Chapter IV: There Is But One Truth

The carriage wheels groaned and jostled over the uneven stones as Joseph, Crown Prince of France, drew aside the velvet curtain. His brows furrowed immediately at the sight that greeted him.

This was Paris?

Since awakening in this strange new life, he had lived within the silken halls of Versailles, cloistered among chandeliers and scholars. This moment—this first encounter with the city of light—was jarring beyond measure.

Where he had expected grandeur, he found only grime.

The buildings were aged and leaning, coated in soot and filth. The streets were choked with mud and human refuse, mingled with stagnant pools and the fetid reek of decay. The Seine, once lauded in poems, now carried the bloated corpses of animals and ran brown with the poisons of riverside workshops.

Hawkers had set their stalls with abandon, blocking carriages and pedestrians alike. Children, bare-footed and wild, shrieked with mirth as they hurled clods of muck at one another. All around, coarse voices cursed, and in corners of shadow, fists flew freely. No one turned their heads at the sound of screams.

Even robbery occurred in the open—stopped only when Joseph's personal guards intervened. And this, he was told, was the Louvre District—the safest quarter in Paris.

No—it bore no resemblance to the romantic, enlightened capital that history books had once lauded, nor did it carry the fire of industrial promise. Versailles and Paris, though a mere ride apart, might as well have existed in different worlds.

The carriage rattled across the northern banks of the Seine, and at last came to a halt.

"Your Highness, we have arrived," said Eman, bowing low as he stepped down to open the door.

Joseph rubbed his aching side—his body not yet accustomed to the brutality of eighteenth-century travel—and descended the folding steps.

Before him stood the edifice of Paris City Hall.

It was an imposing fortress of stone and column, with arches tall as triumphal gates and statues glowering down from every ledge. Like a monarch's castle seated at the heart of the city, it proclaimed the majesty of the old order—though the stones were grimed with age.

A host of city officials had already assembled in the square. They had awaited the glinting silver of the royal carriage, but when instead three modest black carriages rolled up, confusion swept the ranks.

Paris Municipal Commissioner Levebelle, perspiring beneath his tricorn hat, was first to react.

"There!" he gasped. "The Crown Prince!"

He moved quickly for a man of his generous girth, legs spread wide to carry him forward with waddling urgency. The gathered officials followed, bowing in a quick cascade.

"Your Highness," Levebelle panted, bowing deeply, "what an honour."

The musicians, caught unready, scrambled to lift their instruments and offer a garbled welcome fanfare.

Levebelle turned to a sharp-cheeked man with a glinting gaze and said, "May I present Viscount Freselle, President of the Paris Chamber of Commerce."

Joseph's eyes lingered on the man. He had read of him already—though the Commissioner bore the title of mayor, it was Freselle who truly ruled the city. For in this debt-ridden realm, it was not the crown that held the purse strings, but the merchants who had grown rich from trade and connections. The Chamber's coin now kept the wheels of governance spinning.

Freselle stepped forward with a florid bow. "Your Highness, a luncheon has been prepared in your honour. We hope you will grace us."

Joseph gave a measured nod. "You are most gracious."

Though he found the endless feasts and toasts of this world wearisome, etiquette demanded his presence. And so he entered the grand hall.

Within, the city hall's banquet space glittered with chandeliers and echoed with cheer. Servants swept through with trays of roast fowl, sugared almonds, and jellied fruits, ever replacing cooled dishes with steaming fare.

Joseph moved among officials, accepting compliments and hollow praises, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind returned to a single topic: the Paris police.

The rot he had seen on the streets could not be ignored. If France were to be saved, law and order must first be restored.

"Does Your Highness intend to involve himself in police matters?" Commissioner Levebelle asked, his smile faltering.

Freselle exchanged a quick glance with him and hastened to add, "Your Highness, your status is far too exalted for such lowly matters. Let the constables chase the thieves—it is no work for royalty."

Inwardly, both men bristled. This was meant to be ceremonial, they thought. He was to come, accept praise, and leave. Not… interfere.

Joseph was opening his mouth to respond when a shrill voice pierced the gathering from beyond the doors:

"No! Lenot did not kill himself! You must find the murderer!"

The voice trembled between anguish and song. "He was to be my husband! We were to marry next month! How could he…? I beg you—do not let the killer walk free!"

A flicker of rage crossed Levebelle's face. "Her again?" he muttered.

Freselle waved frantically to the guards. "Remove her! Can you not see His Highness is present?"

Turning back with an ingratiating smile, he said, "Do forgive the disturbance, Your Highness. She is… quite mad."

Joseph ignored him. "She spoke of a murder. What happened?"

The mayor coughed. "A tragic affair. A month past, her betrothed—Viscount Lenot—took his own life. A sword to the throat. It was quite clear-cut."

"Suicide by… swallowing a sword?" Joseph repeated, eyebrows raised.

A lean, narrow-eyed man seated to Levebelle's right answered with a certain authority. "Indeed, Your Highness. It is done thus: the blade's hilt is braced upon the floor, the tip placed within the mouth, and the body driven downward. A most final gesture."

This was Viscount Gizo, Chief of Police for Paris.

Seeing the prince's interest, he leaned forward, eager to explain.

"The Viscount was found by his manservant. No valuables were missing, no marks of struggle. There was but the single wound. And Lenot was a soldier, Your Highness—tall as a tree, strong as a bear. No man could have done such a deed to him without leaving signs of conflict."

"No suicide note?" Joseph asked.

"None," Gizo admitted, "but surely that proves nothing. The method alone makes it clear."

Joseph narrowed his gaze.

He had read of such cases in the novels of another time. A solitary wound and no missing items proved little—and a lack of note or motive demanded scrutiny.

"No," Joseph said softly, "there is one other kind of person who could have done it."

The mayor chuckled, waving a hand. "A magician, perhaps? Shall we blame the sorcerers now?"

Joseph's voice was calm. "No. I mean someone with knowledge… of teeth."

"Teeth?" Freselle blinked. "You mean… a dentist?"

"Yes. A dentist."

The room fell silent. One could almost see the image taking shape in their minds: Lenot seated calmly, mouth open, awaiting treatment. A white cloth draped across his eyes. The dentist, moving behind him—drawing the sword from the wall—one quick thrust…

Gasps spread like ripples in a pond.

"Impossible…" Levebelle muttered, suddenly uncertain.

Joseph looked each man in the eye.

"In this case," he said, "I shall investigate myself."