Portier narrowed his eyes. His instincts had been right; the man was definitely suspicious.

He waited for Salena to leave, then checked into the adjacent room and climbed through the window into Room 203.

He conducted a swift search of the luggage. Aside from clothing, there was only a dagger and an unfinished letter.

The letter was also in English. Its contents were essentially a request to a Mr. Sean to send money immediately, or the mission would fail. The return address was Wexford.

That was a city in Ireland.

Portier’s eyes sharpened. It seemed this fellow was a spy.

The door lock clicked. Salena entered the room clutching a loaf of black bread—he was apparently so poor he couldn't even afford the inn’s meal service.

In his haste, Portier grabbed the dagger and stepped out from the shadows. The moment Salena turned to close the door, Portier pressed the blade against his throat. "Easy there, Mr. Spy. I am Enea, a captain of the Intelligence Bureau’s strike team. Don't do anything foolish."

Salena gasped in terror and raised his hands, the black bread thumping onto the floor.

Fifteen minutes later.

Portier looked at the identification documents in his hand and turned to the Irishman sitting before him. "So, Mr. McCracken, you were sent by the Society of United Irishmen?"

The man nodded with a miserable expression. "Yes, officer. I swear, I am not a spy. Please, I beg you, do not arrest me."

This poor high-ranking member of the Irish independence movement had just heard the 'Intelligence Bureau officer' threaten to throw him into a dungeon and had, in desperation, spilled the truth.

Portier asked warily, "Why were you trying to get close to the Crown Prince? To assassinate him?"

"No, no!" McCracken shook his head vigorously. "I came to seek cooperation from His Highness. You know that we share a common stance when it comes to opposing the British."

"Heh, cooperation? I think you should save that for the interrogation room."

"Wait!" McCracken slowly pulled a letter from a hidden lining in his clothes. "This is a letter for the Crown Prince from Mr. Tone."

Portier’s eyes scanned the letter quickly, and his heart began to race.

He was a clever man and immediately realized this was a matter that could shift the entire political landscape of Europe.

He looked at the Irishman. "Why didn't you just give this to His Highness?"

"I tried," the man replied aggrievedly. "The closest I ever got was over two hundred paces away."

As a foreigner without noble status, it was impossible for him to get anywhere near the French Crown Prince.

"Furthermore, there are British spies everywhere. I feared that if I made a scene, I would be assassinated." The Irishman suddenly had a thought and said excitedly, "Wait! You are an officer of the Intelligence Bureau. You can surely take me to see the Crown Prince!"

"I... ahem," Portier looked extremely awkward. "I was only joking about that part..."

As night fell.

Portier’s brow was furrowed in thought. "I could try to find an opportunity to tell the court officials and have them report it upward..."

It was true; given his actual status, he had no way of seeing the Crown Prince either.

McCracken shook his head irritably. "No, the British spies have many eyes and ears. They might find out before the report even reaches him."

Portier sighed. The Irishman had latched onto him, his only lead, like a burr.

Just as he was at his wits' end, he heard the sound of children laughing outside. "Haha! Father finally agreed to buy us some Lieba! Brother, I'm coming with you tomorrow morning."

"It's too late for that, you dummy. Tomorrow is the Crown Princess's lottery day. There will be a line long before dawn. If you want to go, you have to wake up at four o'clock."

"That early? Fine, just make sure you wake me..."

Portier’s eyes suddenly lit up. "I have a way for you to see the Crown Prince."

Three o'clock the next morning.

Portier and McCracken stood in the biting autumn wind, staring helplessly at a queue of three or four hundred people stretching out before them.

At the very front of the line, a sign hung over a shop that read: Alexandra's Bakery.

Indeed, this was the shop opened by Alexandra.

One of the vital duties of any French Crown Princess was to serve as a royal ambassador to the people and interact with the citizens of Paris.

In the past, Crown Princesses would mostly scatter coins along the streets, but at Joseph's suggestion, Alexandra had opened a bakery on this relatively quiet street.

All Parisian citizens could buy bread here daily at twenty-five percent off the market price, and the quality was superior to that of ordinary bakeries. Of course, each person was limited to half a kilogram, verifiable by their identity card.

They also sold a high-end Russian-style bread mixed with raisins—the Royal Lieba. However, the price was somewhat steep.

On "Match Days"—the weekends—Alexandra would personally draw twenty lucky winners from the identity card numbers of everyone who had purchased bread the previous week. These winners were gifted three kilograms of bread and a quarter kilogram of butter.

During these times, the area outside the bakery would be packed to the brim, with everyone excitedly shouting, "God bless the Crown Princess!"

As dawn broke, the bakery doors opened, and the crowd surged inside.

Portier and McCracken waited for over an hour before they finally reached the front. Looking up, they saw the beautiful Crown Princess standing by the counter, dressed in a simple white gown. She was pulling a small ball from a large container.

A maid standing nearby immediately wrote the number "7" on a wooden board. It was an ID number, with only two digits left to be drawn.

Portier took a deep breath, stepped out of the crowd, and strode toward the Crown Princess.

Several guards immediately stepped forward, drawing their swords to block his path. "Halt!"

"What is your business?!"

Portier hastily dropped to one knee. "Respected Crown Princess, I am Pierre Janod de Portier, son of Baron Portier. I have a matter of grave diplomatic importance that I must report to you."

Alexandra held his gaze for only a second before nodding to the captain of the guard. "Please escort this gentleman to the inner room to wait for me."

...

Vienna.

Inside a carriage escorted by over a dozen cavalrymen, the famed Austrian Marshal Leo smiled and nodded to Talleyrand, who sat opposite him. "I returned the moment I received your letter."

Talleyrand bowed slightly. "Vienna is in desperate need of your presence to stabilize the situation."

Leo nodded. "You are referring to the matter of Silesia, I assume?"

"Indeed. There are those in Vienna who wish to bow their heads to the Prussians, trading away Silesia for a fleeting moment of peace.

"The Crown Prince fought alongside you there and secured victory with blood. He has no desire to see it fall into the hands of the Prussians."