The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 190

Chapter 190: Declaring War on Natural Disasters

Afterward, Charles hurried to the Palace of Versailles, where he was received by the Assistant to the Minister of the Navy. A small commendation ceremony was held in his honor, during which he was awarded a bonus of 500 livres.

The recognition was well-deserved—for without the intelligence he obtained from smugglers about the pirates, the joint fleet might still be searching aimlessly across the vast Mediterranean.

However, after the ceremony concluded, a French official informed him that his original assignment to testify at the pirates' public trial had changed. He was now required to return to Algiers immediately to assist French "diplomats" in contacting Younes Pasha.

...

In the impoverished region of Bourges in central-northern France, the village of Laberne was among the poorest.

The tenant farmer Alberic sat on a wooden barrel, gulping the sweltering air. The cracked earth before him reflected his deep despair.

He no longer had the strength to carry water.

With the weather growing hotter, the small river that once flowed by the village had dried up. Now, he had to walk two leagues to fetch water from a neighboring village to irrigate his crops.

Yes, the village had too few communal horses, and it was over ten days before his family’s turn to use one would come around again.

The amount of water Alberic could carry by hand was far too little for his 30 acres of land.

After the hailstorm disaster, he had applied for government relief in the form of seed potatoes. But no rain had fallen since.

So far, he had only planted two acres of potatoes—the maximum he and his son could water by hand. Planting more would mean the potatoes would die of drought.

Alberic was already debating whether to eat the seed potatoes meant for planting—though it was strictly prohibited. However, the priest had said that these potatoes could only last about half a month in storage. Better to eat them than let them rot.

At that moment, a young sharecropper from the village passed by, ringing a bell and shouting loudly:

“All men, gather at the church!”

Alberic waved at the man and called out:
“Didier, is it to work for the baron?”

“No, it’s to help,” Didier replied. “We’re moving stones for the Yannal parish.”

“Moving stones?”

Didier nodded impatiently. “Yes, the government sent them, saying they’re some kind of fertilizer that can make crops grow better. But they look like stones to me.”

Alberic quickly called for his son, and the two hurried to the church.

Near the church, a group of forty to fifty people had already gathered, talking among themselves:
“Why are we working for Yannal Parish?”

“I heard from Mr. Audrian that the government has introduced a ‘Pump Rental Act.’ They’ve obtained a pump!”

“What does that have to do with us?”

Yannal Parish, in slightly better financial condition, could barely afford to rent a pump. Laberne Parish, however, was too destitute to pay the monthly 200-livre fee, let alone maintain a parish bank.

A villager quickly added: “Mr. Audrian said that under the rental agreement, Yannal Village must lend the pump to us for 11 days a month. In return, we help them with labor.”

“A pump?!” Alberic exclaimed, his excitement rising. “I heard that thing can irrigate dozens of acres in a single day. This is salvation!”

Soon, the parish steward, Mr. Audrian, arrived at the church. After counting the attendees, he gave instructions:
“Today and tomorrow, we’ll transport fertilizer for Yannal Parish. The day after, we’ll bring back fertilizer for ourselves.

“After that, we’ll help them repair their irrigation channels.”

With a smile, he added:
“But tomorrow evening, they’ll deliver the pump to us!”

The sharecroppers erupted into cheers. With water, there was hope for survival. Without delay, they braved the scorching sun, following Audrian to the neighboring village...

Two days later, Alberic’s family received their share of the light gray, speckled “stones.” According to the priest, this was precious fertilizer. It only needed to be crushed into powder, soaked in water, and then poured onto the fields to significantly boost crop yields.

All the fertilizer had been purchased on credit through an agreement with a company named Twin Trade Company. Calculations showed that it required an investment of 5 to 7 sols per acre, to be paid after the autumn harvest. However, the company guaranteed that if the increased yield didn’t cover the cost of the fertilizer, they wouldn’t charge a penny.

Yes, these “stones” were phosphate rock, transported by Joseph from Nauru. In essence, they were fossilized bird droppings.

This substance was the best fertilizer available in this era! In later times, Nauru became one of the world’s wealthiest nations by selling “guano rock.” For a while, every citizen owned a luxury car, casually bought properties in Australia, and flew abroad for minor medical treatments.

Of course, when the deposits were exhausted, the country plunged back into poverty overnight—but that’s another story.

Currently, transportation limits meant only two shipments of phosphate rock had been brought back, totaling over 600 tons, and were prioritized for France’s most drought-stricken areas. Fortunately, the second fleet, comprising 17 ships, had already reached the Pacific. When they returned, France’s agricultural output would see a significant boost.

For now, France had to move discreetly, as Britain remained the world’s naval hegemon. If word leaked out, the British might seize the shipments outright.

As a precaution, Joseph had also initiated plans to promote composting.

Composting, in this context, referred to the use of microorganisms to break down organic matter—such as leaves, straw, food scraps, and even manure—into humus, which plants could absorb as fertilizer.

Before the widespread use of chemical fertilizers, this was humanity’s best method for maintaining soil fertility over long periods without fallowing.

While basic composting had existed in Europe since the 17th century, it was largely unscientific. Only with the advent of composting theories in the mid-19th century did its effectiveness improve.

Joseph, having learned the basics of composting from documentaries in his previous life, knew the general process: layering organic material and soil, managing moisture, and turning the pile monthly for three months.

However, implementing this scientifically required expertise, so Joseph entrusted the task to the church.

Yes, compared to inefficient bureaucrats, the church was more proactive in improving the people's livelihoods. By having clergy from dozens of churches experiment with different composting methods and observe the results, they could develop the optimal process for nationwide implementation.

...

Late at night.

Alberic and two other villagers followed a cart back to the village, carrying torches to unload the coal by the pump.

