Chapter 155: The Crown Prince and the Illegitimate Son
Mrs. Walsh left her room number at the Tuileries Palace with the Paris Angel sales clerk. The clerk politely informed her that her purchases would likely be delivered the following morning.
There was no help for it; despite her 300 livres worth of cosmetics, Fashion Week had drawn in too many customers, and the store's delivery staff, working 18-hour shifts daily, simply couldn't keep up. This was even with her gold card membership prioritizing her order.
Afterward, the Walshes visited a carriage maker and ordered a brand-new "Royal Edition" carriage, which cost them 800 livres—600 for the carriage itself and 200 for shipping to a British port.
Next, they made their way towards the Louvre Palace Royal Museum.
In the carriage, Mrs. Walsh gazed at Paris's clean, tidy streets, narrowing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She couldn't help but praise, "This is so much cleaner than London. Even the air smells sweet."
Mr. Walsh nodded in agreement. "Indeed, there isn't a speck of waste on the streets. Sometimes, I have to commend the French for their civility in this regard."
Mrs. Walsh soon spotted a novel, square-shaped small building and pointed to it, asking their guide about it.
The guide, slightly embarrassed, explained, "Ah, madam, that is a public lavatory, a place for pedestrians to relieve themselves."
Mrs. Walsh immediately felt a blush of shame for her lack of worldly experience, murmuring, 'No wonder the streets are so clean. When will Britain learn from them?'
Mr. Walsh leaned back in his seat and yawned. "Ah—I don't even want to go back to London. Compared to this, London is practically a rubbish dump..."
Hearing this, the guide's eyes lit up with delight. He thoughtfully pointed towards the Tuileries Palace Garden and smiled. "Mr. Walsh, perhaps you could buy a villa in the 'Royal Garden' and stay in Paris more often. Hmm, especially during London's rainy season, a holiday in Paris would certainly be an excellent choice."
Though called a garden, the Tuileries Palace Garden was essentially the million-square-meter open space beside the palace, a popular spot for Parisians to stroll after dinner.
Walsh blinked and asked, "Are you referring to that large expanse of houses being built east of the Tuileries Palace?"
"Exactly, Mr. Walsh. They'll be completed in another three or four months." The guide was so solicitous because for every villa sold through his referral, he received a commission of 500 livres. This included the carriage Walsh had purchased earlier, which earned him a 30-livre commission.
Walsh was greatly tempted, as the villas were extremely close to the Tuileries Palace—one could clearly see the facial details of the sculptures outside the palace just by opening a window.
He then inquired, "Do you know the selling price of the villas there?"
"Ah, those directly adjacent to the Tuileries Palace are probably over 50,000 livres, which is about 2,000 pounds sterling. Those near the omnibus tracks are around 1,900 pounds sterling. And those further out are 1,500 pounds sterling."
Walsh inwardly gasped, despite his ample fortune, he couldn't bring himself to spend 2,000 pounds sterling on a house in France. A villa of comparable quality in London would certainly not exceed 1,000 pounds sterling.
Noticing his expression, the guide immediately elaborated, "These villas are absolutely worth the price, sir. It's not just their proximity to the old royal palace. Look, over there, an elite school is under construction. Only children residing in the 'Royal Garden' will be able to attend, and it's said that members of the French Academy of Sciences will teach there.
"And over there, that's Paris's largest hospital...
"That's a shopping mall...
"And to the south, there's a croquet court..."
In the end, Walsh still didn't go to see those 50,000-livre villas—he feared he wouldn't be able to resist buying one, which would make his financial situation a bit tight.
By the time he and his wife had toured Paris and returned to the Tuileries Palace, the afternoon fashion show had already begun.
This time, however, Mrs. Walsh enjoyed the fashion show alone. Upon returning, her husband had gone straight to the gaming parlor, excitedly "battling" the "slot" machines.
Mrs. Walsh then looked at the empty chair to her left and murmured in surprise, 'Mr. Alvin hasn't shown up either?'
Her British journalist friend was currently in a theater, nervously watching Hunter Shaw on stage searching for the "magic kindling" in the magma.
Yes, he had no money for amusement parks, let alone for shopping around. His newspaper had sent him to cover Fashion Week, but they hadn't allocated a lavish budget.
