Chapter 1380: Alluring Masculinity
Alexandra took the revolver from her Florentine calfskin bag and, along with a silver percussion cap box, pressed them into Joseph's hand, then asked with a hint of "expectation":
"Are you going to..."
Joseph winked at her: "Want to see some fireworks?"
The Crown Princess glanced through a gap in the curtains at the colorful fireworks exploding across the square, then nodded vigorously: "Yes, I want to!"
Joseph emptied the bullets from the handgun, leaving only the propellant. Then he tore open the curtains, pushed open the window, and squeezed the trigger, aiming at a linden tree more than ten meters away.
A flash of light accompanied a thunderous "bang" that pierced the night sky, startling the nobles "perched" on the tree fiddling with their telescopes. They nearly tumbled down.
Joseph swiftly loaded a percussion cap and fired another shot.
The few individuals who had been clinging to the outer wall of the second floor, vying for "front-row seats," now clearly saw the Crown Prince standing imperiously at the window, gun raised. They immediately scrambled back inside, using both hands and feet to flee.
Joseph fired five shots in quick succession, and the people in the opposite tree vanished. Only one unlucky fellow, who had twisted his ankle jumping down, was struggling to crawl towards a nearby bush.
With a "bang," a tree branch snapped and fell to the ground.
The hobbling man immediately "recovered" from his injury and zipped away, disappearing from sight.
Outside the bedroom, Clauzel urgently knocked on the door, inquiring: "Your Highness, are you alright?"
Joseph called out loudly: "Relax, I'm just setting off some fireworks."
As he blew away the smoke from the muzzle, Alexandra's heart pounded. She was utterly captivated by the masculine display she had just witnessed, her mind blank, her beautiful face flushing even deeper.
Joseph confirmed no one was peeking anymore, then drew the curtains shut once more.
The moment he turned, a pair of slender arms wrapped around his neck.
Then something clamped around his waist...
Alexandra showed none of her previous delicate demeanor, her kisses landing fiercely on his face, like burning gunpowder: "My dearest, I truly love you..."
Joseph was momentarily stunned, but the warm, soft sensation quickly brought him back to his senses. The "meritorious" revolver was tossed to the floor as he began to fumble for metal buckles.
Soon, the warm glow of the fireplace caressed Alexandra's fair back.
Both murmured, "I love you," into each other's ears, as if by prior agreement.
Joseph breathed in the delicate fragrance from Alexandra's hair, kissing her eyes.
Immediately, the warrior leading France began his assault...
For some reason, Joseph's mind briefly flashed with the song of the young nobles from earlier:
"Trumpets sound on the battlefield at midnight...
"By dawn the warrior still stands tall..."
In the Notre-Dame de Paris square, fireworks continuously soared into the sky, painting the firmament with brilliant blossoms, creating the most magnificent backdrop for the tens of thousands of people still dancing and twirling there.
At this moment, even thieves and police had joined the joyous celebration.
Yes, the French people had accumulated too much excitement and needed a reason to let loose. Today was undoubtedly the perfect day.
Beside a massive stone sculpture, Rochefort, his eyes blurred with drink, raised his glass to Portier: "Come, let's toast to His Royal Highness swiftly getting an heir!"
The latter seemed not to hear what he said, but also raised his glass: "That unlucky Chaumont, haha, I said he shouldn't marry so early..."
Indeed, Chaumont had gone home at eight that evening. His son, born last year, seemed to be "calling" to him constantly.
Rochefort nodded: "That's right, so we still have the whole world! And girls, too."
He patted his childhood friend's shoulder: "Pierre, come do business with me in South Germany. They're building railways everywhere there now, and I guarantee you can earn twenty or thirty thousand francs a year."
"Do business?" Portier waved a hand: "Too much trouble. I like jobs where I can earn money just by talking."
His work in England, for instance, involved passing messages to the Irish every now and then, or "gathering intelligence" in London—an easy and comfortable life.
"Listen, you lazy bum," the plump man leaned close to his ear, beaming with pride: "I heard someone invented a steam forging machine.
"Do you know how powerful that thing is?
"You can use it to make 'flying carts'—just iron wheelbarrows—over 2,000 units a month!
"And the quality will also improve significantly.
"I used half my savings to buy the production rights for these 'flying carts,' and I plan to open a factory in Stuttgart or Munich to build them. When that happens, you can help me manage the workers or be responsible for signing contracts with buyers. It won't be too tiring."
Portier drained his glass of wine and laughed: "Once I get married, I'll retire at your factory, how about that?"
"You, planning to retire right after getting married..."
Under the Gas Streetlights on the west side of Notre Dame, Sorel finally tired from dancing and leaned against the lamppost to rest.
Music and laughter continuously poured in from all directions, yet she suddenly felt a tightness in her chest.
Then a cold sense of emptiness and desolation filled her entire body.
'Damn, I should have eaten more for dinner...' She shook her head, intending to continue dancing to shake off the discomfort, but after several attempts, her legs remained rooted to the spot, as if they wouldn't obey.
A gust of night wind blew, and only then did she notice the cold on her face.
She raised a hand to wipe it, and found it was two lines of tears.
The girl looked at her hand in surprise: 'What's wrong with me?'
In that instant, the Crown Prince's heroic and handsome blue eyes occupied all her thoughts.
'No, I should bless His Highness... but why am I so sad...' She recalled the wedding scene and immediately burst into even more tears.
"Sorel, I finally found you."
Her brother's voice came from behind her. Sorel hastily wiped away her tears and took a few deep breaths.
Vicomte de Freize pushed his way through with two attendants: "Look, it's already two-thirty in the morning. I usually let you have your way, but Uncle Hillvera is coming tomorrow. You can't meet him and Aunt looking severely sleep-deprived, can you?"
Count Hillvera was a relative of theirs in Spain, of no small status. He was coming to Paris this time to arrange a marriage between his son and Sorel.
Vicomte de Freize was utterly heartbroken over his unconventional sister's marriage—she was already twenty-six, definitely considered an old maid at Versailles.
Sorel immediately linked Uncle Hillvera to the idea of marriage.
For some reason, she suddenly became extremely furious, almost shouting: "Good! I don't want to see him anyway!"
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