Chapter 230: United in Spirit
An hour later, a dark carriage rolled out from the back entrance of Monnot's villa, a large stack of fabric now piled on its roof.
The carriage circled the city a few more times, not returning to the Palais-Royal until past 10 PM.
The Duke of Orléans, his entire body concealed by a black hood, unloaded the fabric from the carriage like a servant, bending to carry it into the warehouse. Only when no one remained nearby except his personal guards did he cautiously return to his bedroom.
In his study, he recalled the complete strategy Monnot had outlined for him. First, he took out paper and pen, writing a secret letter each to Le Verber, the Municipal Commissioner of Paris, and Palmentier, the Governor of Montpellier province. He then sealed each with his personal signet and wax.
Next, he took out another sheet of paper and thoughtfully wrote down a series of names: the Duke of Seville, Count Sérurier, the Duke of Durfort, the Duke of Mouchy...
Anyone familiar with aristocratic circles would immediately recognize these individuals as leading figures of the "outdated" political faction, the Assembly of Notables.
Although these individuals had been defeated during the previous royal Tax Bill reform, as high-ranking nobles, they still wielded considerable influence.
Furthermore, these individuals shared another characteristic, as Monnot had pointed out: they were the ones most severely impacted by the Milling Tax bill and the plummeting land prices caused by emigration to Tunisia.
After finishing, the Duke of Orléans double-checked the names, then handed both the list and the secret letters to his butler, Donadier, with thorough instructions.
Two days later, southwest of Paris.
At a vast greyhound racing track right by the southern bank of the Seine River, a race was underway. The grounds were filled with a cacophony of barking dogs and swirling dust as over a dozen slender hounds sprinted like gales toward the finish line.
The surrounding stands were packed with prominent nobles; an invitation to this event was not something just anyone could obtain.
In the VIP room on the second floor, center-west of the stands, more than twenty people were crammed together. They all watched the race with an air of indifference, seemingly uninterested.
After a long while, a tall, slender man with cold eyes and dressed in a sapphire-blue long coat opened the VIP room door and stepped inside.
The people in the VIP room turned to see him, immediately rising to bow.
"You've finally arrived, Your Grace, Duke of Orléans."
"Ah, Philippe, my old friend, what's so urgent that you called for us?"
"Your Grace, why didn't we just meet at the Palais-Royal? This dreadful place is giving me a headache..."
The Duke of Orléans handed his hat to a slightly younger noble nearby, then smiled and nodded at the assembled group.
"The Palais-Royal is under tight surveillance; it's no longer suitable for our gatherings. But here, we can speak freely."
He also employed many informants, and the continuous political defeats over the past year had made him paranoid. He had ordered a thorough inspection of his residence and indeed discovered that the Palais-Royal was under close surveillance.
Naturally, these were agents from the Police Intelligence Bureau, dispatched by Joseph. How could he not keep a close eye on a menace like the Duke of Orléans?
However, as an experienced schemer, the Duke of Orléans had his own countermeasures. For instance, nearly a hundred influential nobles had attended the greyhound track today, but only a small fraction were his actual targets. Agents from the Police Intelligence Bureau, lacking invitations, couldn't infiltrate.
This way, no one could know whom he had met. In fact, he simply appeared to be there for dog racing.
The Duke of Orléans settled into the central chair, but instead of getting straight to "business," he casually remarked to Count Sérurier, "Bruzard, I hear you've recently lost the tax revenue from seven or eight of your mills. What a pity."
The Count paused, not understanding why he brought it up, but his anger was clearly piqued. "It's that damned bill! The Milling Tax is a traditional right we've held for over a thousand years; no one has the right to take it away!"
"Oh, but His Gracious Majesty the King has done just that."
The Duke of Orléans spoke with veiled sarcasm, then turned to the elder beside him. "Duke of Durfort, with land prices so soft lately, you must have lost quite a bit of money, haven't you?"
"Around five or six hundred thousand Livres, perhaps."
The Duke of Durfort owned thousands of acres of land, and the decline in land prices had a significant impact on him.
The plight of these two resonated with everyone in the VIP room, eliciting sympathetic murmurs and complaints about their own substantial losses.
The Duke of Orléans immediately raised a hand to quiet them, his expression turning grave as he declared, "Have none of you realized? The Crown is abandoning us!
