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Chapter 126: I'll Accept This Grand Gift, the French Guards!

"Not yet," Prosper said, a troubled expression on his face. "As you know, we haven't had much contact with the military before. My people only just managed to connect with an officer from the French Guards yesterday..."

Fouché's face was grim. "I'll give you five more days. If you can't uncover anything valuable by then, the head of the task force will be replaced."

"Yes, sir! I'll do my absolute best," Prosper replied, his face a picture of misery as he accepted the order.

Fouché saw his expression and knew this mission was exceptionally difficult—the army had its own intelligence system. Even the Secret Police were hesitant to extend their reach into military affairs, let alone the Police Intelligence Bureau, which had only been established a few months ago.

"Remember, every contact leaves a trace!" he encouraged his subordinate. "If you pay attention to every detail, I'm confident you'll find what you're looking for."

...

Inside the French Guards' commanding officer's office.

"Are you saying," Besenval stared intently at his subordinate, struggling to suppress his anger, "that you were responsible for the shelling of the farmhouse in the southern suburbs?"

The major officer before him nodded, a smug look on his face. "Yes, General. Rest assured, they handled it cleanly. That same evening, I had someone inform the farmer that the cannons from the police training grounds had hit them, and then I notified all the newspapers in Paris..."

Yesterday, when he heard about the farmhouse incident in the southern suburbs, he genuinely thought it was a training error at the police academy. Overjoyed, he even contacted several influential nobles to jointly pressure the Minister of Interior.

He never imagined it was actually his own subordinate who had done it.

"There are only a few military units near Paris," Besenval gritted out. "People will soon suspect us!

"Listen! For a while, you and your men are not to leave the barracks by a single step, nor are you to contact anyone outside.

"Oh, heavens, what foolishness have you committed!"

"Yes, yes..." Théodore shrank back, trembling as he retreated from the office.

Besenval rubbed his throbbing palm and shook his head in frustration.

Although Théodore's approach was crude, it had been dark at the time, and no one should have seen that it was the French Guards who were responsible. As long as he remained hidden in the barracks, nothing should go wrong.

He glanced at the newspaper on his desk, where a large headline read, "Cannonball from Alleged Police Academy Training Ground Hits Farmhouse, Causing Two Deaths," and a cold smile played on his lips.

As long as the truth didn't leak out, perhaps he could indeed use this opportunity to properly deal with the Police Bureau.

...

At the entrance of the White Narcissus Brothel, two tipsy middle-aged men, arms around each other's shoulders, staggered towards a carriage by the roadside.

"Valentin, my dear friend," said the man with small eyes, wearing a standard French Guards' shirt beneath a black long coat, a smile plastered across his face as he clapped the other on the back. "Let's go hunting another day, the rabbits are plump in winter..."

The tall, square-faced man, however, waved his hand. "What's the fun in hunting? You can only use small hunting rifles."

His tongue seemed a bit thick. "Cannons! Only cannons are a man's true love! Tirou, you know, if it weren't for this leg of mine, perhaps my rank wouldn't be lower than yours?"

Tirou nodded repeatedly. "Indeed, your ancestors and father all achieved military honors. With such a fine lineage, you would certainly make an excellent officer."

Valentin limped a few steps, then turned to look back at the brothel, sighing. "Alas, my life is destined to waste away in places like this. I truly envy you, able to wear a uniform, command cannons, and crush all enemies on the battlefield!

"And I, though from a military family, have never even touched a real cannon."

Tirou laughed. "Cannons? What's so interesting about them? Cold and hard..."

"No, you don't know how good you have it. To me, cannons are more charming than the girls at White Narcissus."

Tirou suddenly had an idea. This wealthy Viscount Valentin Menard had hit it off with him at a tavern a few days ago. For over a week now, he had been invited for drinks and visits to the brothel almost every day, spending a considerable amount. Tirou was starting to feel a bit indebted.

He never expected Viscount Menard to be so fond of cannons; perhaps this was an opportunity to repay the favor.

Tirou immediately pulled Menard into the carriage and, buoyed by the alcohol, lowered his voice. "Since you've treated me to White Narcissus so many times, I'll treat you to some cannons."

Menard was instantly surprised. "Really? Where are these cannons?"

