The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 252

Chapter 252: The Breath of Death

"Thank the Lord!"

Fouché leapt out of the carriage, his mind flashing back to the last words the Crown Prince had said to him before he left Paris:
"Go all out; this might be the most glorious moment of your intelligence career."

"Yes, the most glorious moment!" He licked his lips, like a beast about to savor its prey.

Striding toward the wooden cabin, he turned to ask the nearby officer from the Bureau of Public Safety:
"Can we begin tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir," the officer replied immediately, nodding. "The speeches started two days ago. People are already enraged to the breaking point."

Fouché suddenly recalled Necker's hidden cellar and frowned.
"Have you confirmed whether there are any hidden tunnels nearby?"

"It's difficult to be certain, sir. However, Count Thiole rarely resides there, so he probably hasn’t made extensive arrangements. Besides, we've stationed personnel in the surrounding buildings."

The officer hesitated before continuing, "Sir, there's another tricky issue."

"What is it?"

"The Duke of Orléans' guards number over a hundred, and they're well-trained. If conflict arises, even a thousand rioters might not stand a chance against them."

Fouché frowned. "What about our people?"

"The Bureau of Public Safety has mobilized about 60 agents. You know, our people aren't skilled in direct combat. As for the secret police, we can't count on them."

Fouché entered the first-floor hall. The busy staff from the Bureau of Public Safety snapped to attention and saluted him.

With a casual raise of his hat, Fouché walked straight to the map of the Amor District, studying it intently for a long moment before shaking his head slightly.

"No, there must be a way..."

He paced back and forth in frustration. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glimmer of a lighthouse in the distance.

Suddenly, he stopped, an excited smile tugging at his lips.
"Of course, this is Brittany! There are ships and shipyards everywhere; that thing must be available."

Without delay, he summoned the officer in charge of the operation and whispered a few instructions.

The officer looked shocked but hesitated, saying:
"It should be possible to obtain, but... our people may not know how to use it."

"That's fine." Fouché smiled. "This is Brittany; it shouldn’t be hard to find a few experienced sailors or retired soldiers among the citizens."

...

The next afternoon.

The familiar routine continued. Speakers gathered citizens in the town square, while individuals mingled in the crowd to explain the contents of pamphlets.

"When someone told Count Thiole that this might cause bread prices to skyrocket, do you know what he said?" A young speaker waved his arm dramatically. "He said, 'If they can't afford bread, they should eat straw!'"

"The devil!" An angry roar erupted from the crowd. "He should eat straw himself!"

"He's a murderer!"

"Kill him!"

The people of Brittany were known for their fierce and unyielding nature. Two or three centuries earlier, piracy had even been a mainstay of the local economy.

Members of the prearranged "Iron Helm" gang urged the crowd to march on Count Thiole's estate. He was ranked as the "Eight of Spears" on Joseph's deck of cards.

As expected, the 1,300 citizens seeking retribution were stopped outside the estate. Before them stood a double line of sixty guards armed with gleaming Charleville 1776 flintlock muskets, all aimed directly at the crowd.

No one dared to approach—the guards exuded an intimidating aura that made onlookers tense just by glancing at them. Yet the crowd refused to leave, surrounding the estate gates from a distance, hurling curses.

Amid the stalemate, a group of women arrived with two horse-drawn carts.

They pulled back the straw covering the carts, revealing dark, metallic cylinders beneath, and exclaimed triumphantly:
"The Deerskin Boots was about to be fitted with these, so we hauled them out of the shipyard!"

A cheer erupted from the crowd as a dozen strong men struggled to unload wooden frames and the metal cylinders from the carts. Others quickly assembled them.

A six-pound cannon, typically used on armed merchant ships, now loomed prominently before the crowd.

"Who knows how to use this?"

Before the agent from the Bureau of Public Safety finished speaking, several men stepped forward eagerly:
"Leave it to me; I've handled these beauties for twenty years at sea."

"I know how; I served in the artillery."

"Me too..."

Within minutes, they loaded the cannon. An experienced middle-aged sailor used a hammer to adjust the wedge-shaped stock under the cannon for elevation. Then, giving a thumbs-up, he aimed toward the estate.
"All set."

The crowd quickly scattered to the sides. Only then did the guards at the gate notice the conspicuous black object 150 paces away.

"It's a cannon!"

The Duke of Orléans' captain of the guard shouted in alarm.

But before the guards could act, the young sailor touched the fire stick to the cannon's vent.

With a thunderous "boom," fire flashed, smoke billowed, and an iron ball six pounds heavy tore through the guards’ ranks. Three men were ripped apart by the massive impact, while two more were knocked unconscious by flying limbs.

The cannonball's momentum was unrelenting, smashing into one of the estate's gate pillars and obliterating half the gate. Debris from the explosion killed two more guards and wounded another’s leg.

At 150 paces, the naval cannon’s straight trajectory made accuracy nearly a given.

The remaining guards panicked and scattered, trying to avoid the next strike.

Less than a minute later, another deafening blast rang out.

This time, the cannonball missed the guards directly but smashed through the stone wall, ricocheting and continuing forward until it struck the villa’s outer wall, demolishing a corner.

Inside the villa’s second floor, the Duke of Orléans, Count Thiole, and another noble were discussing whether they could exploit the conflict over "abolishing privileges" at the Palace of Versailles for political gain.

Suddenly, a distant explosion startled them. They stood up in shock.

As the captain of the guard burst in to report that rioters were bombarding the estate with a cannon, the villa shook violently again. The shouts of the rioters outside grew even louder.

By the time the third shot rang out, the Duke of Orléans' guards could no longer hold their ground. They retreated into the villa, unwilling to face the cannon's deadly power and the thousand enraged citizens surrounding them.

The furious mob surged forward, tackling and beating the slower guards.

When they reached the villa, however, gunfire from the windows forced them to halt.

"These bastards tried to starve us to death, and now they're shooting us!" someone shouted.

"Break in! I’ll avenge my child!"

"But they have guns..."

"Bring the cannon closer and show them what it can do!"

Inside the villa, the Duke of Orléans was horrified as he watched the mob surround the building. Standing by a window, he shouted:
"I am Louis Philippe II, your Duke of Orléans..."

But the citizens’ angry roars drowned out his voice entirely. No one paid any attention to the man in the blue frock at the window.

"Your Grace, it’s too dangerous!" The captain of the guard dragged him back into the drawing room.

Moments later, the cannon was wheeled to within 200 paces of the villa. Quick-handed citizens loaded powder and shot into its mouth.

"Boom—"

The black iron ball, carrying the breath of death, flew straight toward the second floor of the villa.

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