The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 233

Chapter 233: The Abyss

An emaciated old man wearing a thin linen coat dragged a malnourished child of about ten years old to the front of the grain depot official. Bowing his head and clutching his chest, he pleaded:
"Master, kind Master! Bread in the city is now selling for 22 sous per pound, and we can't afford it anymore… Please, have mercy and spare us some grain! Otherwise, we really won't survive!"

Typically, bread in Nice cost no more than 10 sous per pound. For the city's working poor, who scraped by on meager wages, this meant more than half a month without being able to purchase food.

Cries of pleading erupted from the crowd around them:
"Please distribute affordable grain! His Majesty the King promised this in the notice…"
"My child has only eaten once in the past two days, I beg of you!"
"Master, many bakeries in the city are out of flour; everyone is counting on the reserve grain…"
"For the sake of God, have pity on us…"

The grain depot official could only offer perfunctory responses, powerless to change the situation.

In the crowd, a man with three moles on his face sneered and gestured subtly to the twenty or so men around him. The leader, a scar-faced man, immediately strode boldly toward the depot guards, shouting as he went:
"We can't starve to death; we'll take the grain ourselves!"

His accomplices quickly joined in, shouting:
"We have the right to bread!"
"That's right, we're just taking food for our families and children—God will forgive us!"
"Everyone, act now!"

The hungry crowd outside the grain depot hesitated, fear holding them back.

The scar-faced man, undeterred, smashed open the gate to the grain depot’s enclosure. A guard pointed his musket at him and shouted:
"Stand down!"

Someone in the crowd waved their hand and yelled:
"Look! These cruel soldiers are going to shoot us!"

Seizing the moment of distraction, the scar-faced man wrestled the gun away from the guard. The other guards, caught off guard by the sudden escalation, hesitated briefly and were soon surrounded by the scar-faced man’s twenty-odd accomplices.

Seeing the scar-faced man break into the depot, a few brave members of the hungry crowd followed, quickly inciting more to join.

In just over ten minutes, nearly a thousand starving citizens surged into the grain depot like a tide. The responsible official, seeing his guards beaten black and blue, hid in his office and dared not emerge.

Soon, the starving mob began filling sacks with wheat from the depot. Those without sacks disregarded the freezing cold, removing their coats to carry as much grain as they could.

Within an hour, over 20,000 pounds of wheat in the depot had been looted.

Most of the starving citizens left behind "payments" at a rate of 2 sous and 6 deniers per pound, calling it the "People’s Tax."

This so-called "People’s Tax" was a French "tradition." People believed that as long as they paid what they deemed a reasonable price, it constituted a transaction rather than theft.

The grain depot official, after the mob dispersed, stared at the empty warehouse in despair, feeling as if he had fallen into an icy abyss.

The grain stored here was supposed to supply the city of Nice for a week, but now there was nothing left. This meant that soon, the city's grain shops and bakeries would have to shut down…

The next day, in a wooden house on the outskirts of Nice, the man with three moles counted out more than 80 silver livres for the scar-faced man.

The latter immediately bowed and scraped, showering him with flattery before dividing the money among his subordinates. He was none other than the leader of Nice’s largest gang, the Howell Gang.

The "Three Moles," however, was a spy in the service of the Duke of Orléans. Following the duke’s orders, he had arrived in Nice a month earlier and hired the Howell Gang at an exorbitant rate of 4 livres per person per day to incite riots alongside him.

After meticulous planning, their operation the previous day was a resounding success.

Having distributed the "wages," the "Three Moles" immediately led the gang members to the emptied grain depot to await further opportunities.

As expected, citizens who had heard about the looting came to try their luck, only to discover that the depot had been completely emptied.

At this point, the scar-faced man’s men stepped forward, informing them that that afternoon, they planned to "retrieve" supplies from grain shops and bakeries in the city.

By 3 p.m., the atmosphere in Nice was like a storm brewing on the horizon.

When the scar-faced man led the charge into the city’s largest bakery, the entire city descended into chaos. People who had been hungry for too long and those anxious about food supplies began breaking into grain shops and bakeries, taking whatever they could.

At first, people left behind "People’s Tax" payments, but as time went on, it turned into outright looting.

