Chapter 238: Covert Operation
The gang member glared fiercely at the distant church and roared at the crowd, "Don't let those priests fool you! They'll only be handing out food until tomorrow or the day after. If you don't want to starve, we have to rely on ourselves!"
According to the demands of their boss, the Duke of Orleans's spy, they had to incite a riot of at least 500 people today to get paid.
But now, only a hundred or so people had gathered around them—there are malicious individuals everywhere. Even with food, these people still wanted to cause trouble and profit from the chaos in noble households. They had plundered quite a bit of property in recent days.
By five in the afternoon, the riotous crowd still hadn't reached 200 people. The leading gang boss grumbled, dismissed the crowd, and returned to his dwelling with his subordinates.
The shoemaker across the street saw this, immediately stood up, and whispered, "Sir, they've left."
"Sit down first." Prosper, disguised as a customer, calmly put on his boots, waited for a moment, then gestured to the dozen or so "citizens" standing or leaning nearby. "Stick close to your targets."
They nodded imperceptibly and followed certain individuals from the riotous group from a distance.
Prosper, accompanied by two others, personally trailed the gang members.
According to the Crown Prince's instructions, this riot had erupted quickly and spread rapidly. Someone must be inciting it from behind the scenes.
The gang members entered a two-story building in the west of the city. Prosper circled the house, and seeing that both the front and back doors were guarded by thugs, he felt about seventy to eighty percent certain of his suspicions.
At two in the morning, Seba, the leader of the Corpse Gang, was awakened from his sleep by a gun pressed against his head.
"Wh-who are you?" He looked at Prosper, roaring, his bravado thinly veiling his fear. "Dare to provoke the Corpse Gang, and you'll regret it!"
"Night Fire Gang." Prosper uttered the three words. These men were very useful, so he still needed to put on a bit of an act.
"The gang from Adge Town?" Seba stiffened his neck. "This isn't your territory!"
Prosper smiled faintly. "I hear you've come into some money recently. Frankly, I'd like a piece of that business."
Though Seba was extremely reluctant, he eventually, under the threat of the pistol, revealed the address of the "big shot"—an address he'd learned by secretly having his subordinates tail the "big shot."
Prosper left, then returned before dawn, and announced to the Corpse Gang members, "Now this business belongs to the Night Fire Gang. The big shot will only deal with me. As for you, it's 2 Livres per person per day. Are you in or out?"
In reality, he had just led the Police Intelligence Bureau agents, with the cooperation of the Secret Police, to the inn Seba had mentioned, where they arrested two individuals and confiscated over a thousand Livres and some riot plans from the room.
The two had not yet confessed, but it was almost certain that they were behind the Montpellier riots.
Though Seba was displeased that his "wages" had been halved, it was still a decent income.
So, after the Night Fire Gang promised not to encroach on the Corpse Gang's territory, he reluctantly agreed.
Prosper immediately ordered him to gather all his gang members to prepare for a major operation.
At the same time, similar scenes unfolded across the southern provinces of France.
The Church's efficiency was remarkably good, certainly surpassing that of France's bureaucracy. Grain was carried out of the cellars bag by bag by the priests, the food shortage was quickly alleviated, and the starving populace dispersed.
The Police Intelligence Bureau, in turn, launched operations everywhere.
The spies privately maintained by the Duke of Orleans were ultimately no match for a national intelligence agency, and most of those organizing the riots fell under the control of the Police Intelligence Bureau.
...
Northeast France.
Strasbourg.
Marshal François, who was also the Duke of Broglie, leaned back in his chair, gazing at the cypress trees under the scorching sun outside the window, and said in the rigid tone characteristic of a military man, "So, the southern riots have been quelled just like that?"
His son, Charles-Louis-Victor, hesitated before replying, "Roughly so, Father. Foix, Béarn, and other areas are still in turmoil. You know, those regions often stir up trouble even in good years."
In France's southern border provinces, separatist forces had always been active. In other regions of rugged terrain and sparse resources, even if the food shortage disappeared, the people there would still greedily plunder wealthy households.
Marshal François nodded slowly. "Has anyone carried out that royal order?"
Louis-Victor knew he was referring to the order to recall military officers. "Not yet, Father, to my knowledge. It's obvious: leaving one's station means losing everything."
The Marshal sighed, yet felt a touch of relief. Fortunately, he was too old, and his son was useless, which was why he hadn't gotten involved in the affairs of Marquis Luckner and his group.
Although as a stakeholder, he had returned to his station to express support for the military faction, at least he hadn't threatened the Royal Family, so there was still room for maneuver.
He stared absentmindedly at the halo produced by the sun, and after a long moment, slowly shook his head. "If this drags on, Marquis Luckner and his allies will get bogged down. Is the outcome already predetermined?"
Finally, decades of political experience helped him make a decision. He looked up at his son and said, "Victor, prepare yourself. We're going to Paris."
His son immediately looked startled. "Are you going to betray..."
The Marshal, over seventy years old, shook his head. "My loyalty is solely to His Majesty the King; there's no betrayal involved. Oh, and don't forget to write to Versailles, reporting our decision."
...
January 24, 1789.
Forez Province, Central-Southern France.
Here, bordering the Provence region, less than 100 kilometers further south, one could reach Montpellier.
Joseph, dressed in a brand-new cavalry uniform, galloped past amidst the cheers of the soldiers lining the road, smiling and waving back at them from time to time.
After the Tunisia campaign, his horsemanship had significantly improved, and calluses had formed on his legs, which made marching much easier for him—riding a horse was tiring, but still far easier than walking.
As for carriages, he had chosen secluded paths all the way to conceal the army's movements; riding in a carriage would be nothing short of torture for his posterior.
Thanks to more than a third of the wooden railway track from Paris to Lyon already being laid, the Guards Corps' initial marching speed was extremely fast, reaching 38 kilometers per day.
However, after the wooden track section ended, the speed dropped back to less than 30 kilometers, but this was still very fast.
The Moulins Legion, however, was in a rather pitiful state. Although they had trained alongside the Guards Corps in Tunisia for a while, their marching speed still couldn't keep up.
To avoid falling behind, André constantly drilled the formation every day—this being the biggest obstacle to increasing marching speed—almost shouting himself hoarse.
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