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Chapter 1313: The World Cup Opens

Paris.

The steam passenger ship "Pearl Earring" slowly docked at Saint-Bernard Port on the Seine River. As soon as the gangplank was set, Madame Brode eagerly stepped out, lifting the hem of her skirt.

She first took an excited, deep breath of the air, carrying the faint scent of the river, then gazed at the neat streets and the endless flow of carriages in the distance. She exclaimed in her somewhat unpracticed French, "The newspapers were right! This place is truly second only to heaven!"

Her husband, Brode, ambled over after her, muttering with a frown, "Don't be fooled by these superficial appearances. France is crawling with warmongers..."

The woman immediately shot him a glare. "I suggest you put aside those unnecessary hostilities and prejudices. French troops have even helped us."

"Hmph," he scoffed. "Everyone knows the Flemish are backed by France. These invaders have occupied vast tracts of land in the southern Netherlands!"

Madame Brode retorted, "If not for French mediation, the Flemish might have already captured Amsterdam. Furthermore, France recently ceded western Emden to us. We should be grateful to the French people."

"Hmph, mere crumbs," Brode muttered, curling his lip. "If that fellow hadn't insisted on sending us boat tickets and entry passes, I wouldn't have set foot on French soil my entire life."

Indeed, he was a radical Dutch nationalist whose political agenda included reclaiming the lands occupied by Flanders and re-establishing the powerful navy that once dominated Europe.

The mention of "business" instantly deflated Brode's assertiveness.

Back then, his fortune had been considerably greater than Walsh, that wool merchant. Walsh had even used their distant family connection to beg him for loans.

Later, when the fellow suddenly declared he was moving to France, Brode had mocked him relentlessly. Yet, unexpectedly, the man had gotten incredibly lucky; his net worth reportedly increased five or sixfold, if not more, over the years.

Brode, however, had lost nearly 70% of his investments due to the "Dutch East India Company stock incident," which consequently caused liquidity issues for his port warehousing business.

After several years of struggling, his warehousing company was on the verge of bankruptcy. It was at this critical juncture that he suddenly received a letter from Walsh, inviting him to Paris to watch the World Cup matches.

The letter included round-trip boat tickets and VIP passes for all matches.

Although Brode harbored negative feelings toward France, he was a huge football fan—he still refused to admit that the French Crown Prince had invented the great sport. Coupled with his wife's suggestion of borrowing money from his wealthy distant cousin to keep his business afloat, this trip to Paris came to be.

As the Brodes and their servants walked onto the open space of the pier, they heard someone exclaim loudly in a refined Versailles accent, "Ah, my dear Michel, and Sylvia, you've finally arrived! How was the journey, did you find it comfortable?"

Madame Brode quickly nudged her husband, then curtsied with a smile. "The ship was absolutely luxurious. We've wanted to visit Paris for ages, and it seems Heaven's grace brought us your invitation at just the right time."

She suddenly felt a little self-conscious, her accent being too heavy, making her feel out of place in this bustling city.

Walsh and his wife returned their greetings. "I know Michel loves football," he said with a smile. "This is a major competition he simply can't miss."

As he spoke, he stepped forward and embraced Brode. "If it weren't for the money you lent me, I wouldn't have this life today. You absolutely must enjoy your stay in Paris this time; I'll be your guide."

Brode followed him out of the port and saw World Cup promotional banners everywhere, alongside vendors loudly hawking footballs, horns, and other merchandise.

He glanced around, hesitating slightly. "You... you live near the port?"

"Certainly not! The environment here is hardly desirable," Walsh said proudly. "I live in the 'Palace Gardens,' near the Tuileries Palace."

Brode recalled the Paris map he had seen on the ship; the Tuileries Palace was at least ten miles from here!

He looked around again. "So, where's your carriage?"

Walsh smiled, pointing to a station not far away. "Carriages are too slow. We'll take that."

The group walked another hundred meters or so before Brode spotted iron rails and a massive, iron-shelled vehicle approaching, emitting black smoke.

"Is that... a train?"

Walsh nodded, then shook his head. "It's a steam railcar, much smaller than a train. But it can still carry over thirty people at once."

As he spoke, he glanced back at the servants his cousin had brought, then took out a banknote and handed it to a young boy standing by a pillar. "Four first-class seats, four regular seats."

"Certainly, sir, please wait a moment." The boy bowed and turned, running towards the ticket counter.

Brode looked puzzled. "He doesn't seem to be one of your servants, does he?"

"He's a 'line-stander'," Walsh chuckled. "They're everywhere in Paris, ready to handle all sorts of bothersome tasks for you."

"Aren't you worried... he might run off with the money?"

Walsh waved a hand. "No need to worry, they have a supervisor. If he actually ran off, someone would quickly compensate me for my loss."

A moment later, the boy returned with the tickets and change, respectfully handing them to Walsh. The latter generously pulled out a single franc and offered it as a tip, immediately earning a chorus of thanks.

Brode boarded the railcar and settled into a wide, cushioned seat at the back, immediately catching a fresh, perfumed scent.

The servants, meanwhile, sat in the first carriage compartment, separated by wooden panels—those were the regular seats. Even further front were "standing tickets." The steam railcar only had two carriages attached.

With a blast of the whistle, the railcar shuddered, then began to move slowly.

Brode initially paid little mind, but the vehicle steadily picked up speed, soon approaching that of a galloping horse.

Madame Brode exclaimed excitedly to Madame Walsh, "No wonder you don't take a carriage! This is much faster than any carriage I've ever seen!"

The latter nodded with a smile. "From the pier to our residence, it only takes half an hour by steam railcar."

As the railcar rounded a tall building, Brode suddenly saw hundreds of people gathered by the roadside, dragging a series of thick pipes large enough for an adult to stoop and crawl through. They were attaching them to something resembling a crane, next to which a deep trench had been dug.

He instinctively asked, "What are they doing?"

Walsh followed his gaze and explained with a smile, "Those are ceramic pipes, used to build Paris's new sewage system. You see, that's a steam crane; it lifts the sewage pipes to be buried underground. These pipes will spread throughout underground Paris, running past every building. People will be able to dispose of wastewater right in their homes, and it will then flow into these pipes."