Chapter 232: Famine

Chapter 232: Famine

The officers immediately frowned and looked toward the Duke of Orléans.

The Duke, however, just smiled and said, "The royal army is rapidly expanding. From what I've heard, they've recruited nearly a thousand new soldiers since returning to Paris.

"Now, if we include the Mulhouse Regiment, which has pledged loyalty to the royal family, and the Swiss mercenaries, the royal army has over ten thousand soldiers."

"You forgot the Flanders Regiment—oh, I mean the Paris Regiment now," Monnot added as he joined the conversation. "They've been cozying up to the royal family for a while."

"Thank you for the reminder. That brings the total to 13,000 soldiers," the Duke of Orléans said with a sidelong glance at War Minister Saint-Priest. "At this rate, the royal family will soon have a powerful army at their disposal, and you all will become irrelevant."

General Astou scoffed dismissively. "A force of just over ten thousand? That's not even enough to maintain law and order in France."

The Duke of Orléans smiled. "Do you know what kind of weapons Bertier's regiment is using?"

As he spoke, he pulled out an Auguste-type percussion cap musket, along with a small pouch of percussion caps, and tossed them to General Astou. These weapons, already in mass production, weren't too hard to obtain from the arsenal if you had the money.

After the officers examined the musket and took turns test-firing it, their expressions became serious.

"You gentlemen are experts, so you can surely see how much this weapon enhances the army's combat effectiveness," the Duke of Orléans said before the officers could argue. "But the real danger lies in the new promotion system that the royal family is implementing in the army."

"Promotion system?"

"Have you not heard?" The Duke of Orléans feigned an exaggerated expression of surprise. "In the royal army, commoners can be promoted to officers based on merit, with no limits—one could even become a general! And not only do they not have to pay a 'promotion fee,' but they also receive a handsome bonus."

The officers' faces turned cold at these words.

Such a system was essentially a threat to their very existence! Traditionally, they monopolized officer ranks based on bloodline and status. If commoners could now rise to the rank of general, their descendants might lose control over the military.

This would lead to the loss of vast amounts of income.

Monnot muttered just loud enough to be heard, "Oh, perhaps in the future, you'll be taking orders from some lowborn fellow, while he mocks you from the command post as you fight and bleed…"

"We cannot allow this!" General Astou roared. "The royal family is desecrating the traditions of the military!"

The other officers also began cursing, while Saint-Priest turned to the Duke of Orléans with a grave expression. "Your Grace, we've been looking for an opportunity to show the royal family the military's stance. But we need a trigger, like an enemy that the royal family can't handle."

"That opportunity is coming," the Duke of Orléans said loudly. "Soon, the royal family will find itself in deep trouble."

"Oh? What makes you so sure?"

Monnot replied, "Because a massive famine is about to hit, and when it does, riots will break out everywhere."

"Riots?" The War Minister shook his head. "A bunch of rabble won't pose much of a threat."

The Duke of Orléans chuckled. "If we 'manipulate' the situation a bit, things could turn out very differently."

He then outlined his plan, concluding, "This time, we even have the support of the Assembly of Notables. Yes, the royal family has gone too far recently, and everyone wants to correct the King's mistakes."

The eyes of the dozen or so officers around him lit up.

...

"I'm so stupid, really!"

In a simple carriage heading toward the Saint-Germain district at sunset, Sorel sat with her hands clasped tightly together, her head down as she berated herself. "I can't believe I thought those two were heroes for rescuing Celine and rashly begged the Prince to pardon them!"

She shook her slightly curly black hair in frustration. "The Prince probably thinks I'm in league with those two now…"

A handsome young man in his twenties, seated across from her, tried to console her. "Tulip, don't be too hard on yourself. Anyone could have been deceived. Besides, we'll soon have a chance to make up for this mistake."