"In the barracks, of course, hehe."

"But I'm not a soldier, how can I get into the barracks?"

Tirou patted his chest. "Don't worry, I'll take you. You can tinker with the cannons all you want, and if the opportunity arises, I might even let you fire a few."

"Oh, heavens! I don't know how to thank you, dear Tirou!"

"We're friends, what's there to thank?"

At dusk, Menard, dressed in a French Guards' uniform, limped behind Tirou and entered the French Guards' barracks.

The sentry at the gate merely glanced at Tirou's rank and asked no further questions.

Outside the French Guards' cannon storage, Tirou whispered a few words to the guarding officer, then gestured for Menard to enter.

"Oh, heavens! They're really cannons!" Menard exclaimed, instantly captivated upon seeing the artillery pieces. He almost caressed each cannon one by one, as if greeting a beloved lady.

Seeing his mesmerized expression, Tirou shook his head with a chuckle. He then went to sit alone in a corner, pulled out a flask, and started drinking.

When Menard saw that no one was watching, the drunkeness on his face vanished instantly. He deftly pulled a wooden ball, slightly larger than a fist, from his pocket. This ball had been meticulously replicated by a craftsman to match the cannonball that struck the farmhouse, with every dimension and dent exact to the original.

Menard placed the wooden ball against the muzzles of the six 4-pounder cannons there, one by one. The muzzles of three of them generally matched the size of the cannonball.

He then pulled a long strip of paper from his pocket, on which were drawn two parallel lines, some vertical marks, and irregular circles.

He held the paper strip against the wheels of the three cannons. Soon, he eliminated one more using the wheel width—the paper strip contained wheel impressions traced from the shelling site north of the police academy training ground. The two parallel lines represented the wheel width, the vertical marks were the joints of the wheel's rivets, and the irregular circles were wear or impact marks on the wheels.

Menard carefully compared the remaining two cannons. Suddenly, a smile played on his lips, and he whispered to himself, 'Indeed, every contact leaves a trace. This trace, you left it!'

The cannon in front of him, from its wheel width to the position of the rivets and even a small chip on its wheel, perfectly matched the wheel tracks found at the site!

Menard quickly pulled out a pen and copied the serial number from the cannon's breech.

...

Joseph leafed through several newspapers before him, nodding slightly.

The front page of the Paris Business Journal featured "Care from the Police Bureau, the Axel Family Feels Deeply Touched," beneath which was an engraving of Besançon holding Axel's youngest son, feeding him.

Axel was the farmer whose house had been hit by the cannonball that day. He and his two children had been in the fields for spring plowing, thus narrowly escaping harm.

The French Courier followed up with a report on the Axel family's current living situation, titled "Little Benoît Smiles for the First Time, House Fully Repaired by the Police Bureau." It was accompanied by an engraving of the Axel family's house.

The Voice of the City conducted a more in-depth investigation. Its front-page headline read, "The Culprit May Be Someone Else, Experts State 4-Pounder Cannons Have Limited Range." The content analyzed the extremely low probability of a cannon fired from the police academy training ground hitting a farmhouse about 1.35 kilometers away and showed the cannon's firing location discovered by Dubois.

With public opinion as his weapon, Joseph's crisis management was highly successful this time—the prevailing sentiment in Paris now revolved around "the Police Bureau's touching concern for farmers" or "Police Bureau officials are approachable and kind to ordinary people."

Even those who still believed the police academy training grounds were responsible for the accidental shelling mostly held the view that "the Police Bureau is courageous enough to take responsibility and rectify its mistakes."

The newspapers had already reported on the Axel family receiving 4,000 livres in aid. This was an absolutely enormous sum for a farming family. Some nearby farmers even complained enviously, wondering why their own homes hadn't been hit by a cannon.

Axel, for his part, repeatedly told reporters that he had initially fallen for rumors and was certain that it wasn't a police academy cannon that had hit his home. Moreover, even if it had truly been an accidental hit from the police academy training ground, his family had long since forgiven the academy, and the Paris police officers were like angels.

As for those who had protested outside the police academy training ground, they had all dispersed a week ago.

After this "Commissioner of Police personally comforts shelling victims" incident, the number of young people enrolling in the police academy even increased.

