The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 231

Chapter 231: United in Purpose

An hour later, a pitch-black carriage exited through the rear gate of Count Morneau’s villa, its roof stacked high with fabric.

The carriage made several circuits through the city before finally returning to the Palais Royal after 10 p.m.

The Duke of Orléans, cloaked entirely in a black hood, unloaded the fabric like a servant and carried it into the warehouse. Only after ensuring there were no other onlookers apart from his personal guards did he cautiously return to his bedroom.

In the study, he recalled the elaborate strategy outlined by Count Morneau earlier, took out paper and pen, and wrote secret letters to Paris municipal commissioner Lefebvre and Montpellier governor Parmentier. Each was stamped with his personal seal and sealed with wax.

He then took out another sheet of paper and began writing down names: Duke of Sévère, Count of Sérurier, Duke of Durfort, Duke of Moussy...

Anyone familiar with the aristocratic circle would immediately recognize this list as comprising the key figures of the once-prominent political faction, the Eminent Council.

Although these individuals had suffered a major defeat during the royal tax reform bill, they remained formidable forces as leading nobles of the highest order.

Additionally, as Morneau had pointed out, the names on this list all belonged to those most affected by the "Miller’s Rights Act" and the falling land prices caused by Tunisian immigration.

After double-checking the list, the Duke handed both the letters and the list to his steward, Donnadier, giving him precise instructions.

...

Two days later, southwest of Paris.

At a sprawling greyhound racing track just south of the Seine River, the races were in full swing. The arena was filled with the cacophony of barking dogs and flying dust as over a dozen slender greyhounds sprinted toward the finish line like the wind.

The surrounding stands were packed with nobles of high rank—it wasn’t an event just anyone could attend.

In the VIP suite located on the west side of the second floor, over twenty individuals were gathered. They observed the race with an air of indifference, showing little genuine interest in the proceedings.

After a long pause, the door to the suite opened, revealing a tall, thin man dressed in a sapphire-blue coat, his gaze cold and piercing. He strode in.

The attendees turned their heads and immediately rose to their feet in greeting:

“At last, you’re here, Your Grace, Duke of Orléans.”

“Ah, Philippe, my old friend. What’s so urgent that you had to summon us here?”

“Your Grace, why not meet us at the Palais Royal instead? This wretched place is giving me a headache…”

The Duke handed his hat to a younger noble beside him and smiled as he gestured for everyone to sit:
“The Palais Royal is too closely monitored. It’s no longer suitable for gatherings. Here, however, we can speak freely.”

The Duke of Orléans had long employed a network of spies. After suffering repeated political setbacks over the past year, his paranoia had grown, leading him to order a thorough inspection of his residence. To his dismay, his suspicions were confirmed—someone was indeed monitoring the Palais Royal.

Naturally, this was Joseph’s doing. As a seasoned agent of the Intelligence Bureau, he kept a watchful eye on the Duke of Orléans, a man he considered a constant threat.

But the Duke, a veteran conspirator himself, had countermeasures. For example, today’s meeting at the greyhound track drew nearly a hundred nobles of distinction, only a fraction of whom were the Duke’s actual targets. Without an invitation, Joseph’s agents couldn’t infiltrate the venue.

This made it impossible for anyone to discern whom the Duke had met. Ostensibly, he was just there to bet on the dogs.

Taking the central seat, the Duke refrained from broaching the main topic and instead casually remarked to Count Sérurier, “Brusart, I hear you’ve lost the tax revenue from seven or eight mills recently. Truly a pity.”

The Count hesitated, unsure of the Duke’s intent, but his irritation was evident: “It’s that damned bill! The mill tax has been a traditional right for over a thousand years—no one has the authority to take it away!”

“Oh, but His Majesty, the great King, has done exactly that,” the Duke replied with thinly veiled sarcasm.

Turning to an elderly man beside him, he continued, “And you, Duke Durfort—how much has the drop in land prices cost you recently?”

“About five or six hundred thousand livres,” the Duke replied grimly. As a landowner of vast estates, the falling land prices had significantly impacted him.

