Chapter VII: Reformation from the Ground Up

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the desk as Joseph—Crown Prince of France and newly appointed Police Commissioner of the Saint Antoine District—continued leafing through the dismal police records before him. With every line he read, the scale of the rot became clearer.

Four months of unpaid wages.

Paris had promised to fund twenty percent of the salaries. The Chamber of Commerce, another eighty. But the merchants, greedy and often uncooperative, delayed payment at every turn. And so the officers—those few still inclined to serve with integrity—were left impoverished, bitter, and desperate.

Sixty men tasked with safeguarding eighty thousand souls, unpaid and unsupported. It was no wonder that twenty-eight murders had occurred in a single month. What man would risk his life for nothing?

Joseph sat back in the worn chair of the Commissioner's office, shook his head, and dipped his pen in ink. The answer to this chaos lay in people—disciplined, accountable, motivated people. And so, over the course of several hours, he drew up a document—five dense pages of structure, reform, and policy, drawn from the wisdom of centuries yet to come.

At the top of the first page, in bold, he had written:

"Reorganization of the Police Forces of the Saint Antoine District."

With that, he summoned his assistant.

"Bono," he said firmly, "have all officers and civilian patrolmen of the district assemble tomorrow at dawn, here, at headquarters."

"All of them, Your Highness?" Bono's eyes widened.

"Every man," Joseph said. "I will arrange reinforcements from other districts to cover patrols."

"As you command."

Then Joseph turned to his loyal steward. "Eman, I require twenty thousand livres from my private treasury. At once."

"Yes, Your Highness."

The following morning, as the first golden light touched the rooftops of Paris, the square before the police headquarters swelled with bodies—nearly four hundred men stood in uneven lines: officers, patrolmen, veterans, rookies, and volunteers. Most had never seen a prince in person, let alone been summoned by one.

Atop a wooden platform, flanked by guards and banners, Joseph appeared in his red double-breasted uniform and feathered tricorne, the very picture of youthful nobility.

Drums rolled.

At precisely nine o'clock, Joseph raised his hand, commanding silence. The square stilled.

"I will speak only briefly," he said, his voice ringing clear across the crowd. "Three matters alone require your attention."

He paused to meet their eyes—young and old, worn and hardened, poor and proud.

"First—as of this moment, every member of the civilian patrol corps shall be inducted into the official police force of the Saint Antoine District. None shall be forced, but all are welcome. Your courage deserves recognition—and power."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Shock. Disbelief. Then—uproar. The patrolmen, who had for years been mere volunteers, organizing out of necessity, had been elevated to officers with a single sentence. And all without paying a single livre—when purchasing a commission cost five hundred.

Joseph silenced the crowd with a raised palm.

"Second, we shall implement a structured hierarchy, similar to the military. Officers shall be ranked and evaluated: Police Officer, Inspector, Chief. Each rank holds three grades. Promotion shall be earned through merit and evaluation."

He gestured toward the wooden chests beside him. "Here lies twenty thousand livres, and it shall be distributed—today. Salaries shall begin at eighteen livres for trainee officers. First to third grade: twenty-two, twenty-five, and thirty. Inspectors shall begin at forty. And henceforth, pay shall be made in coin, on time, every month—without fail."

The square erupted.

Men who had gone hungry now glimpsed not just wages, but advancement. Thirty livres was the pay of a government clerk. Twenty-two would feed a family. And there would be no more docked pay, no more silent months. Their toil had value again.

Some wept. Others clenched fists in silent oath.

"Third," Joseph called above the roar, "a new performance review system shall be enacted. Each man's promotion, bonus, or demotion shall depend upon real service—crime rates, emergency response, public complaints. Good work shall be rewarded. Failure shall not be ignored."

He paused again, surveying the men.

"This is your city. You will be its shield. You will uphold order—not with cruelty, but with justice. The reorganization shall begin today and be completed within ten days."

He raised his hand.

"Allons-y."

The response was thunderous.

"Yes, Your Highness!"

Cheers turned to chants—"Long live the Crown Prince!"—and some among the former patrol corps cried openly, stunned that a man of the court would care so deeply for the forgotten. They saw him now not merely as heir to the throne, but as a savior, their hope incarnate. In the eyes of these rough men, he gleamed like the saints in stained glass—real, radiant, and rare.

Joseph's guards moved quickly, assigning supervisors and forming squads. Evaluation stations were erected in haste, with the sorting and testing of every man commenced before midday.

In an age where favoritism ruled and merit was ignored, his reforms were nothing short of revolutionary.

Where others saw chaos, he saw structure. Where others tolerated failure, he offered consequence and reward. In centuries to come, France would speak of Napoleon's reforms—but long before Bonaparte ever set his hand to the gendarmerie, it was Joseph who built the modern force.

Two days passed.

And across the Saint Antoine District, change began to stir.

At the corner of every major street, wooden boxes appeared—each marked with painted letters:

"Police Complaint Box — Reviewed Daily by the Police Commissioner"

Beneath the inscription, a note read: "Drop your complaint or concern. A response shall be issued within three days. Results posted publicly."

And in the marketplaces, in crowded squares and alleys, new security pavilions were rising—simple wooden stands manned by uniformed officers. No longer did the people have to wander to headquarters to seek help. The police now came to them.

Those who had long despaired began to hope.

And in the teeming slums of Saint Antoine, a whisper spread on every lip:

"The Crown Prince has come."

"And he does not come to dine or dance."

"He comes to work."