The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 111

Chapter 111: The Fashion Show

“Mr. Baltasar, you can't just focus on looks.” Joseph whispered to his fashion designer, “They are here for the runway, not for a ball.”

He pointed toward the giant runway on the square: “You see, when the guests gather in the audience, all they will notice are the models' figures, their postures, and the clothes they wear, while their faces will be barely visible.”

Baltasar nodded repeatedly. He had only just begun to understand these things like "runway" and "catwalk" over the past two days, and he was still quite lost.

Recently, the buzz around Fashion Week was reaching a fever pitch, and the entire city of Paris was talking about it.

When the advertisement for recruiting models for Fashion Week was published in the newspapers, the women of Paris were immediately stirred—entering the magnificent old royal palace, wearing the latest beautiful fashion, under countless lights, all the attention of Europe's upper class on them, and receiving high compensation—who wouldn't be moved by this?

Yes, in this era, there was no such profession as a fashion model, so Joseph had no choice but to hold an open audition from the public.

In an instant, words like "model" and "runway" became the most popular terms among Parisian women. Whether they were actresses, singers, fallen women, or even noble young ladies, as long as they were somewhat confident in their appearance and figure, they were eager to try their luck at the Tuileries Palace.

After several rounds of preliminary selection by Baltasar, these dozens of women were among the best of the applicants.

Joseph looked at the models in front of him, whose movements were stiff or deliberately flaunting their “cleavage,” and couldn’t help but sigh. He stood up, clapped his hands sharply to get their attention, and then did the thing he most dreaded but had no choice but to demonstrate—showing the catwalk himself.

“Watch carefully, the second step should land here.” His scalp tingled with embarrassment, but he had to press on, “Lift the knee first, swing the lower leg out, then the next step…”

“Don’t use too much force with your arms, just let them hang naturally…” Not like that, I didn’t mean for your arms to just go limp! Never mind, put your hands on your hips.

“Don’t look around too much, let your gaze go blank…”

Although Joseph didn’t really know this himself, he had at least seen countless Victoria’s Secret runway shows in his previous life, so he could still manage to pick up a few pointers.

After he did a round of the catwalk, the models immediately applauded him warmly.

Joseph, with a darkened face, sat back down in his chair and weakly said, “Whoever masters it first can be promoted to coach with double the pay.”

Under the lure of money, the models immediately took things seriously, and several noble young ladies with dance experience began to get the hang of it. Their movements started to look somewhat decent.

Joseph allowed them to practice on their own and then turned toward the male model group on the other side of the hall, raising his hand to signal, “Please, gentlemen, try walking for us as well.”

Dozens of handsome French young men immediately stretched their long legs and, with their high heels, walked the catwalk with a grace and allure that far outshone the women beside them.

“Stop…” Joseph felt a sharp pain in his chest, “Not like this! This is the female walk…”

A daring blonde handsome man immediately remarked, “Your Highness, weren’t you walking like this just now?”

Joseph shot him a murderous glance to silence him, then turned to his captain of the guard, “Viscount Kessold, please show us how it’s done, just like you do when you take a walk in the gardens of Versailles.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Kessold hurriedly stepped to the center of the hall and walked forward with his chest out and head held high, full of vigor and strength.

Joseph looked at the male models: “Please practice like this.”

Under a construction shed on the Tuileries Palace Square, the head of the Fashion Week organizing committee was intently watching the western hall. There, dozens of beautiful women dressed in gorgeous gowns walked across the wooden stage one after another, their gazes like flowing water, their postures enchanting, their grace captivating.

He unconsciously swallowed a gulp, turning to the president of the Chamber of Commerce beside him, “Viscount Fresselles, what are they doing over there?”

“I hear it’s a new way to showcase fashion, invented by the Crown Prince himself, called a ‘runway show.’” Fresselles answered casually, but inwardly, he couldn’t help but marvel at how the Crown Prince, at such a young age, had come up with such a bold, ah, brilliant idea. With this kind of fashion show, this year’s Fashion Week would surely shock all of Europe.

…

“That despicable, shameless bastard Briand!” Viren slammed the letter in his hand down on the table with a loud bang, “I swear! One day, I will tear you apart with my own hands!”

His attendants, hearing the noise, hurriedly knocked on the door and peeked in, “My Lord, are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Leave me!” Viren shouted at them, his face colder than the snow outside the window.

The letter was from the Duke of Orléans. From the date, it seemed that it had been sent the day after he had left Paris. But the mailman had clearly not caught up with him, and it wasn’t until he stopped in Smolensk that he finally received the letter.

The letter contained only a few lines, informing him that the Anglo-French trade negotiations had officially begun. The negotiators were Briand and the Minister of the Interior, Count Nicoll.

Viren’s teeth ground together with a creak as he remembered how he had asked Briand just half a month ago when the trade talks would start. Briand had told him that some of the financial data needed for the talks wasn’t ready and that it would take a long time to prepare.

Then he had been sent to Russia to express France’s “concern” about the Russo-Turkish War.

And now, just as he had left, the Anglo-French trade talks had already started.

What made him even more furious was that the person representing him in the negotiations was that useless “transparent minister,” Count Nicoll!

After a long while, he slumped into a chair, exhausted. The distance from here to Paris was over 2,000 kilometers, and even if he rushed back immediately, by the time he arrived in Paris, the treaty would surely already be signed.

What awaited him would be nothing but ridicule from the entire Paris political scene.

The firewood in the fireplace crackled loudly, and the flames burned brightly, but Viren felt an intense chill down to his bones. He knew that his political career was probably over…

…

On the Seine’s right bank, at Mirabeau’s villa.

Mirabeau hadn’t expected the Crown Prince to visit suddenly. Therefore, when he went out to greet him, he was somewhat flustered: “Oh, it’s such a pleasure to see you, Your Highness.”

He stepped back a half-step with his right foot, his right hand pressed to his chest, and bowed respectfully.

Joseph smiled, “I’m happy to see you too, Count Mirabeau. Actually, I’ve come today because I need your assistance with something.”

Mirabeau personally opened the large door for him: “As you know, Your Highness, I’m always eager to be of service to you.”

Once inside the parlor, Mirabeau gestured enthusiastically to a cup of red tea that the maid had just brought over, “Your Highness, please try this, it’s just arrived from the Far East, it’s nothing like the cheap Indian stuff. Oh, by the way, what would you like me to do for you?”

“Thank you for the tea. The taste is quite wonderful.” Joseph lifted the fragrant tea cup and nodded toward Mirabeau. He then added, “Perhaps you’ve heard that the government is promoting potatoes nationwide.”

Table of content - Next Chapter >>>