Chapter XIV: The Roundup

The air inside the carriage thickened with dread as Gizo's expression twisted in disbelief. His voice, once a smooth instrument of command, now cracked as he looked wildly at Vallian.

"Control your man!" he hissed. "What nonsense is this?"

But his voice was drowned by reality.

The carriage lurched to a halt. Vallian offered no answer, only a miserable, trembling smile as if even he could not bear what was to follow. From beside him, the gaunt man leaned forward and pressed a dagger beneath Gizo's ribs. The Director's eyes widened in horror.

He bolted for the door—only to be seized by the throat and slammed back against the cushioned seat. He flailed. He shouted. He dared them:

"I am the Director of Paris Police! You have no right! No evidence!"

Then a calm, aristocratic voice sliced through the din.

"I am Ambroise de Hermann, in the service of Her Majesty Queen Mary. I have witnessed your confession. It shall serve as proof."

The door opened once more, and Alden, Joseph's inspector, stepped into view, pistol in hand.

"I was driving," he declared, voice sharp with anger. "I heard every word. And I will testify."

At that, Gizo fell silent, his bravado extinguished. He slumped in his seat, as if the weight of his treachery had suddenly become physical.

—

At the Saint Antoine District Police Station, the morning sun lit up banners and brass buttons as lines of newly uniformed officers paraded before the Crown Prince, their boots stamping out a rhythm of order in a place once steeped in anarchy.

Joseph nodded solemnly at the passing patrols, his youthful face serene beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. Around him, the air pulsed with restored discipline.

Alden, barely able to contain himself, had already recounted the capture of Gizo three times, but continued eagerly.

"Viscount Antony's men were brilliant—they took Gizo without a fuss. We raided his estate directly afterward. And by some twist of fate, I noticed a bulge in the headboard of his bed…" Alden grinned with satisfaction.

Joseph chuckled softly. "And there you found the notebook. You've earned your promotion, Inspector."

The notebook in question contained Gizo's dealings with nearly every major criminal faction in the district—names, payments, and more damning still, the methods by which he had undermined the very laws he swore to uphold.

Joseph wasted no time.

With his Royal Guard at the fore, he led an unprecedented two-day operation to round up the capital's most feared gangs.

Gang leaders and black-market profiteers, once untouchable, were flushed from their dens and dragged into daylight, blinking like rats from cellars.

Some fled. Others fought. Those who resisted were swiftly put down.

Citizens, emboldened, took up cudgels and stood beside the constables, barricading alleys and cheering arrests. For the first time in memory, the people of the Saint Antoine District felt the law was theirs.

The jails filled quickly. Overflow was sent to the Bastille.

News spread like wildfire.

—

Across town, on White Iris Street, a weary man with sunken cheeks and ink-stained fingers stood outside a grocery, notebook in hand. He watched as a chain of bloodied criminals was led past by a detachment of royal troops.

He frowned, then turned to the shopkeeper.

"Are they political prisoners?" he asked with practiced cynicism.

The shopkeeper scoffed, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a scar. "Those aren't prisoners. Those are scum. Viper Gang. Used to bleed this street dry. Five livres a month from every shop, like a tax." He spat. "Now they're getting what they deserve, thanks to the Crown Prince."

The man with the notebook paused. "And the new police force?"

"Praise be for them too," the shopkeeper said, eyes alight with feeling. "They don't take bribes. They protect us. Can you write that down? Put my name in your paper."

The man—Jean-Paul Marat, editor of L'Ami du Peuple—scribbled furiously.

A few more interviews followed. One by one, the stories aligned.

And something inside the hardened journalist shifted.

"I've never seen the Royal Family do this," he whispered to himself, staring at the sealed precinct across the road. "Not in all my years."

He returned to his lodgings before dusk and penned a headline with a mixture of disbelief and respect:

"The Crown Prince's Police Reform Achieves Remarkable Success – Saint Antoine Purged of Vice."

—

Three days later, a caravan of gray carriages moved westward along the Seine's northern bank, bound for the Palace of Versailles.

Inside one, Joseph sat hunched with a blanket over his lap, coughing quietly as the wooden wheels clattered against the stones.

His head throbbed from the relentless motion.

"I need to invent suspension," he muttered bitterly. "And rubber wheels. This is no way for a man to travel—not even a prince."

His attendant, Eman, said nothing, only passed him a warm handkerchief and adjusted the window shade.

The summons from the King and Queen had arrived the day before—formally requesting Joseph's return to report on his "extraordinary triumph in restoring peace." Joseph had smiled as he read it, for he knew full well the truth:

"They just missed me," he murmured with affection. "And needed an excuse."

Still, it came at a perfect moment.

Joseph never intended to remain at the police station forever. His true ambition had always been to save France—its finances, its government, and ultimately, its monarchy. His criminal reforms had won him applause—but now he would turn that acclaim into influence.

It was time to knock on the doors of the Treasury.

He looked down at the papers resting on his knee—Gizo's full confession, obtained under the firm but legal hand of the Royal Police.

With it, Joseph now had the names of corrupt ministers, crooked guards, and every thread connecting Paris's criminal underworld to the rotting structures of government.

Had Similion not made that single financial error, depositing his dirty funds under his real name, none of this would have been possible.

One misstep. And the edifice came crashing down.

Joseph smiled faintly, despite his fatigue.

"I suppose," he whispered to no one in particular, "I should send him a thank-you letter."