Next to him, a tall, muscular man grunted. "Hmph, asking the royal scum for help was a mistake from the start. Why worry about what he thinks…"

Sorel immediately glared at him. "How can you say that about the Prince? You don't understand at all—he's completely different from the rest of the royal family. He's kind and has a strong sense of justice!"

The muscular man shrugged and turned away. "Fine, whatever…"

The handsome young man pulled back the curtain to glance outside. "Let's review the plan one more time. We're almost at the Bastille."

The carriage fell silent.

A few minutes later, two carriages pulled up one after the other at the street corner opposite the Bastille. Sorel and five young men got out, their eyes fixed on the ominous fortress.

"This might be the most dangerous mission I've taken on in years," a thin, red-haired man murmured.

"For the sake of fairness and justice, it's worth the risk!" the handsome young man quickly replied.

Sorel nodded. "Dusk is right! The Brotherhood always stands with justice!"

These were all members of the Brotherhood that Sorel belonged to. The Brotherhood, composed of nearly twenty nobles, enjoyed playing at being vigilantes in Paris. Though they were often seen as a bit melodramatic, they had genuinely helped many poor people.

A young man with a bow and arrow slung across his back looked at the sky and then turned to Sorel. "It's about time. Now it's up to you."

The girl nodded, pulled up her veil, and swiftly made her way toward the Bastille.

She moved with remarkable agility, quickly reaching the fortress walls under the cover of dusk. Using simple tools, she climbed up the wall like a lizard, staying in the blind spots of the patrolling guards until she reached a lookout window about ten meters up.

With a few quick movements, she opened the window—clearly, this wasn't her first time doing this—and climbed inside. She then lowered a rope from her waist out the window.

Before long, three of her Brotherhood companions had climbed into the Bastille's armory.

"Hurry! We've only got three minutes before the routine inspection," Sorel urged as they quickly changed into the military uniforms they had brought with them.

Sorel led the way through the corridors, sneaking into a storage room, then climbing through a window to the third floor. Taking advantage of the guard shift, they bypassed the officer's quarters and once again crawled through a window…

In the heavily guarded Bastille, Sorel used her natural skills to carve out a path.

After about ten minutes, filled with narrow escapes, the group finally reached the west side of the third floor, near the cell where the Malet brothers were being held.

Hiding behind a pillar at the end of the corridor, Sorel peeked around to see the two guards outside the cell, then turned back to the red-haired man beside her. "Fox Hunter, you need to distract those two guards."

He glanced at the cell and swallowed hard. "This looks really dangerous."

But, muttering something about "justice," he pulled a mask over his face and ran toward the guards. He wasn't suicidal—he knew that as the son of a famous count, his father would pay to bail him out if he got caught.

Seeing the unfamiliar figure, the guards immediately drew their swords and gave chase, shouting, "Intruder alert!"

Sorel quickly moved to the now-unprotected cell door. This time, she didn't pick the lock. Instead, she signaled to the muscular man. "Rock, it's your turn."

He nodded, pulled out an iron chisel, and smashed it against the lock.

With a muffled "thud," a crack appeared in the iron lock. One more hit would probably break it.

The small window on the cell door slid open, revealing the sharp, narrow face of a man inside. "Brother, someone's trying to break down the door. They don't look like guards."

"Step aside," another voice replied from inside, sounding suspicious. "Who are you?"

"Fox Hunter" immediately spoke in a gruff voice. "The boss sent us to get you out."

This was the Brotherhood's plan to make amends for their mistake.

After learning that Monnot's son couldn't be convicted due to insufficient evidence, they decided to stage a fake jailbreak, hoping to trick the Malet brothers into revealing useful information. And if that didn't work, they could always take them away for questioning.

But the man inside the cell was confused. "Did the Duke change the plan?"

"Duke?" Sorel, closest to the door, was stunned. Wasn't Monnot's son supposed to be the boss? How did a duke get involved?

Before she could think further, the sound of many footsteps came from the west staircase.

