Chapter 1333: Church Schools and Welfare Homes
Le Roy, seeing the awkward silence, smiled and offered a reminder from the side:
"Mr. Fellini, please start by introducing which school you are from."
Angelique looked up:
"I'm from Notre... Notre Dame..."
Archbishop Boissy's face began to pale as well; the fool seemed to have forgotten the name of his own school!
He quickly whispered:
"Rue du Cloître-Notre-Dame Church School."
Only then did the boy repeat it, before getting stuck again.
Le Roy could only continue prompting, "So, which excellent teacher's instruction led you to win first place in this competition?"
Archbishop Boissy grit his teeth and said:
"Father Benedetto."
Alexandra looked over, clearly displeased.
"Archbishop Boissy, perhaps you should return to your seat. I wish to hear Mr. Fellini speak for himself."
After Boissy shakily sat down, she asked the boy again:
"Could you tell me about your usual class schedule?"
Angelique, like a struggling student who had finally found a question they knew how to answer, raised his voice several notches:
"From Monday to Wednesday, I have two French lessons, two math lessons, one natural science lesson, and handicraft class every day. From Thursday to Saturday, I have one sports lesson and one art lesson every day. Other times, it's a mix of French, math, and Latin..."
A sudden silence fell over the hall, and all eyes turned to Archbishop Boissy.
This was because the boy had described the standard curriculum of the "New Primary Schools" exactly.
Alexandra and President Le Roy exchanged a few quiet words, then rose and approached Angelique, asking with an authoritative demeanor:
"So, you didn't study at an Oratorian Order school?"
"I..."
"You must tell us everything you've hidden. I can guarantee that no one here can threaten you, and this is your only chance to be forgiven."
Angelique was clearly intimidated by the Crown Princess's imposing aura, stemming from her high position. He nodded frantically, his voice choked:
"I... I'm from Milan. Three years ago, my father and I came to Reims, and I studied at the New Primary School in the Gilda District. My math teacher was Mr. Parente.
"Last year, my father was swindled, and our family fell into a lot of debt."
He pointed to Archbishop Boissy:
"This kind archbishop told me that if I participated in a math exam, he would give me 3,000 francs. That money saved my family..."
Alexandra's gaze turned icy as she stared at Archbishop Boissy.
"You had better provide me with a reasonable explanation."
The latter was already drenched in cold sweat and hastily bowed:
"This... I... please forgive me..."
The Crown Princess gave him an indifferent glare, then left the hall with a dark expression.
The next day, the front pages of all the major and minor Parisian newspapers were dominated by headlines such as "Church School Math Competition Champion Actually Came from a New Primary School" and "Oratorian Order Paid Heavily to Hire New Primary School Students to Impersonate Competitors."
The Paris Business Journal even had an illustration drawn overnight, depicting Archbishop Boissy being exposed publicly with a look of shame, printed beneath the news article.
In the following days, while continuing to report on the math competition scandal, newspapers also began publishing articles such as "Does the Oratorian Order, Propped Up by Lies, Still Have the Qualification to Educate Students?" and "Church School Curricula Are Outdated and Cannot Compare to New Primary Schools."
Soon after, it was unclear which newspaper first shifted the topic to the public childcare system run by the Church.
Suddenly, it was revealed that the Church had spent nearly half a year, claiming to invest millions of francs, but had only built two kindergartens, accommodating fewer than 1,000 children. The goal of covering all of France with public childcare within two years was now completely unattainable.
The Paris Business Journal then timely published news of a three-year-old child in the Saint-Antoine district who tragically died after accidentally falling into a fireplace while his mother was out working. A kindergarten had originally been planned directly across from their home, but only a fence had ever been put up, with no further progress.
Soon, a cleric leaked insider information, stating that the Church had only invested 50,000 francs in building kindergartens in Paris.
People began gathering outside Notre-Dame de Paris to protest, demanding a thorough investigation into the alleged embezzlement and misappropriation of the Church's public childcare funds.
Archbishop Beaumont found himself in an indefensible position. The Church had only invested a total of 50,000 francs; there was no embezzlement. However, if he were to admit that there had never been a plan to "cover all of France with kindergartens within two years," the public's outrage against the Church would likely only intensify.
Although he could 'play dead,' someone reported the matter to the Notary Investigation Bureau.
Marat, who had recently found himself with some free time, was immediately intrigued and personally led the Notary Investigation Bureau's elite team to launch an investigation into the "Church embezzlement case."
As it turned out, the informant was none other than Joseph's secretary.
Since the "Angelique incident," Joseph's series of coordinated moves had completely shattered the Church's prestige in education and firmly drawn public attention to the Church itself.
Next, he would seize upon the Church's financial issues to deliver a fatal blow.
He knew very well that the Church, a hotbed of corruption, was bound to have skeletons in its closet.
However, the first breakthrough wasn't made by Marat, but by a reporter from "City News."
Landry had managed to escape from the Blois District Welfare Home through sheer willpower, far exceeding that of an ordinary person.
When he returned to the newspaper office, he was emaciated, his eyes glazed over, and it took his lifelong friend several minutes to even recognize him.
After Landry had recovered slightly, he had a friend ghostwrite his account of infiltrating the welfare home by posing as a beggar—
The entire welfare home was a fully enclosed structure, completely cut off from the outside world.
It was managed by seven clerics and five nuns, and all residents were divided into sections based on their status: orphans, the elderly, women, and vagrants. Communication between sections was strictly forbidden without a cleric's permission.
Landry was only given two meals a day of moldy black bread and a little vegetable soup—which was considered the best food in the entire welfare home, as the elderly section only received one meal a day—yet he was forced to work 16 hours and spend over an hour in prayer.
The slightest violation of the rules resulted in punishments such as food cancellation or being forced to kneel for extended periods in the prayer room.
As for trying to leave?
Landry, a 24-year-old man, seized the opportunity when the cleric on duty was drunk. He used a makeshift saw to break the lock, then climbed over a four-meter-high wall, evaded tracking dogs, and, through a near-death experience, managed to escape back to the newspaper office.
At the end of his article, he appended the publicly released data from the West District Welfare Home for the previous year—it had provided aid to 1,020 people and spent 134,000 francs.
According to his calculations, based on the food provided to the residents and the rudimentary medical care, the annual expenditure would not exceed 50,000 francs. The income generated by the residents' labor should amount to at least 100,000 francs annually, and all that money had vanished into the Church's pockets.
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