The shared grievances of these two men resonated with the others in the suite. One by one, they began voicing their complaints, revealing their own financial losses.

The Duke of Orléans raised a hand, signaling for silence. His expression turned grave as he spoke:
“Have none of you realized? The Crown is abandoning us!

“Do you not recall the events surrounding the tax reform bill earlier this year? Our oversight of the High Court was stripped away, and we’re now forced to pay thousands—tens of thousands more in land taxes each year.

“To pay the same taxes as the commoners is an insult to us, the nobility!”

The room erupted in agreement.

“This is a betrayal of tradition and honor!”

“Indeed, the Crown has gone too far!”

“Mark my words, they’ll impose even heavier taxes on us in the future.”

The Duke, pleased with their reactions, continued:
“You’ve all seen it—the upstarts in textiles and papermaking are the Crown’s new favorites. We, meanwhile, are being discarded like worn-out boots.

“The new factories are drawing the peasants into the cities. Sooner or later, all your tenant farmers will flee, leaving your lands fallow and your rents unpaid!”

Finally, the highly esteemed Duke of Moussy spoke: “Duke of Orléans, after all you’ve said, do you have a plan?”

Seeing their expectant gazes, the Duke clenched his fist and declared, “We must exert pressure on the Crown and remind His Majesty that he must respect the traditional system and the nobility!”

Lowering his voice, he added:
“There’s a perfect opportunity now to teach the Crown a lesson. I hope all of you will unite and fight for our rights.

“You know, with the severe food shortages across the country this winter, we can do this and then that…”

When he finished, the nobles exchanged uneasy glances. One of them hesitated before speaking:
“Will this really work? I mean, during the tax reform bill, we…”

“Rest assured,” the Duke of Orléans assured them. “This time, other forces will cooperate with us. You will see soon enough. Furthermore, there’s little risk for you—simply return to your estates. Even if we fail, you won’t suffer any losses.”

The Duke of Durfort was the first to rise, placing a hand over his chest in a gesture of allegiance. “I will stand firmly by your side.”

Several others quickly expressed their agreement, and finally, the Duke of Moussy nodded slowly. “To defend our traditions and honor, this is necessary.”

The other nobles immediately echoed the sentiment:
“Yes! For tradition and honor!”
“The Crown must be made to understand a few things!”
“Duke of Orléans, we follow your lead…”

The VIP suite soon resonated with a unified resolve.

...

At the Petit Trianon Palace, Queen Marie Antoinette handed a letter of denunciation to the Chief Minister, Archbishop Brienne, her face livid with anger. “Take a look at this. The Marquis of Saint-Véran is eroding the very foundations of the nation!”

Archbishop Brienne, taken aback, opened the letter. It accused the Marquis of Saint-Véran of widespread corruption: embezzling funds through fake troop enrollments, failing to provide soldiers with adequate rations, thus hampering their training, and purchasing obsolete weapons under the guise of new ones to pocket the difference.

The letter was signed by Garon Gennard de Lefebvre, Paris municipal commissioner.

Brienne hesitated. “Your Majesty, there may be some misunderstanding here. Should we not send someone to investigate further?”

“I always wondered why his campaign in North Africa was so sluggish,” the Queen snapped. “Now I see! His troops were undermanned and untrained!

“How can such an incompetent officer command an army of tens of thousands? He must be punished severely to remind him of his duties!”

Brienne knew all too well that the Marquis of Saint-Véran hailed from a powerful military family in the south, and touching him could ignite a storm. He attempted to dissuade her. “Your Majesty, this is merely the word of Viscount Lefebvre—”

Before he could finish, a servant knocked on the door, delivering a wax-sealed letter to the Queen. “Your Majesty, this just arrived from Montpellier.”

Frowning, the Queen opened the letter, scanned its contents, and a cold smile curled her lips. She handed it to Brienne. “See for yourself.”

Brienne hurriedly read the letter, which was another denunciation of the Marquis of Saint-Véran. This one, authored by the governor of Montpellier, detailed his corruption with even greater specificity, likely because Montpellier was the home base of Saint-Véran’s regiment.

