The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 253

Chapter 253: Eliminating the Nation's Traitor

The floor-to-ceiling window and frame on the western side of the villa's second floor were gone, leaving half the wall collapsed. Jagged red bricks jutted out from the debris, while the hallway on the other side was filled with dust and blood. A hole had been blasted through the ceiling, its exact trajectory a mystery.

Outside, the citizens roared with a tsunami of cheers. The temporary artillerymen felt as if they had personally landed a punch on Count of Thiole, a thrill of vengeance surging straight to their heads.

A few gunners were preparing to reload when they noticed the guards, who had been stationed at various windows aiming outward with their rifles, suddenly retreating in panic. Most of them withdrew deeper into the villa.

"Look! Those cowards are scared!" someone shouted, pointing at the villa.

"They know what crimes they've committed. Now their conscience haunts them."

"Charge in and avenge our loved ones!"

The crowd roared, surging toward the villa from all directions. Sporadic gunfire crackled from the doors and windows but did little to halt the advancing tide.

Not far away, observing the situation, Fouché frowned. The resistance inside the villa had ceased too abruptly.

Realizing something, he turned to a nearby officer and barked, "They're trying to escape! Quickly—no, I'll go myself! You, keep an eye on the surrounding buildings!"

"Yes, sir!"

Disguised as an ordinary merchant, Fouché led five subordinates into the villa with the rioters.

Inside, the villa was utter chaos. People scrambled to loot valuables and destroy anything in sight.

Amid the cacophony of hysterical shouts, laughter, and faint sobbing, the smashing of wood and porcelain formed a mad symphony of destruction.

Soon, someone set the kitchen on the villa's south side ablaze. Smoke swirled through the villa, carried by a gentle breeze.

Fouché scanned the surroundings and moved quickly toward the stairs. Everywhere, rioters brawled with guards, with some tumbling down the stairs. Fouché deftly dodged the melee and ascended to the second floor.

The upper level was even more chaotic. Smoke had already risen, but the people, coughing as they went, seemed indifferent as they swarmed the guards. Gunfire rang out occasionally, but the shooters were soon overwhelmed.

Fouché made his way down the corridor to the central atrium, where he spotted seven or eight guards clustered outside a room, nervously pointing their rifles outward.

Nearby lay the bodies of a few rioters, while the western wall had partially collapsed, leaving a pile of rubble.

It was clear to him: this was the room hit by the cannon earlier.

The number of guards gathered here suggested someone important was inside.

As he pondered how to infiltrate, smoke began to drift closer. An officer rushed over from the other end of the hallway, shouting at the guards, "The fire has reached the adjacent wine room! You, you, and you—come with me to put it out! Keep holding on; Count Castay’s reinforcements led by Aurore will arrive soon!"

The officer left with a few guards, leaving those at the door swatting at the smoke, their eyes watering.

Fouché took a deep breath and signaled his men. Taking advantage of the guards' struggle with the smoke, he slipped through the broken wall.

Inside, the room was relatively smoke-free. A startled officer turned to the noise, but Fouché grinned, drew his pistol, and fired. The officer was blasted backward.

In the room’s center, a man lay slumped on an armchair. His pale face and crooked wig stood out amidst the dust. Startled by the gunfire, he tried to lift his head.

It was none other than the Duke of Orléans.

Fouché holstered his pistol and approached, noticing for the first time that the duke’s left arm had been severed below the elbow, tightly bound with a tourniquet. A shard of glass, more than an inch wide, was embedded in his back, wrapped in layers of bandages but still dripping blood.

"You..."

The Duke of Orléans barely opened his mouth before pain twisted his features. He broke into a coughing fit, blood staining his lips. His lungs were clearly gravely injured.

The sounds of fighting outside the door quickly faded.

Fouché stood before the Duke of Orléans, gazing at him like an artist admiring a masterpiece. In a calm tone, he said, "Good morning, Your Grace. I regret to inform you that, due to your grave crimes of treason and conspiracy to overthrow the royal family, His Royal Highness the Crown Prince has tasked me with delivering your death sentence."

At the mention of "Crown Prince," the duke's eyes widened in fury. Veins bulged on his forehead as he tried to speak, but agony left him convulsing. Cold sweat ran in streams, cutting through the powder on his face.

"Yes, Your Grace, His Highness is fully aware of your clandestine activities," Fouché continued, guessing his thoughts. "And then, he dealt with your little schemes... oh, how should I put it? Effortlessly."

He paused, pulling a small silver box from his coat. Opening it, he extracted a folded paper crown, dyed gold and adorned with painted jewels.

"Ah, His Highness also instructed me to deliver this to you."

The Duke of Orléans stared at the paper crown, bloodshot eyes filled with rage. He wanted to roar, to tear the mockery apart, but his body was frozen, like an insect trapped in ice.

Fouché gently placed the exquisitely crafted "crown" on the duke’s head. Smiling faintly, he drew a dagger and said, "His Highness knows well your yearning to ascend the throne. But this... this is all you deserve."

He raised the dagger but paused as the duke’s body suddenly slumped into the chair.

Frowning, Fouché checked the duke’s pulse and exhaled in frustration. Sheathing the dagger, he turned to leave.

Minutes later, over a dozen agents of the Police Bureau filtered out of Count of Thiole’s villa, each carrying items like plates and candlesticks, blending in with the rioters.

The agents stationed on the periphery also withdrew, vanishing like drops in the ocean of chaos.

...

Versailles.

Count Mirabeau bowed to Queen Marie Antoinette. "Your Majesty, you see, those opposing this proposal have clearly been convinced. This reform is a popular necessity. The nobles, with their noble character, have relinquished minor privileges to bring immense hope to countless peasants."

He glanced at the petitioning nobles outside the window.

They were all from the emerging nobility, supporting the abolition of aristocratic privileges. The old nobility, however, had withdrawn.

The core members of the old nobility had lost interest in political affairs. Nine had been killed by rioters at their estates, while others suffered complete financial ruin. Their properties were ransacked, their estates burned, and, most critically, their documents—deeds, bonds, and even proofs of noble lineage—were gone.

In this era, nobles without wealth commensurate with their titles lost both prestige and political influence.

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