The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 238

Chapter 238: A Covert Operation

The gang member glared menacingly at the distant church, shouting at the gathered crowd, “Don’t be fooled by those priests! Their food distribution will last only until tomorrow or the day after. If we don’t want to starve, we have to rely on ourselves!”

Under orders from their employer—an agent of the Duke of Orléans—they needed to incite a riot of at least 500 people today to earn their pay.

At the moment, however, only a little over a hundred had gathered around them. Every city has its share of unsavory characters, and even with food available, these people sought opportunities to loot noble households amidst the chaos. Over the past few days, they had made off with a significant amount of valuables.

By five in the afternoon, the rioters had barely reached 200 in number. Frustrated, the gang leader cursed under his breath and dismissed the crowd, leading his followers back to their hideout.

Across the street, a cobbler observed the scene and immediately rose to his feet, whispering, “Sir, they’ve left.”

“Sit down,” replied Prosper, disguised as a customer, as he calmly laced up his boots. After waiting a moment, he signaled to the dozen or so “citizens” scattered nearby, some standing and others leaning nonchalantly. “Keep close to your targets.”

The individuals discreetly nodded, blending into the crowd as they trailed specific members of the dispersing rioters.

Prosper, along with two others, personally followed the gang members.

On the Crown Prince’s orders, the riots had erupted quickly and spread like wildfire—clear signs of deliberate instigation. The most urgent task for the Bureau of Public Safety was to identify the masterminds behind these uprisings. Agents had already been stationed in the southern provinces, and Prosper himself was in charge of Montpellier, the epicenter of the chaos.

The gang members entered a two-story building in the western part of the city. Circling the house, Prosper noted guards stationed at both the front and back entrances, solidifying his suspicions.

...

At two in the morning, Seba, leader of the “Corpse Gang,” was rudely awakened by the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against his temple.

“Who... who are you?” Seba stammered, glaring at Prosper with feigned bravado. “You’ll regret messing with the Corpse Gang!”

“Nightfire Gang,” Prosper replied curtly. He needed these individuals alive and cooperative, so he played his role convincingly.

“The gang from Ardeg Town?” Seba stiffened, his neck rigid. “This isn’t your territory!”

Prosper smirked. “I hear you’ve made quite a fortune recently. To be honest, I’m interested in the business.”

Reluctantly, under the threat of the pistol, Seba divulged the address of a “big figure” he had covertly tracked.

After leaving, Prosper led agents from the Bureau of Public Safety and covert police to the address Seba had provided—a nearby inn. They apprehended two individuals and uncovered over a thousand livres, along with riot plans, in their room.

While the detainees had yet to confess, it was evident they were orchestrating the riots in Montpellier.

Returning before dawn, Prosper announced to Seba’s gang, “The business now belongs to the Nightfire Gang. The big figure will deal only with me. As for you lot, two livres a day for each of you. Take it or leave it.”

Though disgruntled by the halved pay, Seba and his men reluctantly agreed, as it remained a profitable venture. In exchange for Prosper’s promise not to encroach on their territory, Seba gathered all his members for a “major operation.”

...

Similar scenarios unfolded across the southern provinces of France.

The Church’s efficiency far surpassed that of the French bureaucracy. Clerics distributed grain from their cellars bag by bag, quickly alleviating food shortages and dispersing the hungry masses.

Simultaneously, the Bureau of Public Safety struck from the shadows.

The spies secretly employed by the Duke of Orléans proved no match for the government’s intelligence network. Most of the riot organizers fell into the hands of the Bureau.

...

Northeastern France.
Strasbourg.

Marshal François, also the Duke of Broye, reclined in his chair, his stiff military tone breaking the silence. “So, the southern riots have been quelled just like that?”

His son, Charles-Louis-Victor, hesitated before responding, “For the most part, Father. However, places like Foix and Béarn are still in turmoil. As you know, those regions often face unrest, even in good years.”

In the border provinces of southern France, separatist movements had long been active. In some remote, impoverished areas, the cessation of food shortages did little to curb greed-driven looting of wealthy households.

Marshal François nodded slowly. “Has the royal decree been implemented?”

Louis-Victor knew his father was referring to the order recalling officers to their posts. “To my knowledge, not yet, Father. It’s obvious—leaving their stations means losing everything.”

The marshal sighed, a mix of frustration and relief. At least his old age and his son’s mediocrity had spared them from entanglement in the affairs of Marquis Luckner and his faction.

Though he had returned to his post to express support for the military group as an interested party, he had refrained from threatening the Crown, leaving room for reconciliation.

Gazing at the shimmering sunlight, François murmured, almost to himself, “If this drags on, Luckner and his allies will find themselves mired. Has the outcome already been decided?”

Decades of political experience finally prompted him to a resolution. He turned to his son and said, “Victor, make preparations. We’re going to Paris.”

His son was stunned. “Are you betraying...?”

The septuagenarian marshal shook his head. “I am loyal only to His Majesty. There is no betrayal here. Oh, and don’t forget to write to Versailles, informing them of our decision.”

...

January 24, 1789.
Forez Province, south-central France.

Bordering the Provence region and less than 100 kilometers from Montpellier, this was a critical point for the advancing forces.

Joseph, clad in a pristine cavalry uniform, galloped past rows of soldiers cheering from the roadside. He returned their enthusiasm with smiles and waves.

Following the Tunis campaign, Joseph’s horsemanship had significantly improved, his legs toughened by calluses from riding. This made long marches much easier—riding, while taxing, was far preferable to walking.

Given the secrecy of their movements, the army had chosen remote routes, making carriage travel impractical and uncomfortable.

Thanks to the partially completed wood rail tracks between Paris and Lyon, the Guards Corps had advanced rapidly in the initial stages, covering up to 38 kilometers daily. However, once the wooden tracks ended, their pace slowed to just under 30 kilometers per day—still impressive.

The Moulin Corps, however, struggled. Despite their shared experience in Tunis, they could not match the pace. To keep up, André had to tirelessly enforce discipline, shouting himself hoarse to maintain formation—the primary obstacle to swift movement.

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