Chapter 231: Famine
The officers frowned, turning their gaze toward the Duke of Orleans.
The Duke, however, merely smiled. "The legion under royal control is expanding rapidly. From what I understand, they recruited nearly a thousand new soldiers shortly after returning to Paris.
"Now, counting the Moulins Legion that has pledged allegiance to the Crown, and the Swiss mercenaries, the Crown commands over ten thousand soldiers."
"You forgot the Flanders Brigade. Oh, they're called the Paris Legion now," Monnot added, stepping closer. "They've always been secretly aligned with the Crown."
"Thank you for the reminder. So that's thirteen thousand men," the Duke of Orleans said, glancing sideways at Marquis Saint-Priest. "At this rate, it won't be long before the Crown has a powerful army, and you all will become utterly worthless."
General d'Astou scoffed disdainfully. "Just over ten thousand men? That's not even enough to maintain order in France."
The Duke of Orleans smiled. "Do you know what kind of weapons and equipment Berthier's legion uses?"
As he spoke, he produced an Auguste Pattern Percussion Rifle, along with a small pouch of percussion caps, and tossed them to General d'Astou. This weapon was already being mass-produced, so it wasn't difficult to acquire one or two from an armory if one was willing to pay.
After the military leaders understood how to use the percussion rifle and took turns test-firing it, solemn expressions settled on all their faces.
Without waiting for the officers to retort, the Duke of Orleans immediately continued, "In fact, the most dangerous aspect is the new promotion mechanism the Crown is implementing in the army."
"Promotion mechanism?"
"Haven't you heard?" the Duke of Orleans exclaimed with an exaggerated expression. "In the Crown's army, commoners can be promoted to officers based on military merit, with no restrictions! They can even rise to the rank of General! What's more, not only do they not have to pay 'promotion fees,' but they also receive a substantial bonus."
Hearing this, the officers' expressions immediately turned cold.
Such a system was practically undermining their very foundations!
They had always monopolized officer positions through birthright and status. If even commoners could now become generals, their descendants might well lose control of the army in the future.
And with that, a significant loss of income.
Monnot muttered opportunistically, "Oh, perhaps in the future, everyone will be taking orders from some low-born, fighting bloody battles against the enemy, while he sits in the command post, sneering at you all..."
"Absolutely not!" General d'Astou roared. "The Crown is desecrating military tradition!"
Other officers joined in the curses, but Marquis Saint-Priest looked at the Duke of Orleans with a grave expression. "Your Grace, we have, in fact, always wanted to demonstrate the military's stance to the Crown. However, we need an opportune moment, such as an enemy the Crown cannot handle."
"That opportunity is about to present itself," the Duke of Orleans declared loudly. "It won't be long before the Crown plunges into immense difficulty."
"Oh? Why are you so certain?"
Monnot chimed in from the side, "Because a widespread famine will soon strike, and then there will be rioting mobs everywhere."
"Mobs?" The Minister of War shook his head. "That rabble poses no real threat."
The Duke of Orleans chuckled. "If we perform a bit of 'manipulation,' the situation could become entirely different."
He roughly outlined his plan, concluding, "This time, we also have the support of the Assembly of Notables. Yes, the Crown's recent actions have been far too egregious; everyone hopes to rectify the King's errors."
The eyes of the dozen or so officers present all lit up.
...
"I was truly foolish, truly!"
An ordinary carriage was heading towards Saint-Germain-des-Prés, battling the setting sun. Inside, Sorel clasped her hands tightly, her head bowed as she incessantly chastised herself: 'How could I have thought those two scoundrels were heroes who saved Celine? And then so rashly begged His Royal Highness the Crown Prince to help clear their names!'
She vigorously tossed her slightly curly black hair. 'His Royal Highness the Crown Prince will probably think I'm an accomplice to those two scoundrels now...'
A handsome young man in his twenties, sitting opposite her, comforted her. "Tulip, you needn't blame yourself too much. Anyone can be misled sometimes. Besides, we'll soon help you atone for this mistake."