"Surely you haven't forgotten the Tax Bill from the beginning of the year? Our administrative authority over the High Court was ruthlessly stripped away, and now we're forced to pay tens, even hundreds of thousands of Livres more in Land Tax annually.
"To pay the same taxes as those commoners — it's nothing short of an insult to us nobles from the Crown!"
The surrounding high-ranking nobles immediately nodded in agreement. "This is a betrayal of tradition and honor!"
"Precisely, the Crown has gone too far!"
"Just wait, they'll surely impose even more taxes on us in the future."
The Duke of Orléans was pleased with their reaction and continued, "You must all have noticed that the parvenus in textiles and papermaking are the Crown's new favorites! We, on the other hand, will be tossed aside like worn-out boots.
"Those newly built workshops are luring peasants into the cities. Sooner or later, all your tenant farmers will flee, your lands will lie fallow, and you won't collect a single coin of annual tribute!"
The highly prestigious Duke of Mouchy, a leading figure in the Assembly of Notables, finally spoke. "Duke of Orléans, you've said a great deal, but what exactly do you propose?"
Seeing everyone looking at him with eager anticipation, the Duke of Orléans clenched his fist and declared, "We must exert pressure on the Crown, to make His Majesty understand that he must respect traditional institutions and, indeed, the nobility!"
He lowered his voice. "There's an excellent opportunity right now to teach the Crown a lesson. I hope you will all unite to fight for our own rights!
"As you know, severe food shortages have appeared across the country since winter began. All we have to do is this, and then this..."
After he finished speaking, everyone in the VIP room looked at each other in dismay. One noble hesitated. "Is this really feasible? I mean, with the Tax Bill, we..."
"Rest assured," the Duke of Orléans stated. "This time, other forces will cooperate with us; you'll see soon enough. And none of you need to invest anything; simply return to your estates. Even if it doesn't succeed in the end, there will be no losses."
The Duke of Durfort was the first to stand, placing a hand on his chest toward the Duke of Orléans. "I will stand firmly by your side."
Several others then expressed their agreement, until the Duke of Mouchy slowly nodded. "To preserve our traditions and honor, this is necessary."
The other high-ranking nobles immediately responded. "Exactly! For tradition and honor."
"The Crown must be made to understand some things!"
"Duke of Orléans, I'm with you..."
The VIP room instantly transformed into a scene of united determination.
...
At the Petit Trianon, Queen Marie indignantly handed a letter of denunciation to Chief Minister Brienne. "Just look at this! The Marquis de Saint-Véran is eroding the very foundations of the nation!"
Brienne opened the letter with surprise. It exposed the Marquis de Saint-Véran for pocketing vast sums through 'ghost soldiers,' neglecting his troops with substandard food that made normal training impossible, and purchasing old weapons to pass off as new, pocketing immense profits from the price difference.
The signature at the end belonged to Gallon Guinard de Le Verber, the Municipal Commissioner of Paris.
Brienne hesitated. "Your Majesty, there might be some misunderstanding. Should we send someone to investigate thoroughly?"
"I knew it! That's why his movements were so sluggish when he led troops to North Africa—his units were understaffed and undertrained!" Queen Marie, who had been looking for a reason to deal with the Marquis de Saint-Véran, wouldn't let this go. "How can such an incompetent officer command an army of tens of thousands?
"I believe he must be severely punished to make him remember his duties!"
Brienne knew well that the Marquis de Saint-Véran came from an extremely influential military family in the south, and it was unwise to act against him impulsively. He quickly advised, "Your Majesty, this is, after all, only Viscount Le Verber's account..."
He was halfway through his sentence when the Queen's lady-in-waiting knocked and entered, handing her a wax-sealed letter. "Your Majesty, this just arrived from Montpellier."
Queen Marie frowned as she opened the letter and glanced at it, a cold smirk instantly playing on her lips. She thrust the letter at Brienne. "See for yourself."
The Chief Minister hastily straightened the paper to find it was from the Governor of Montpellier province, exposing a series of corrupt acts by the Marquis de Saint-Véran. Presumably, because Montpellier was the garrison of Saint-Véran's legion, the accusations were even more detailed.
"This, but, Your Majesty..."