The coal had been transported from a small mine over ten leagues away. Such small mines were now ubiquitous. The government’s recent “Coal Mining Promotion Act” encouraged the extraction of coal by subsidizing mines that achieved certain sales volumes.

Since then, small-scale investors, leading teams of a dozen or so workers, had sprung up like mushrooms after rain. The increasing competition had driven coal prices down. Now, as long as villagers were willing to fetch the coal themselves, the pump’s fuel costs were entirely manageable for the community.

Watching the torchlight illuminate streams of water flowing through irrigation channels and into the surrounding fields, Alberic and the others—despite their aching bodies—wore smiles on their faces.

Although 11 days of irrigation per month wouldn’t cover the entire village’s farmland, it could save more than 60% of the crops. Combined with the miraculous “stone fertilizer,” the autumn harvest should provide enough food to keep their families alive.

Laberne Parish was fortunate.

Limited by the production capacity of French steam engines, many other drought-stricken areas were still anxiously awaiting pumps under the rental program, with no choice but to endure.

...

On the eastern coast of Tunisia, in the city of Sfax.

A man in his thirties, with deep-set eyes and a slender, high-bridged nose, stepped out of a carriage and briskly entered a French-style sugar shop along the street.

French merchants were widespread across Tunisia, especially in luxury sectors like silk, sugar, and tea. Many such stores were owned by French nationals.

The shopkeeper glanced at the newcomer, then casually opened a door behind the counter, allowing him to enter the back room without question.

Inside, Prosper from the Paris Intelligence Office was lounging in a chair, idly playing with a plate of dates.

Dressed in a gray-white Tunisian robe and wearing a gold bucket-shaped hat, Prosper raised his hat in greeting as the man entered. Switching to French, he said:
“Fabian… Ah, forgive me, I should say Isaac. How’s it going?”

Isaac drank several gulps of water from the table before speaking excitedly:
“I met that officer named Imanzade. He indeed knows Younes—or rather, admires him greatly.

“The best part? Imanzade is nearing retirement and holds a token, inactive position in the Tunisian military.”

“How is that good news?” Prosper began, then paused as his eyes lit up. “You mean he has plenty of time to visit Algiers?”

“Exactly!” Isaac nodded. “But he doesn’t trust me fully yet, so he’s reluctant to commit to anything. Next, we’ll need our esteemed consul to step in.”

Prosper hadn’t expected such swift progress. In just ten days in Tunisia, they had already connected with Younes’ old associate.

Of course, much of the credit went to Isaac, whose North African heritage had often subjected him to discrimination back in France. Here, however, his fluency in Arabic and familiarity with local customs allowed him to shine.

Prosper also downed several gulps of water—this cursed place made one unbearably thirsty if not hydrated before venturing out—and grabbed Isaac to head outside.

“Let’s go find Consul Joan right away.”

...

Three days later, after several meetings between the French consul and Imanzade, the latter finally agreed to board a smuggling vessel waiting at the port.

Their destination was Algiers’ Dahra, where they would meet Younes, who had left Tunisia over thirty years ago.

...

The Versailles Palace square.

The area was packed with people—thousands, perhaps tens of thousands—all gathered for the King’s birthday celebration.

A month earlier, newspapers had announced that for three days before and after His Majesty’s birthday, there would be grand music and swordsmanship competitions. The highlight for many, however, was the free food distribution every afternoon at 5 p.m.

Even more enticing was the lottery, with a grand prize of 3,000 livres. For just 1 sol, anyone could buy a ticket.

On the King’s birthday, His Majesty would personally announce the winning number and present the prize in public.

The promise of such riches had stirred Parisian enthusiasm. Nearly everyone with spare money had bought a ticket, and some had purchased multiple or even dozens to increase their chances.

Though the celebration hadn’t officially started, the square was already bustling with vendors selling snacks and toys, as well as street theater troupes performing outdoors. The festive atmosphere made people momentarily forget the hailstorm that had devastated 65% of France’s agricultural output earlier that year.

Inside a ground-floor hall of the palace, a slightly plump official sitting behind a wooden table glanced at his watch. Standing up, he reached to remove a wooden sign labeled “Swordsmanship Competition Registration.”

At that moment, a slim young man with a low-brimmed hat approached and politely stopped him, speaking in a peculiar voice:
“Please wait—I’d like to register.”

“Oh, just in time,” the official said, sitting back down and picking up his pen. “You must register for yourself; no proxies allowed. May I have your name?”

“Jean-François Henry de Fraise.”

The official quickly jotted down the name, stamped the registration slip, and handed it to the young man.

“Please keep this as proof of registration, Viscount Fraise.”

“Thank you,” the latter replied, taking the slip and turning to leave.

Just then, the official seemed to recall something. Reaching out, he called after the man:
“Wait! Did you say you’re Viscount Fraise?”

The young man ignored him, lowering his head and walking faster.

“Stop him!” the official shouted.

Three guards immediately surrounded “Viscount Fraise,” blocking his path.

Approaching with a suspicious look, the official asked:
“Would you mind removing your hat, please?”

Reluctantly, “Viscount Fraise” took off the tricorn, offering an apologetic smile.

A charming face, radiant with a sweet smile, revealed that the “young man” was clearly a beautiful young lady.

“As expected! You’re Viscount Fraise’s sister, Miss Solène. You can’t do this,” the official said, extending his hand. “This is a competition for gentlemen—hardly suitable for a lady as lovely as yourself. Now, please return your registration slip.”

“But if I don’t compete, who will win the championship?” Solène replied with a sly smile.

Before anyone could react, she suddenly pulled the left guard’s arm, hooked his ankle with her boot, and darted to the left as he lost his balance.

The stumbling guard blocked the view of the others, and by the time they gave chase, she had vanished into the stairwell after only two turns.

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