The muscular man beside him, standing nearly two meters tall, snorted lightly. "Hmph, going to beg that royal scoundrel was a mistake to begin with. Why worry about his misunderstanding..."
Sorel immediately glared at him. "How can you speak of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince like that! You have no idea that His Royal Highness is completely different from the other royals; he is kind and possesses a strong sense of justice!"
The burly man threw up his hands and looked away. "Fine, have it your way..."
The handsome man pulled back the curtain and glanced outside. "Everyone, let's review the action plan. The Bastille is approaching."
Silence immediately fell inside the carriage.
A few minutes later, two carriages stopped one after another at the intersection opposite the Bastille. Sorel and five young men disembarked, gazing at the formidable fortress in the distance.
"This is probably the most dangerous mission I've undertaken in years," a slender, red-haired man murmured.
"For fairness and justice, no danger is too great!" the handsome man immediately countered.
Sorel nodded. "Twilight is right! The Brotherhood will always stand with justice!"
These individuals were all members of Sorel's Brotherhood. This Brotherhood consisted of nearly twenty people, all scions of noble families, who enjoyed acting as vigilantes in Paris. Though they had a flair for the dramatic, they had indeed helped many impoverished people.
A young man with a bow and arrows slung over his back checked the sky, then told Sorel, "It's almost time. It's up to you now."
The girl nodded, pulled up her veil, and with long strides, walked towards the Bastille.
Her movements were incredibly agile and swift. Under the cover of twilight, she quickly reached the base of the Bastille's wall. Using very simple tools, she scaled the wall like a gecko, reaching a lookout window a dozen meters high, hidden from the patrolling guards' blind spots.
With a few simple movements, she pried open the window, clearly not her first time doing so. Then she swung inside and lowered the rope from her waist down through the opening.
Before long, three Brotherhood companions climbed the rope into one of the Bastille's ready rooms.
Sorel urged in a low voice, "There are only three minutes until the routine inspection, quick, change your clothes!"
The group quickly changed into the military uniforms they had brought. Led by Sorel, they slipped down the corridor into a storage room, then climbed out a window into another room on the third floor. Exploiting a gap during the changing of guards, they circled to the officers' lounge, and then climbed out another window...
Within the heavily guarded Bastille, Sorel had truly carved out a path using her natural talents.
About ten minutes later, the three, having navigated one perilous situation after another, safely reached the west side of the third-floor cell where the Maletout brothers were imprisoned.
Hiding behind a protruding pillar at the end of the corridor, Sorel peeked out to glance at the two guards in front of the cell door. She then pulled back and told the red-haired man beside her, "Foxhunt, you need to distract those two guards."
The latter also looked towards the cell and swallowed. "Looks very dangerous."
Nevertheless, he covered his face, muttering, "For justice," and ran towards the two guards. It wasn't that he was fearless of death; it was simply because his father was a highly reputable Count, and even if he were caught, a sum of money would secure his release.
Seeing the unfamiliar figure, the guards immediately drew their swords and gave chase, shouting, "Alarm! Intruder!"
Sorel immediately approached the unguarded cell. This time, she didn't try to pick the lock; instead, she signaled to her burliest companion, "Thunderstone, it's your turn."
He nodded, pulled an iron awl from his waist, swung it high, and brought it down on the door lock.
A deep thud echoed. His strength was immense; a crack instantly appeared on the cast-iron lock, as if another blow would shatter it.
The small window on the cell door was thrown open, and a weasel-faced man peered out from inside. "Brother, they're smashing the door. They don't look like guards."
"Step aside." A different face replaced the first at the small window, asking suspiciously, "Who are you?"
"Foxhunt" immediately said in a coarse voice, "The boss sent us to get you out."
This was Sorel's group's plan to atone for their mistake.
After learning that Monnot's son couldn't be convicted due to insufficient evidence, they decided to feign a jailbreak, gain the Maletout brothers' trust, and extract useful evidence from them. Of course, if they couldn't deceive the two, abducting and interrogating them was also an option.
The man in the cell, however, said in surprise, "His Grace changed the plan?"
'A Duke?' Sorel, who was closest, couldn't help but be startled. 'Shouldn't the Maletout brothers' boss be Monnot's son? Why has it become a Duke?'