Queen Marie, her face dark, waved him off. "Archbishop Brienne, please draft an edict for me immediately, severely reprimanding the Marquis de Saint-Véran for corruption, blatant disregard for military discipline, and dereliction of duty. Order him to immediately downsize his legion to its actual troop count, return the embezzled funds, and deduct half a year's annuity!"
At that time, the bulk of funding for France's old army came from military commanders directly withholding the Military Tax from their garrisons. The court would also grant high-ranking officers large annuities to help them maintain their troops.
In reality, the French army suffered from rampant 'ghost soldier' schemes; some units had over a third of their positions unfilled. Not only annuities but also most of the Military Tax ended up in the hands of military aristocrats. Soldiers' pay was disbursed by their officers, creating a system of personal dependence on them.
Now that Queen Marie intended to reduce the Marquis de Saint-Véran's legion size, the amount of Military Tax allocated to him would drastically decrease. Coupled with the withheld annuity, it was akin to slicing flesh from his bones.
Brienne tried to persuade her further, but Queen Marie was in a fit of rage and completely unmoved. Shortly after noon, the edict, signed by Louis XVI, was dispatched to Montpellier province.
The Queen, unwilling to do things by halves, immediately issued another edict, reprimanding the Marquis Saint-Priest, the Minister of War, for grave errors in personnel selection. She ordered him to reflect deeply and personally oversee the execution of the Marquis de Saint-Véran's punishment.
Brienne knew full well that military aristocrats had always been a solid bloc; practices like 'ghost soldiers' and corruption were almost openly tolerated. Yet, from the King to civil officials, no one dared to comment.
With the two edicts the Queen issued today, she had truly stirred up a hornet's nest.
He paced anxiously back and forth in his office but couldn't come up with a solution for a long time. Finally, he ordered his servants to prepare a carriage to go to the Tuileries Palace to consult with the Crown Prince.
...
Nice.
Two officials in charge of the reserve granaries watched the distant convoy of carriages depart, muttering complaints. "Who knows what those bigwigs at Versailles are thinking, using such immense transport capacity to move grain to Montpellier, only to have grain brought from Grenoble to replenish ours."
"Ha, who knows? As long as we get the counts right, we're fine."
The transport team had come with documents personally signed by the Minister of the Interior to requisition grain; what could possibly be wrong?
"Grenoble had better not delay. We have less than 13.6 tonnes left in our inventory. If they're even a few days late, the city will run out of bread."
Meanwhile, large quantities of grain were also being shipped out of Grenoble's reserve granaries, again bound for Montpellier. Their documents indicated that grain from Nice would arrive to replenish their stock in a few days.
In fact, over the past fortnight, all the granaries in southern France had received documents from the Ministry of the Interior, initiating large-scale grain transfers.
However, no one suspected anything amiss. After all, food shortages had been frequent over the past six months, and many emergency grain reallocations had occurred before. Although this transfer involved larger quantities, it was customary for other areas to quickly send grain to replenish stocks, so there was no need to worry.
...
East-central France.
On the King's Highway in southern Auvergne, the Marquis de Saint-Véran sat in a speeding carriage, gazing toward Paris, several hundred kilometers away, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"You Austrian bitch, I will return every humiliation to you a hundredfold! I'll make you realize that without the military, the Crown is nothing but a field mouse shivering in the cold!"
He looked at the letter in his hand for the tenth time. It was from his nephew, a Major General in the Montcalm Legion, reporting that the legion was ready and could be deployed for battle at any moment. It also mentioned that food shortages were beginning to appear in various parts of Montpellier.
The Marquis de Saint-Véran savored the imagined thrill of revenge, his mind drifting back to the secret meeting held more than ten days ago at the Duke of Orléans's private hunting grounds.
At the time, he had been tormented by anger and humiliation, which had caused his shooting performance to be extremely erratic.
"It's all that Austrian bitch's fault! She's utterly humiliating me!" he roared, gritting his teeth after missing a stag.
Marquis Saint-Priest, the Minister of War, standing nearby, also had a grim expression. "It's not just you; she intends to humiliate the entire military."
A slightly stout officer frowned upon hearing this. "But why would she do that? Offending the military brings no benefit to the Crown."
The Duke of Orléans spurred his horse forward a couple of steps, gazed at the distant prey, and declared loudly, "Because she doesn't care about any of you."
Comments