“This... Your Majesty...” Brienne stammered.

The Queen’s face darkened as she cut him off. “Archbishop Brienne, draft an edict immediately. Saint-Véran is to be reprimanded for corruption, negligence, and dereliction of duty. He must reduce his regiment to match the actual number of soldiers, repay the embezzled funds, and forfeit half of his annual pension!”

At the time, the French army’s funding primarily came from local military taxes, which were directly appropriated by commanding officers. High-ranking officers also received substantial pensions from the court to sustain their regiments.

However, corruption was rampant. In some units, over a third of the enlisted soldiers were fictitious. Pensions and taxes intended for the troops often ended up in the pockets of military aristocrats. Soldiers, dependent on their officers for pay, were practically their vassals.

By reducing the size of Saint-Véran’s regiment, the Queen would significantly cut his allocated military taxes. Combined with the loss of half his pension, this was tantamount to slicing through his very livelihood.

Brienne tried once more to dissuade her, but the Queen, still fuming, was unyielding. By early afternoon, the edict, bearing King Louis XVI’s signature, had already been sent to Montpellier.

Not stopping there, the Queen issued another edict condemning the Minister of War, the Marquis de Saint-Priest, for his poor judgment in appointing Saint-Véran. She demanded he conduct a thorough review of the punishment’s enforcement.

Brienne knew that the military aristocracy was an entrenched, unified bloc, where corruption and embezzlement were practically accepted norms. Neither the King nor his ministers dared interfere.

But today, the Queen’s twin edicts had undoubtedly stirred up a hornet’s nest.

Pacing anxiously in his office, Brienne struggled to formulate a solution. Finally, he ordered his servants to ready his carriage and set out for the Tuileries Palace to consult with the Crown Prince.

...

In Nice, two officials at the local grain depot watched as a convoy of carriages departed.

“What are those big shots at Versailles thinking?” one muttered. “They’ve commandeered such a massive fleet to send grain to Montpellier, and now we’re supposed to wait for Grenoble to resupply us?”

“Who knows? We just need to make sure our records are accurate,” the other replied.

The convoy carried documents signed personally by the Minister of the Interior, leaving no room for doubt.

“They better not delay in Grenoble. We’ve got less than 30,000 pounds of grain left here. If they’re even a few days late, the city will run out of bread.”

Meanwhile, Grenoble’s grain depot was also sending large quantities of grain to Montpellier. Their documents indicated that Nice would resupply them within a few days.

Over the past fortnight, grain depots across southern France had received orders from the Ministry of the Interior to execute large-scale redistributions of grain.

No one found this unusual. Food shortages had been increasingly common over the past six months, and emergency reallocations were nothing new. While this operation involved a larger volume than usual, most assumed that other regions would quickly replenish their stocks, as was customary.

...

In the south-central region of France, along the Royal Road in southern Auvergne, the Marquis of Saint-Véran sat in a speeding carriage, gazing toward Paris hundreds of miles away. A cruel smile played on his lips.

“That Austrian harlot! I will repay every humiliation a hundredfold. She will learn that without the military, the Crown is nothing more than a trembling mouse in the winter wind!”

For the tenth time, he glanced at the letter in his hand. It was from his nephew, a major in the Montcalm Regiment, reporting that the troops were fully prepared for deployment. It also mentioned that several areas in Montpellier were beginning to experience food shortages.

As the Marquis imagined his revenge, his thoughts drifted back to the secret meeting held ten days earlier at the Duke of Orléans’ private hunting grounds.

At the time, the Marquis had been consumed with rage and humiliation, which had thrown off his aim during the hunt.

“Damn that Austrian harlot! She’s humiliating me deliberately!” he had snarled through gritted teeth after missing a stag.

The Minister of War, the Marquis de Saint-Priest, had shared his grim expression. “It’s not just you. She’s insulting the entire military establishment.”

A stocky officer frowned and asked, “But why would she do this? Offending the military brings no benefit to the Crown.”

The Duke of Orléans spurred his horse closer, his voice ringing out as he eyed the distant game: “Because she doesn’t care about you.”

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