However, he could afford a theater ticket, so he planned to watch a play to pass the time. He hadn't expected to be completely captivated once he started watching.
The play "Battle Through the Heavens" was simply too enthralling! Its convoluted plot kept the audience on the edge of their seats, their blood boiling with excitement.
Coincidentally, the theater was hosting a ten-show run, so he bought a season pass and had been watching plays all day, completely forgetting about his Fashion Week coverage.
It wasn't until the actors, performing in three shifts, had completely exhausted their stamina and the theater had to close that he finally remembered his unfinished work.
On his way back to the Fashion Week venue, he secretly decided that he absolutely had to translate that brilliant play into English and bring it to London for a production!
In the gaming parlor of the Tuileries Palace, Mr. Walsh, having lost ten consecutive rounds, rubbed his hands in frustration. Just as he was about to insert another silver coin, he heard a young man's wild shout from behind him: "Amazing, haha! Did you see that?!"
He frowned and turned to see a young man with a Russian appearance, dressed in an extravagant red coat, monopolizing four "slot" machines. At that moment, one of the "slot" machines prominently displayed three knight symbols!
Walsh knew that was a jackpot returning thirty times the stake!
His heart twitched with envy.
The Russian in red casually collected the silver coins spat out by the machine, then excitedly continued to insert money one by one into the coin slots of the four machines. He repeatedly pulled the machine handles, his eyes darting back and forth across the four spinning reels.
However, after the reels stopped this time, none of the machines hit a prize. The Russian, undeterred, stared with bloodshot eyes and continued to insert coins and pull the levers.
This time, his luck surged again; two machines displayed triple symbols, and the clattering sound of falling silver coins made him even more exhilarated.
Just then, Viscount Flesselles, president of the Fashion Week committee, approached him with a few people and amicably advised, "Count Bobrinsky, you have been playing continuously for a day and a night, and haven't eaten anything. For the sake of your health, I suggest you take a rest..."
"Go away! Go away! Don't block me!"
No sooner had the young man spoken than several burly men, appearing to be bodyguards, moved in and used their bodies to push Flesselles and his companions back.
Flesselles, resigned, whispered an instruction to the accompanying Public Security Inspector and then departed.
A few police officers then remained, guarding Count Bobrinsky, ready to call a doctor should he faint or feel unwell.
Joseph emerged somewhat wearily from the southern gate of the Tuileries Palace.
Queen Marie had agreed to be the face of Fashion Week, requiring her to deliver a speech every two days, and Joseph naturally had to accompany her.
Fortunately, Paris now boasted a wooden track spanning about sixteen kilometers east to west within the city, allowing access to the Tuileries Palace in just over twenty minutes, saving the Queen considerable time.
According to the plan, the wooden track would continue to be laid westward, connecting Paris and Versailles.
When completed, taking a tram from Versailles would allow arrival in central Paris in just over an hour, saving nearly 70% of the previous travel time.
Although this wooden track was expensive, costing 50,000 livres per league (about 4 kilometers). This was even after Murdoch had brought in British track-laying technicians who used new techniques to reduce costs; French artisans would have required an additional 10,000 livres.
However, the mere convenience of the wooden track for nobles from Versailles traveling to Paris would boost Paris's annual commercial revenue by at least millions of livres. With less time spent on the road, nobles would have more time for shopping and entertainment. Furthermore, those who previously found Paris too far or the journey too bumpy would now be encouraged by the wooden track to visit and spend more often.
Joseph stretched his arms, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the life-sized oil painting "Son of Divine Favor" hanging prominently in the main hall. Queen Marie was extremely pleased with this portrait and, considering the numerous foreign dignitaries who would attend Fashion Week, had ordered a replica to be hung there for her son to make an appearance.
Joseph shook his head, embarrassed, and was pondering whether to have Fouché send someone to steal the painting in the middle of the night when he saw Flesselles approaching him with an anxious expression.
Flesselles nearly collided with the Crown Prince before realizing, hastily stopping, and bowing deeply.
Joseph smiled and inquired, "Viscount Flesselles, have you encountered some trouble?"
Flesselles hesitated for a moment, then replied, "Your Highness, Count Bobrinsky of Russia has been gambling in the gaming parlor for a day and a night, without even a single meal. I've tried to persuade him several times, but it was no use. You know, given his status, if anything were to happen, it could..."
"Count Bobrinsky?"