Before she could think further, a flurry of footsteps suddenly sounded from the western staircase.
Just as she was about to urge Thunderstone to hurry, the door of a distant cell suddenly opened, and seven or eight fully armed guards surged out, clearly having been ambushed there all along.
Sorel and the others were greatly alarmed and quickly drew their weapons, engaging the guards in fierce combat.
All of them came from reputable noble families and had practiced swordsmanship since childhood. For a time, they actually managed to push back the guards, who outnumbered them two to one.
Just as the three reached the end of the corridor, preparing to jump out the window and escape the way they came, they heard a distinct click-clack of gun mechanisms being pulled back behind them.
Sorel slowly turned her head. What met her eyes were over thirty dark muzzles.
A dead-eyed man pushed past the guards and stepped forward, sneering, "We've been waiting for you. Seize them all!"
Three hours later.
In the Bastille's interrogation room, Fouché frowned, dropped the confession papers he held, and glanced at the beautiful young woman opposite him. "Sorel? From the Fraise family?"
Sorel nodded nervously.
Fouché sighed. "So, you intended to abduct the prisoners?"
"No, Your Excellency, we merely wanted to trick them into confessing..."
Fouché suddenly slammed the table in a furious roar. "Do you know how long I've been setting a trap to catch their mastermind? You've completely ruined everything!"
From experience, he could tell that these minor nobles, whom he had just interrogated, were not lying.
He irritably waved a hand at the guards, then turned and left. "Lock them up for now."
Sorel was pulled up by two guards but suddenly remembered something. She quickly called out to Fouché, "Oh, Your Excellency, I overheard those two scoundrels say their boss seems to be a Duke."
"Oh?" Fouché immediately turned back.
...
Palais-Royal.
The Duke of Orleans glared grimly at his butler. "Someone tried to abduct the Maletout brothers? Who?"
"That, we don't know yet," the butler said, head bowed. "The Bastille only sent word that there were four people. Oh, and they said someone vaguely mentioned 'Duke' during interrogation."
The Duke of Orleans's gaze sharpened instantly. After a moment of thought, he suddenly stood up. "Quick, have our people everywhere begin the operation immediately."
The butler was startled and cautiously reminded him, "My lord, but the northwestern provinces aren't fully prepared yet..."
"They've likely noticed something. We can't delay any longer."
The Duke of Orleans paced back and forth restlessly for a few steps, then instructed, "Prepare to leave Paris ourselves. Inform Monnot to depart quickly as well.
"Oh, and for the money destined for the military, just use drafts from the Paris Discount Bank directly. There's no time to route it through Britain."
As France's central bank's status was gradually being established, it had begun necessary oversight of France's major banks. The substantial 'funds' he had promised the military would be easily noticed.
He had previously intended to channel the money through a British bank, but with the current change in circumstances, there likely wouldn't be enough time.
...
Province of Provence.
Nice.
Several shabbily dressed artisans, braving the biting cold wind, arrived at the nearest strategic grain reserve, only to find nearly a thousand people already gathered there. These were all individuals who had been informed by government grain distribution points that no grain had been delivered from the reserve, and had traveled from far and wide to inquire about the situation.
The granary official had no choice but to repeat over and over, "All our grain has been transferred to Montpellier. There's truly no grain in the warehouse right now. However, in just a few days, grain from Grenoble will arrive..."
A tall man with a scar on his face immediately interrupted him loudly. "You said that five days ago. Where is the grain now?"
The person next to him immediately added, "The government has always said there's enough grain and told everyone not to worry. It seems we've all been deceived!"
A gaunt old man in a thin linen jacket, pulling a child of about ten, struggled to push his way to the granary official. Head bowed, he clutched his chest and pleaded, "My lord, bread in the city is selling for 22 sous a pound. We simply can't afford it... Please, have some mercy and send us some grain."
Normally, bread in Nice wouldn't cost more than 10 sous per pound. For citizens barely making ends meet, clinging to every sou of their wages, this meant they would have no money to buy food for over half a month.
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