Chapter VI: A Minor Post, A Great Burden

Dawn broke gently over Paris, bathing the Seine in pale gold and stirring the smoke-smeared rooftops of the sleeping city. Within the City Hall, the rotund figure of Commissioner Levebelle bustled through the corridors with a purposeful gait and a well-practiced smile.

Spotting the Viscount Freselle approaching, he lifted his plump hand in greeting.

"Ah, my dear Freselle," he called, "a word, if you please."

After the usual exchange of pleasantries, Levebelle leaned in with a tone that was casual, but clearly rehearsed.

"And what did you think, yesterday, of the Crown Prince's little feat of deduction?"

Freselle exhaled through his nose, brows raised in genuine wonder. "Extraordinary. The boy's mind is quick as flint and sharp as a blade. If such brilliance holds, he may yet lead France to glory."

Levebelle smiled knowingly. "Then perhaps… we ought to let the boy begin his service."

"Surely you do not mean—?"

"The Saint Antoine District," Levebelle replied smoothly. "Police Commissioner Similion has taken an extended leave, and His Highness seems eager to prove himself."

Freselle stiffened slightly. "Saint Antoine? That place is lawless."

"Come now," Levebelle murmured in a low voice, "he will not be patrolling the streets. We retain full control, and he'll tire of the position soon enough."

Freselle frowned, but after a long pause, he gave a small nod. It would do no good to oppose the Crown Prince openly. Better to allow him the title and the chaos both.

Later that morning, young Joseph stepped through the marble halls of the Hôtel de Ville, fresh from a night's rest and unaware of the trap set for him.

The mayor, waiting with open arms and a beaming face, greeted him as though greeting the sun itself.

"Your Highness! Fortuitous timing! It happens that the Police Commissioner of Saint Antoine District has fallen ill and taken leave. Might Your Highness be inclined to accept the post?"

Joseph paused, surprised. "Saint Antoine?"

Freselle's eyes widened in alarm. He turned and whispered urgently, "You didn't say it was that district. It's… volatile. If anything were to happen—"

Levebelle waved the concern away like a gnat. "He shall be well guarded. Merely a title. A gesture."

"Indeed," the mayor added aloud with a jolly smile, "and the staff there are all seasoned and competent. You need not worry."

Joseph considered this. He had no illusions: they had opposed him firmly just yesterday, and now had turned gracious without warning. Too easy, he thought—but the post itself was no small matter. The Commissioner oversaw an entire district's police operations, second only to the Director himself.

And if he wished to reform Paris, he could hardly ask for a better start.

"Very well," Joseph said evenly. "I accept."

Levebelle, eyes gleaming, bowed with theatrical flourish. "A wise choice, Your Highness. We shall escort you to your new command at once."

Accompanied by Director Gizo and a modest retinue, Joseph set off toward Saint Antoine.

The further east they traveled, the more Paris seemed to decay before their eyes.

Here, the buildings leaned like drunkards, their stone facades eroded and patched with grime. The streets narrowed, winding through a sprawl of makeshift shacks, many of them occupied by those whose scent arrived before their bodies.

Eyes stared from shadowed corners—hollow, hungry, defeated.

Shops stood shuttered. Bread lines formed near broken fountains. The only real trade seemed to be prostitution and the shakedowns carried out in public view. Gang skirmishes spilled blood openly onto the cobbled streets, and the common folk—far from outraged—barely looked up. No constable was in sight.

"Appalling," Joseph murmured, gazing out of the carriage.

Director Gizo, however, seemed unbothered, continuing with a cheerful tale about an upcoming masquerade.

Joseph's heart sank. No wonder the Revolution was born here, he thought grimly. If I had lived here, I'd have wanted to burn the world down too.

An hour passed before the carriage clattered to a halt.

They had arrived.

The police station of Saint Antoine was no bastion of law. It was a dismal little yard encircled by broken planks, a squat structure of crumbling stone and rotting timbers. Not even a sign hung to declare its purpose.

Gizo dismounted first, gesturing with practiced grace. "Your Highness, we have arrived."

A constable within the yard caught sight of him and darted inside. Moments later, several officers emerged in disheveled haste, forming an awkward greeting party.

Gizo turned to them, clearing his throat loudly.

"Gentlemen, you are honoured today. His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince, shall henceforth serve as your Police Commissioner."

An aide held up the appointment decree.

The assembled men gawked, stunned into silence. A prince? Here? Among them?

A tall, gaunt man stepped forward after a long moment and bowed. "Your Highness, I am Bono, Assistant Commissioner. On behalf of us all—welcome."

He gestured to the others. "This is Magone, security supervisor of the second squad, and here is the supervisor of the third…"

The introductions were swift. Joseph returned each bow with gracious formality.

As Bono led him inside, Magone stepped alongside and said with genuine warmth, "We heard about the case, Your Highness. Solving a murder in mere minutes—remarkable. We were… humbled."

Joseph gave a modest nod. "Thank you, but I was only doing what was necessary."

Inside, the police station's interior was even more decrepit. The wooden floor creaked with every step, the ceilings leaked in patches, and the walls bore years of grime. As they entered the Commissioner's office, Joseph paused, glancing at the policemen who had trailed him closely.

"That will do," he said. "Please return to your posts. I must speak with Assistant Bono privately."

Even Gizo was politely dismissed.

At last, the door closed behind him. Joseph took in the modest chamber—the dusty shelves, the ink-stained desk—and sat.

Bono, ever deferential, asked, "Would Your Highness care for tea? Or perhaps hot chocolate? I shall see to your dinner myself—"

"That won't be necessary," Joseph interrupted gently. "What I do need are reports. On our jurisdiction, our personnel, and our active cases."

The assistant's smile froze momentarily. "At once, Your Highness."

Minutes later, the documents were brought forth.

Joseph opened the first file, and his face grew grave.

Twenty-eight murders. Sixty-three robberies. Over two hundred thefts—all in one month.

And this, in a district of barely eighty thousand souls.

Those were only the reported crimes. He could not begin to guess how many had gone unspoken.

Turning to the personnel records, his brow darkened further.

Of the 181 officers assigned to Saint Antoine, 120 had purchased their positions outright. Only 61 had been properly recruited, inherited their roles, or entered through reputable channels.

Beyond that, there were roughly 200 volunteer civilian patrolmen. Brave men, no doubt, but powerless by law. They lacked weapons, authority, and support. Their very presence was a reminder of what had failed.

Joseph sat back, absorbing the weight of it all.

So this is what they've given me.

A district drowning in blood. A force bloated with corruption. A city poised on the edge of revolt.

He steepled his fingers.

It was worse than he had imagined.

But it was exactly where he needed to be.