By nightfall, the city’s regular bread supply had completely collapsed.

Those who hadn’t obtained any grain were destined to find nothing but empty shelves the next morning. Such people made up the majority of the population.

The next day, outside the now-devastated "Markman" Bakery, desperate citizens gathered—though the shopkeeper and bakers had long since fled, leaving nothing behind. Despite knowing this, people habitually lingered there in despair.

As they wallowed in hopelessness, the scar-faced man marched past with a thousand followers. Cries rang out from the crowd:
"The Viscount of Sreltert’s household has plenty of food! Let’s go ask him for some!"
"If you don’t want to starve to death, come with us!"
"There’s no grain left in the city—don’t hesitate!"

The people outside the bakery hesitated for a moment before joining the procession heading to the Viscount of Sreltert’s estate.

Though some recalled that the Viscount of Sreltert was known to be a decent man, in times like these, the panicked crowd followed their leaders blindly, abandoning all reason.

By noon, the Viscount’s mansion had been thoroughly looted. Following his employer’s instructions, the scar-faced man then led the hungry mob toward the estate of Baron Abella.

...

Meanwhile, in the center of Montpellier, spies sent by the Duke of Orléans similarly led dozens of gang members as their core group, mobilizing crowds of citizens to loot food supplies.

When the leading gang members urged the mob to head to the estate of a nobleman in the southern part of the city, one of the starving citizens shouted:
"Why not go to Count Seryllier’s estate? His manor is enormous; there must be plenty of food…"

Before he could finish, he was discreetly kicked, and two gang members casually jostled him to the ground.

Count Seryllier was an ally of the Duke of Orléans, and it was imperative to avoid turning the mob against him. In fact, the Marquis of Saint-Véran’s Montcalm Corps, numbering 17,000 soldiers, was stationed on the Count’s estate. Even if the mob went there, they would undoubtedly be turned away.

The minor disruption quickly passed, and the crowd continued surging southward.

In just a few days, the starving mob had swept through most of Montpellier, while the Marquis of Saint-Véran, responsible for maintaining order, watched coldly, allowing the unrest to spread unchecked…

Due to the malicious manipulation of strategic grain reserves, the reserve depots in the south-central provinces of France were quickly emptied.

Following Nice and Montpellier, grain shortages began to appear in other regions, and the spies dispatched by the Duke of Orléans became increasingly active.

However, limited by the poor communication systems of the time, news had yet to reach Versailles.

...

Paris

As the two guards bent their heads to light their cigarettes, Solène slipped past them from behind, darting into the west-side corridor of the second floor of the Palais-Royal.

Pressing her back against a statue, she took a deep breath and glanced toward the door to the archives room not far away, silently rejoicing: She had finally made it in!
After the prison break that day, she and her Brotherhood comrades divided the work, each investigating a suspected duke. Solène had set her sights on the Duke of Orléans.

She had heard that the Duke had recently traveled south, and thought it was a heaven-sent opportunity to easily uncover some useful evidence. To her dismay, the security at the Palais-Royal was unusually tight—stricter even than the Bastille!

Several attempts had forced her to circle the periphery, but today, finally catching the guards in a moment of inattention, she managed to reach the archives room.

After a patrol passed by, she silently approached the door, taking out a stethoscope to listen for any sound within. Hearing nothing, she deftly picked the lock with a wire.

Muttering to herself that the lock was "much easier to open than the Bastille's," she carefully pushed the door open and slipped inside, gently closing it behind her.

But as her eyes fell on the rows of bookshelves, she froze. They were completely empty.

Previously, these shelves had been neatly packed with documents organized by time and type.

Drawing her rapier warily, Solène scanned the room, ensuring there was no ambush. Only then did she let out a sigh of relief.

Perplexed, she left the archives and, with great effort, snuck into the Duke of Orléans’ study. The furnishings remained as before, yet there wasn’t a single piece of paper to be found. Even the safe was open and entirely empty.

She searched the Duke’s bedroom, meeting rooms, and other areas, only to find the same—no documents, no archives, nothing.

Stunned, Solène pondered: Had the Duke of Orléans gone on vacation without his guards but brought all his documents?
Suddenly, her pupils contracted as a thought struck her: The Duke of Orléans had fled to evade justice! The Malet brothers’ claim about a duke being involved must have referred to him!