Joseph frowned slightly. Eman immediately leaned in and whispered to him, "Your Highness, that's the Russian Empress's illegitimate son. He's been wandering around Paris for several years, and many nobles recognize him."
Joseph nodded, suddenly enlightened. "Is that Alexey?"
"Yes, Your Highness, that is indeed his name."
Joseph couldn't help but narrow his eyes. So Catherine's youngest son, the younger brother of the future Tsar Paul I, had also come to attend Fashion Week.
He suddenly recalled watching the Russian drama "Catherine the Great," which mentioned that Alexey seemed to have traveled the world from a young age to avoid threatening his brother's claim to the throne. However, because he indulged himself too wildly, Catherine eventually grew weary of his outrageous behavior and was expected to summon him back to Russia soon, then send him to a remote town for reflection.
France was currently seeking to ally with Russia to advance its North African strategy. This Alexey was deeply favored by Catherine II, so this was a good opportunity to speak with him; it might yield an unexpected harvest.
He motioned to Flesselles. "Please lead the way; I'll go and persuade him."
"Oh, thank you so much, Your Highness."
In the gaming parlor, Alexey was still excitedly inserting coins and pulling levers when a young man of extraordinary bearing appeared before him, smiling.
His gaze shifted for a moment, but then he immediately turned his attention back to the "slot" machine, muttering softly, 'What do you want? Please move.'
Joseph watched him insert a silver coin, then firmly pulled the lever for him, chuckling, "I remember when I was a child, I went to Château de Meudon to recover from poor health for a while.
"You know, there were no tutors or etiquette officers there. I could ride horses, climb trees whenever I wished; it was full of freedom and ease.
"Later, whenever I grew exasperated by various lessons, I would feign illness and go there for 'recuperation' for a few months.
"Until one time, I wanted to prolong my 'happy holiday,' so I pretended to be critically ill, on the verge of death. I fully expected to stay at Château de Meudon for an entire year that time.
"But guess what happened?
"My mother was frantic. She summoned all the court physicians to examine me, bled me several times, oh, and gave me enemas and such, thoroughly putting me through the wringer.
"Finally, I had to declare myself well. Afterward, my mother informed me that to constantly monitor my health, I would have to remain at Versailles from then on, and could no longer visit Château de Meudon.
"Don't you think I was too foolish back then, haha."
Alexey paused at his words, then immediately understood the Crown Prince's meaning. He had instantly recalled the painting "Son of Divine Favor" upon seeing Joseph earlier. To avoid the political struggles in Saint Petersburg, and to ensure his brother Paul's smoother succession to the throne, he had deliberately feigned the appearance of a profligate, indulging in amusements across the world.
But just as the Crown Prince had said, if he overdid his act, it would inevitably cause his mother concern and lead her to keep him tightly reined in for discipline.
He took a step back, dropped his playful demeanor, bowed with a hand to his chest, and said in impeccable French, "Thank you for the reminder, Your Royal Highness the Crown Prince. I presume you are aware of my identity. It is an honor to meet you here."
"Yes, Count Bobrinsky." Joseph returned the smile and the greeting. "I believe you are now in need of dinner and a good night's sleep. If you don't agree, I'll have no choice but to temporarily close this gaming parlor."
A moment later, on their way to the restaurant, Joseph continued, "I've heard some rumors about you."
Alexey, still a bit muddled from staying up all night, chuckled and said, "It seems I'm quite well-known, Your Highness."
"What I mean to say is, judging by your current conduct, Her Imperial Majesty might soon order you to return to Russia."
Alexey tilted his head dismissively. "Perhaps."
In truth, he had already caught wind of news from Saint Petersburg—his mother had repeatedly inquired about him with the ambassador to France, indicating her intention to summon him back.
But what could he do? His brother's position as heir had always been somewhat precarious. He deeply loved his brother and didn't want to add to his pressures. Thus, acting as a profligate was the only thing he could do for his brother.
He mumbled, 'In the end, this is all I can do.'
Clauzel led the guard detail to inspect the private dining room, then nodded to Joseph.
Joseph entered with Alexey, taking a seat, and looked at the illegitimate son. "What would you like to eat?
"In fact, there are many things you could do. I mean, things unrelated to politics. And that, paradoxically, could keep you far away from Saint Petersburg."
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