Chapter V: The Duke’s Countermove

It was Gizo, the stout and sharp-eyed Director of Police Services, who first sprang to action. Rising from the table, he gestured briskly to a subordinate seated near the end of the long hall.

"César," he called, "take several men and investigate—was there any dentist who visited Viscount Lenot in the days preceding his death?"

Joseph, thoughtful as ever, added, "And question the servant again. If a dentist did visit, the household staff would certainly know."

Gizo froze a moment—startled at the obvious detail he had overlooked—and then nodded with new urgency.

"You're right. César, speak to the servant. Use whatever means are necessary."

"At once, my lord!"

Outside, the woman's desperate cries had faded. Whether she had been dismissed by the guards or had heard word that the investigation would be reopened, none could say.

That evening, as twilight settled over Paris, the portly Mayor Levebelle returned to Joseph's quarters, trailed by a handful of officials and a strained smile. Before he could speak, César appeared at the entrance, leaned toward Gizo, and whispered hurriedly in his ear.

Gizo's brow arched. He turned toward Joseph, pressing one hand respectfully to his chest.

"Your Highness," he declared, "as you foresaw—Lenot's servant has confessed."

Gasps rippled among the men gathered.

Gizo continued, his voice resonant, "A dentist did indeed visit Lenot's home that very day. The servant, bribed with coin, concealed the truth and provided false testimony. He has now revealed everything."

The President of the Chamber of Commerce, eyes wide, asked urgently, "And the culprit?"

César stepped forward, face grim. "We traced the dentist to his lodgings. He was English. It appears his brother was slain by Lenot during the American conflict. He came to Paris seeking vengeance."

There was a moment of quiet. Gizo cleared his throat.

"During the pursuit… the man resisted arrest. César was forced to act. The murderer is dead."

Whispers rose like wind among the officials. They turned to look at the young Crown Prince with awe, for it was he who had, from a few mere remarks, pieced together a truth that trained men had missed.

The mayor, ever one to ride the winds of fortune, stepped forward and proclaimed loudly, "Praise be to Providence for the Crown Prince's unmatched discernment. Had he not intervened, the villain might yet walk free!"

Then, leaning toward his colleagues with a private grin, he added under his breath, "At last, that woman will stop haunting the city gates…"

That night, at the persistent urging of Viscount Freselle, Joseph consented to remain at the latter's private villa. The return to Versailles was long and cumbersome, and the day's events had left him drained in both mind and spirit.

In the quiet of a silk-draped chamber, Joseph lay upon the soft mattress, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. Though he had earned the officials' praise, both Freselle and Levebelle continued to resist his desire to formally oversee the police. Their excuses had grown more creative by the hour.

If they remain stubborn tomorrow, he thought grimly, I shall write directly to the Queen.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Your Highness, may I enter?" It was Eman's voice—ever composed.

"Come in," Joseph replied.

The steward entered, bowing slightly, and held out a folded letter. "Delivered by the police, Your Highness. From Miss Estelle, Lenot's betrothed."

Joseph's breath caught. "She wrote to me?"

Eman's voice dropped to a solemn register. "She… took her own life this evening, Your Highness. The letter was found shortly thereafter."

Joseph sat upright, the weight of her sorrow settling over him. He unfolded the parchment with care.

It began with effusive gratitude. She thanked César and the police for their service, but more than any name, she praised Joseph—her words pouring forth with reverence, calling him the one soul brave and noble enough to seek truth where others would not. She had wished to thank him in person, but her lowly station forbade it. And now that her beloved's death had been avenged, life held no more sweetness.

At the end, she wrote that she had no kin left in this world, and thus bequeathed all her earthly possessions—some four thousand livres—to the Crown Prince and the Paris Police.

Joseph folded the letter slowly, his chest tight.

"She truly loved him," he murmured.

"Yes, Your Highness," Eman said softly, "and she left behind a generous gift… but no one to receive her in turn."

Meanwhile, on the banks of the Seine…

At the edge of the city, where the waters of the Seine lapped darkly against stone, a grand residence stood—once the hunting lodge of the Sun King himself. Now, it belonged to the House of Orléans.

There, in a palace every bit as gilded as Versailles, the Duke of Orléans descended from his carriage. His boot heels struck the flagstones with practiced grace as he handed off his coat to a waiting servant.

From the gardens came the faint sound of voices—speeches, arguments, and oaths. The Duke smiled faintly. The gatherings here were no innocent salons; this was the breeding ground of revolution.

The palace had become a clandestine meeting ground for the disaffected: the nascent Feuillants, the Girondins, the Jacobins. Arms passed hands beneath its roof. Forbidden tracts were copied here. For decades, the Duke had cultivated discontent, sewing ambition into radicals and shielding them beneath his influence.

Now, his greatest threat wore velvet and carried a boy's smile.

Inside, the hall opened before him, and there—his son.

Young Philippe stood mid-rant, berating a maid who cowered beneath his fury.

"You dolt! I said no black tea! Do you want me burned alive?!"

The Duke cleared his throat.

"Philippe," he said coolly, "what is this fuss?"

The boy turned, rage still in his eyes. "It's Joseph! That wretched princeling! He must have cheated—he couldn't possibly solve university mathematics!"

The Duke's expression hardened as he drew the full account from his son. Lagrange had been impressed. Word of Joseph's success was spreading quickly. And with it, the Royal Family's prestige grew.

This cannot stand.

He soothed Philippe with soft words, then turned as the butler entered.

"My lord," the man said, bowing. "Monsieur Frouwa has arrived."

"Levebelle's man? Send him to the study."

Within that candlelit room, the Duke perused the document Frouwa presented. A smile curled at the corner of his lips.

He passed it to the butler beside him.

"The boy is clever, yes… but still just a child. Had he kept to the chambers of City Hall, I might have struggled to move against him. But police work?" He chuckled softly. "Ah, that is far more volatile."

The butler read swiftly and whistled low.

"Saint Antoine?" he asked.

The Duke nodded. "Exactly. A pit of squalor. Robbery, murder, rebellion. No administrator can tame it. Let him try."

He turned to Frouwa.

"Go to Levebelle. Tell him to appoint the Crown Prince as Police Commissioner of the Saint Antoine District."

Frouwa bowed and departed.

The Duke then walked slowly to the window, gazing down at the garden where revolutionaries murmured in the shadows.

He spoke softly, to no one in particular.

"Send word to Le Nouvelliste de Paris and La Gazette du Citoyen. Tell them to focus on the Saint Antoine District. Every theft, every murder, every failure. And make certain they name the man in charge."

He folded his hands behind his back, satisfied.

"Let the people see what a Crown Prince is worth."

He turned toward the night, his voice laced with venom.

"Let's see how that Austrian woman defends her son once the city turns against him."