Joseph was reading an article about the incident in the News and Pictures Gazette when Eman lightly tapped on the door. "Your Highness, Monsieur Fouché has arrived."

"Oh? Please show him in."

Fouché entered the office, bowed with his hand over his chest, then immediately said, "Your Highness, it is largely confirmed that the French Guards were responsible."

As he spoke, he placed a report before Joseph and continued, "This details the cannon comparisons made by the Police Intelligence Bureau. We've also investigated the seven gunners assigned to that cannon; six of them left the French Guards' barracks that afternoon on the day of the incident and returned together that evening. We can also confirm they did not go into Paris during that time."

The Police Intelligence Bureau had deployed a large network of informants across Paris, so he was completely confident in this conclusion.

While the old French army was rather lax in its management, with each soldier having nearly eight hours of free time daily, so many men leaving the barracks simultaneously without entering central Paris certainly suggested something was amiss.

Joseph looked at the report and asked, "Is there any truly concrete evidence?"

Fouché shook his head. "Your Highness, we are currently using inference to identify the culprits, but it's not enough to accuse them yet."

Seeing the Crown Prince frown, Fouché immediately stepped forward, his expression grim, though a glint of excitement danced in his eyes. "Your Highness, do you wish to have those men arrested? I have many ways to make them confess."

Joseph glanced at him. "Where are those men now?"

"In the French Guards' encampment."

"No. Abducting soldiers from a military camp could have very serious consequences if it went wrong."

Joseph looked back at the report in his hand, recalling Besenval's attempt to inspect the police academy training ground a while ago, only to be forced back by the officers with their guns. He couldn't help but sneer: 'It seems this was precisely the reason for their actions.'

'I never imagined that Besenval would so callously disregard human life just to spite the police academy. If Axel hadn't been lucky enough to be away from home, his entire family of six might have perished.'

If Besenval knew Joseph's thoughts, he would surely cry out in injustice. He was a man of reason, originally intending to use the power of the military aristocratic faction to deal with the Paris Police Bureau, but he hadn't guarded against a hothead like Théodore among his subordinates.

Joseph tossed the report onto the table and took a deep breath: 'Alright, so you want to play dirty, do you? Then I won't hold back!'

He had previously tried to avoid antagonizing military forces because his political foundation was unstable, and he didn't want to alert the military aristocratic faction. But now they had actively provoked him, so if he struck back, the military aristocracy surely wouldn't have much to say.

'Since that's the case, I'll accept this grand gift, the French Guards!'

Joseph bowed his head in thought for a moment, then suddenly remembered that Besenval had used the excuse of an important visitor needing a search of the training ground.

The important visitor expected in Paris recently should be the Princess of the Two Sicilies.

He looked at Fouché and asked, "Do you know who is responsible for escorting foreign royalty when they visit Paris?"

"Your Highness, along the route, local garrisons typically handle the escort. Once near Paris, the French Guards take over. Upon entering the city, the French Guards and the Royal Guard escort them together until they reach Versailles."

Joseph nodded slightly; this was a good opportunity. A plan quickly formed in his mind.

"Count Eman, please prepare the carriage. I need to go to Versailles."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Soon, the Crown Prince's carriage departed from the Industrial Planning Bureau.

In the carriage, Joseph was giving Fouché instructions for the upcoming arrangements when he heard a newsboy loudly proclaiming by the roadside: "Read all about it! Two sous a copy! The 'Blood Blade' gang is active around Paris; seven or eight people have already been killed!"

Joseph quickly ordered the carriage to stop, about to send someone to buy a newspaper, when Fouché preempted him with a report. "Your Highness, that's just a band of highwaymen. They don't even dare to enter Paris; they only operate in the countryside. They've just killed quite a few people, which is why they've garnered attention."

"Highwaymen?" A smile curved Joseph's lips. "Adding this gang will make it even more perfect!"

Once the carriage stopped at Versailles, Joseph immediately rushed to the Petit Trianon.

Queen Marie, who hadn't seen her son in over half a month, happily embraced him. "My dear Joseph, I thought you had forgotten all about me."

Joseph exchanged a few pleasantries with her, then suddenly said, "Mother, I wish to personally welcome Princess Maria Amalia outside Paris."