Chapter 1327: The 'Volcano' of Saint Petersburg
Chapter 1327: The 'Volcano' of Saint Petersburg
That evening, Viscount Olivier emerged from the ballroom, utterly exhausted.
After boarding his carriage, which waited outside Count Sheremetev's estate, he leaned back into the seat, popped a piece of candy into his mouth, and a relaxed smile spread across his face.
At the ball, he had finally reached an agreement with Nikolai Rumyantsev, who would purchase a 20% stake in his coal mine and ironworks in Donbas for 130,000 rubles—over 500,000 francs.
Considering the true value of his company, this deal meant a loss of approximately 50,000 francs for him. Factoring in the company's current rapid growth, the actual loss was even greater.
But it was the Crown Prince's command, and he had simply followed it.
In fact, before this, he had already half-sold, half-given away a large number of shares to influential Russian figures like Duke Kurakin and Prince Yusupov, leaving him with only a 15% stake.
These individuals were all powerful figures in Russia: Nikolai Rumyantsev's father was an Imperial Marshal, Duke Kurakin wielded immense diplomatic influence, and the Yusupov family were the local magnates in southern Russia.
Although Viscount Olivier had lost hundreds of thousands of francs, his heart swelled with excitement. The Crown Prince had promised him a position on the "Committee of Twenty" within the Industrial Development Fund upon his return to Paris—an extraordinary status in French industry and commerce.
He had read in the newspapers that the North German region had already signed an agreement with France, allowing French companies to invest and establish factories there, and French patents would be recognized by all North German states.
Years ago, he had followed the Crown Prince's advice, taking a risk by bringing over a hundred workers to invest in Donbas. In just eight years, he had earned over 3.7 million francs there—and that didn't even account for the value of the coal mines and factories themselves.
Thus, he was filled with anticipation for the prospect of "shifting operations" to Westphalia.
Indeed, the Ruhr Area, later to become the famous "industrial heart of the German Empire," was currently vast tracts of farmland, with only a few small coal mines operating in places like Bochum.
Most of the French government's capital had been invested in Wallonia and the Rhineland, so the coal resources of Westphalia would have to be controlled by private capital.
Subsequently, the trains and steam-powered machinery in the North German region would consume vast quantities of coal, and Westphalian coal mines could even become a "valve" influencing the economies of various nations.
This would further strengthen France's control over North Germany.
The situation in Russia was quickly becoming unpredictable, so Joseph had instructed Olivier to finalize his "affairs" there as soon as possible and return to Western Europe to avoid danger.
As for the Donbas coal and iron mines, after Olivier departed with the core technical staff, they could be left for the Russian noble lords to do with as they pleased. Moreover, quite a few Security Bureau agents remained within the company, ensuring no Russian "gentleman" would suddenly prove to be a management prodigy.
The assets Olivier had previously handed over to Chadov and the other "Avengers" were some of the company's peripheral channels; simply by supplying Donbas coal and iron to Saint Petersburg, they could maintain a decent profit.
Chadov had not wasted his funds; merely half a month after returning to Saint Petersburg, he convened the first "gathering."
Inside the ironmonger's warehouse, Chadov pressed his hands firmly on the table, scanning the few men in the room. He declared in a low voice, "I swear on my mother's name, that letter is real. I saw it with my own eyes; it bears the seal of the British envoy."
He was referring to the letter that described Alexander's assassination of Paul.
For reasons of confidentiality, only eleven Russian soldiers, whose loyalty to Paul I had been repeatedly confirmed, had seen the original letter.
"Pahlen and Zubov were the primary organizers, with Argamakov, Sablukov, and the British envoy all involved.
"That night, they dismissed the Janissaries guarding the perimeter of Gatchina Palace..."
Chadov's face flickered between light and shadow in the dancing candlelight. "Finally, that devil burst into the bedroom and shot His Majesty Paul dead at his bedside!"
The men in the warehouse were all prisoners recently repatriated from France. They had heard the story of Paul's assassination countless times in Strasbourg, yet each of them was still seething with uncontrollable rage.
"We must avenge His Majesty!"
"Give me a gun! I'll go to the Winter Palace and kill that parricidal bastard!"
"Fool, you can't even get past the palace gates. We must wait until he travels..."
Chadov raised a hand, signaling for silence. "No, with our abilities, we cannot kill that devil. But we can make everyone aware of his crimes!
"One day, he will be abandoned by all, stabbed in the back by his own guards, or strangled in his sleep by his servants!"
A middle-aged soldier looked at him and asked, "What should we do?"
"First, we must find our old comrades—not the kind who abandon loyalty for profit—and then tell them the truth."
Following the steps taught to him by the Security Bureau, Chadov continued, "From now on, we will hold a gathering every two weeks. You can bring trustworthy individuals with you.
"Soon, I'll also print some pamphlets, which you can take and distribute everywhere."
The men nodded in agreement.
Another soldier, with a scar across his face, said coldly, "You just said that Alexander's guards were all involved in the assassination?"
"Indeed."
"While we can't get near the Tsar, we can certainly find these fellows." Scarface made a throat-slitting gesture. "We can take care of them first!"
Chadov nodded. "That will require careful planning..."
There were nine such "Vengeance Squads" like Chadov's in Saint Petersburg, with others operating in Moscow and Beloozero.
In a somewhat deserted tavern on the northern outskirts of Saint Petersburg, Kishchenko looked at the officers before him with his grey-green eyes, waving excitedly. "That is the power of civilization, the triumph brought by human rights and equality!
"Therefore, the moment our emperor declared war on that great nation, we were already destined for defeat!"
The officers instantly glanced around in alarm. Fortunately, there was no one else in the tavern; even the bartender seemed to have slipped off to shirk his duties. Otherwise, they would likely have silenced anyone who overheard those words.
These were not prisoners of war returned from France, but Kishchenko's friends.
Someone rose, pulling Kishchenko aside with a dry chuckle. "You must be drunk, you're starting to ramble..."
"I haven't had a drop!" Kishchenko retorted, shaking off his hand. "If you continue to 'slumber' like this, Russia will be buried in the dust of history!
"Do you know what France is like now?
"Everyone, even the poorest peasants, eats white bread, butter, and beef with every meal! Even the prisoners of war building railways eat better than the citizens of Saint Petersburg!"
As he spoke, he pulled a small pamphlet from his pocket and carefully placed it on the table. "We must do something."
The others leaned forward to look at the pamphlet, seeing a line of French on the cover—"Declaration of the Rights of Man."
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