She was about to urge Rock to hurry when suddenly, a door down the corridor burst open. Seven or eight fully armed guards rushed out—it was clearly an ambush.

The group was shocked but quickly drew their weapons and engaged the guards in battle.

All of them were from noble families and had trained in swordsmanship since childhood. For a moment, they managed to push back the guards, despite being outnumbered two to one.

Just as they reached the end of the corridor and prepared to escape through the window, they heard the sound of over thirty gunlocks being cocked behind them.

Sorel slowly turned around, only to be met by the sight of more than thirty black gun barrels pointed directly at them.

A man with dead-looking eyes pushed past the guards and sneered. "We've been expecting you. Take them away!"

Three hours later, in the Bastille's interrogation room, Fouché frowned as he dropped the confession papers in his hand, glancing at the young woman in front of him. "Sorel? From the Fraise family?"

Sorel nodded nervously.

Fouché sighed. "So, you were planning to break the prisoners out?"

"No, sir, we just wanted to trick them into confessing…"

Fouché suddenly slammed the table in anger. "Do you know how long I've been setting up to catch the mastermind behind them? And now you've ruined it all!"

From his experience, he could tell that the young nobles he had just interrogated weren't lying.

Frustrated, he waved his hand at the guards, then turned to leave. "Lock them up for now."

As two guards dragged Sorel away, she suddenly remembered something and shouted to Fouché, "Wait, sir! I heard those two guys mention that their boss might be a duke."

"Oh?" Fouché immediately turned back.

...

In the Palais-Royal, the Duke of Orléans sat with a dark expression, looking at his steward. "Someone tried to break the Malet brothers out? Who?"

"We don't know yet," the steward replied, head bowed. "The Bastille only reported that there were four of them. Oh, and during the interrogation, they overheard someone mention a 'duke.'"

The Duke of Orléans' eyes narrowed, and after a moment of thought, he suddenly stood up. "Quick, start the operation across all regions."

The steward hesitated, then cautiously reminded him, "But sir, the northwestern provinces aren't fully prepared yet…"

"They might already be onto us. We can't wait any longer."

Pacing anxiously, the Duke added, "Prepare to leave Paris. And tell Monnot to get ready to go as well.

"Oh, and send the money for the military through bills of exchange from the Paris Discount Bank. We don't have time to funnel it through England anymore."

As the French National Bank gradually established its central bank status, it began regulating major French banks. The amount of "funding" promised to the military was enormous and would easily be noticed.

The Duke had originally planned to launder the money through an English bank, but now, with things changing so rapidly, there wasn't time.

...

In Provence, Nice, a group of poorly dressed workers braved the biting cold to reach the local strategic grain reserve, only to find nearly a thousand people already gathered there. They had all come after hearing from government grain sellers that no grain had arrived at the reserve.

The grain warehouse officials had no choice but to repeatedly assure the crowd, "All our grain has been sent to Montpellier. The warehouse is really empty right now. But don't worry, in just a few days, grain from Grenoble will arrive…"

A tall man with a scar on his face immediately interrupted, "Five days ago, you said the same thing. Where's the grain now?"

Another man beside him added, "The government has been saying all along that there's enough grain and there's no need to worry. It seems we've all been lied to!"

An elderly man, gaunt and shivering in his thin linen coat, pushed through the crowd with a ten-year-old boy, bowing low before the grain official. "Sir, the price of bread in the city has gone up to 22 sous per pound—we just can't afford it… Please, have mercy and give us some grain."

Normally, bread in Nice would cost no more than 10 sous per pound. For those who counted every sou to get by, this meant they had likely gone over half a month without money for food.

Footnote: Brotherhoods were originally guild-like organizations but gradually evolved into associations, typically made up of members with common interests or beliefs, and sometimes formed for social purposes. Members would support each other, elect leaders, and manage the group collectively. These were very common in the 18th century. (End of Chapter)

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