Chapter 31: Overworked  

*The Count of Monte Cristo*, written by the great French author Alexandre Dumas, tells a story of revenge. It begins in Marseille, the destination of the *San Marino*, and for Sheffield, these two books became an indispensable diversion during the long journey. He felt that the protagonist's experiences mirrored the Old Master's mood. 

It was only when he calculated it that he realized—just because of one piece of legislation, the Southern states had lost $20 billion in labor. No wonder, even thirty years later, most Dixie people still harbored resentment whenever the topic came up. Thirty years ago, this was an astronomical sum. 

What couldn't you do with $20 billion? Why not buy ribs instead? After all, back then, labor was so expensive that it constituted almost the entire wealth of many Southern families. 

"In my lifetime, I'll earn $20 billion—if I live long enough, this number will increase," Sheffield set a small goal for himself but quickly dismissed it. What if he lived as long as the famous philanthropist Rockefeller? Considering inflation, this target might be a bit of a loss. 

"Forward, sons of France, the glorious day has come! Tyranny oppresses us, and our motherland groans in pain. The land cries out in agony—do you see those cruel soldiers everywhere slaughtering the people? They snatch your wives and children from your arms. Citizens, arm yourselves; citizens, fight to the death!" In his cabin, Sheffield hummed the French national anthem, *La Marseillaise*. He was nearing his destination, and barring any accidents, the ship would dock in two days. 

Sheffield indulged in his artistic side, completely disregarding how unfriendly *La Marseillaise* was to his class. He threw himself into it wholeheartedly, finding joy in entertaining himself. In this regard, he didn't need anyone's guidance. 

The recent conflict on board naturally hadn't settled quietly, but for the Secretary of State and his entourage, this was an internal issue of the United States. Moreover, Sheffield's youth served as excellent cover—it could easily be explained away as youthful ignorance. 

Besides, Sheffield, as a pillar of the nation, was a wealthy man with vast resources who could afford to make mistakes. A few minor errors weren't considered blunders. 

"If you're dissatisfied, the United States is a free country. You can curse the dark, corrupt, and ineffective government—it's no problem!" On the day before arriving in Marseille, Sheffield, being a man of his word, naturally returned the borrowed books to their owner. Borrowing meant borrowing—it wasn't robbery. 

As the ship slowly approached the shore, Sheffield changed his tone and raised his head proudly. "Cursing the United States or the federal government is fine—it's a natural right. But you can't curse me. The U.S. and the government are intangible concepts, but I am a person. If you dare to show dissatisfaction toward me, shooting you would also be my natural right." 

"Wish you a pleasant stay in Europe!" Sheffield tipped his hat slightly, adjusted his attire, and disembarked, surrounded by a group of black-gold employees. He never considered exerting influence over these ordinary passengers—they were beneath his notice, like insects too low to reach his knees. Why bother with them? 

At the port, representatives from Sheffield's French branch were already waiting. Though they were farmers, the Sheffield family had an international trade mindset. Agricultural products were the only U.S. goods that could freely enter foreign markets at the time. Rockefeller's oil subsidiaries in England were called Anglo-American Oil, and in Germany, they were called Deutsch-Amerikanische Petroleum Gesellschaft. Other companies had similar setups. 

Companies like Rockefeller's that could penetrate European markets were rare in this era. In this sense, Northern industrialists were less internationally minded than Southern plantation owners. 

"Hey, Cade!" John Connor walked ahead and embraced the man who had come to greet them, greeting him in French. "Looks like you're living comfortably in France." 

"It's just peaceful here—too peaceful. It's missing the excitement of life at sea," Cade replied with a slight shake of his head. His gaze fell on Sheffield. "Is this Master William? The train tickets to Paris are ready." 

"Thank you!" Sheffield nodded in gratitude, glancing back at the bustling dock. He had no interest in tourism—he considered travel a waste of time. He had no intention of lingering in the world-famous Marseille and wanted to board the train to Paris immediately. 

During this time, he stomped his feet hard. For the past month, all he'd seen was the sea, and underfoot had been nothing but the deck. The sudden sensation of solid ground felt unreal. 

Cade smiled without saying anything. He wasn't a talkative man. Though his hands weren't clean, he had a good temper and kept work separate from life. 

Paris, the Seine River, the Champs-Élysées—today's fame of Paris owed much to one man: Emperor Napoleon III. Though he may have tarnished the Napoleonic legacy somewhat, his urban planning contributions were significant. 

Sheffield believed the defeat in the Franco-Prussian War couldn't be blamed on him. After all, in later history, France would continue to lose to Germany—it was something to get used to. 

At a corner, John Connor followed the address and knocked on the door of a three-story apartment. Just as he began to doubt whether he'd come to the wrong place, a young woman in pajamas opened the door, her voice tinged with drowsiness. "Who are you?" 

John Connor stepped back and looked around. Had he made a mistake? He turned to look at Sheffield standing nearby. 

"Julie, who is it?" A well-groomed middle-aged man, also in pajamas, appeared. He glanced at the uninvited guests outside. 

"It's him!" Sheffield pulled out his pocket watch—ten minutes remained until 11:00 Paris time. Stepping past the crowd, he approached the man, sizing up the woman who had opened the door. He secretly smirked; she couldn't be much older than himself. 

After a flurry of activity, ten minutes later, Sheffield stood in front of a large mirror, suspiciously eyeing the patterns on it. Recalling the height and figure of the woman who had opened the door, he finally understood the meaning of the two faint circular marks. Truly, some men never grow old in spirit. 

---

"My dear son, why didn't you let me know before coming to Paris!" Harry Sheffield remained in his casual attire, holding a wineglass and flopping onto the sofa with an air of ease. 

"I couldn't reach you!" Sheffield, looking at the other man's self-assured demeanor, decided to tell the truth. 

Harry Sheffield nodded, downed the wine in one smooth motion, and savored the aftertaste. "You know, there's so much going on in Paris—it's overwhelming. Lately, it's worn me out." 

I don't really know about that? Sheffield thought. Being worn out must have another cause. 

(End of Chapter)