The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. Without delay, she slipped out of the Palais-Royal and hurried to the Crown Prince’s office under cover of night.

...

At the Tuileries Palace’s second floor, a drowsy Émond glanced at the clock on his desk—it was 12:10 a.m.

He intended to dismiss this girl with no sense of timing and tell her to return tomorrow, but he suddenly recalled how the Crown Prince had personally summoned her into his office last time.

Casting another glance at Solène, clad in her sleek black nightwear, with her lithe waist and long, slender legs, Émond thought he understood something. No wonder she came so late—surely it was an arranged time.

Joseph was roused from his sleep and scowled at Émond in irritation.
"Solène? At this hour?"

But since he was already awake, he groggily waved her in.
"If she insists it’s urgent… Fine, bring her to the reception room."

A moment later, wearing his robe, Joseph motioned for Solène to sit on the sofa across from him. Stifling a yawn, he asked:
"What brings you here so late?"

Solène nodded earnestly, her expression serious.
"Your Highness, I’ve identified the mastermind behind the Malet brothers!"

"Oh?" Joseph perked up. "Please, go on."

Solène recounted how the Brotherhood had infiltrated the Bastille to extract a confession, and how the Malet brothers had let slip that their leader was a duke.

"A duke?" Joseph was fully awake now. He pointed at Solène, his tone stern.
"You’re bold enough to stage a prison break—aren’t you afraid I’ll have you arrested too?"

"It was for justice..." Solène puffed out her chest, stealing a glance at Joseph’s darkened face. Swallowing nervously, she added in a small voice, "You wouldn’t actually have me arrested, would you?"

Joseph waved his hand. "Just tell me what you found."

"Oh, right." Solène quickly continued.
"I searched the Duke of Orléans’ residence and discovered that all the documents in the Palais-Royal were missing…"

When she finished, Joseph’s face was grim.

This time of year, nobles often traveled south to escape the cold. If the Duke of Orléans announced such a trip, no one would think twice. But to take all his important documents with him? That was no mere vacation.

Still, Joseph didn’t believe the Duke would flee out of fear—after all, burning a minor noble was a trivial matter, and with his rank, the Duke wouldn’t care.

No, this was something much bigger.

Soon, Joseph had Fouché dragged from his bed, and together they rushed to the Bastille to interrogate the Malet brothers overnight.

With the key clue of the Duke of Orléans, the experienced interrogators from the Department of Public Safety quickly extracted a confession from the brothers.

As Fouché relayed the details of the case, Joseph frowned deeply.
"But why would the Duke of Orléans go to such lengths to target Morneau?"

Gazing at the flickering candlelight on the wall, he mused aloud:
"If the Duke is plotting something significant, and Morneau is a critical piece, then it all makes sense…"

Suddenly, he turned to Fouché.
"Quick! Send someone to Morneau’s house!"

However, by the time the Public Safety officers arrived at Morneau’s Versailles residence, he was long gone.

According to his servants, he had left for the south with his son on the same day Solène staged the prison break, claiming they were "going to bask in the sun."

"Another trip to the south?" Joseph’s face darkened. "Check who else has traveled recently!"

"Yes, Your Highness!"

Joseph continued analyzing the Duke’s motives but couldn’t piece it together. With no other leads, he decided to act on the ones he had.

He summoned all key officials from the Ministry of the Interior, ordering them to compile every directive Morneau had issued recently.

Fortunately, most of the nobles lived in Versailles, making it easy to gather the officials quickly.

As the first rays of dawn lit the Palace of Versailles, a thick stack of documents was placed before Joseph.

"Summarize the key points," Joseph instructed the bleary-eyed assistant to the Minister of the Interior.

The assistant hesitated. "Your Highness, the Count of Morneau hasn’t done much of significance over the past two months. However… he seems unusually focused on grain transportation."

Managing grain transportation was typically handled by lower-level officials. For the Minister of the Interior to involve himself in such routine matters was indeed unusual.

Narrowing his eyes, Joseph demanded to see all of Morneau’s grain-related orders.

The moment he saw the chaotic, contradictory directives, rage surged within him.

"That bastard Orléans! He intends to drag all of France into the abyss!"

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