Chapter 238: A Covert Strike
The gang members glared angrily at the distant church and shouted to the crowd, "Don't be fooled by those priests! Their food will only last until tomorrow or the day after. If you don't want to starve, you have to rely on yourselves!"
According to their boss—who was actually a spy for the Duke of Orléans—today they had to incite a riot of at least 500 people to get paid. But now, they had only gathered about a hundred. There are always bad apples in any group, and even with food available, these people wanted to take advantage of the chaos and loot the homes of the wealthy. They had already stolen quite a bit over the past few days.
By 5 PM, the riot still hadn't attracted more than 200 people. The gang leader, frustrated and cursing, told everyone to disperse and led his men back to their hideout.
Across the street, a cobbler watched them leave, then quietly said, "They've left, sir."
"Hold on," said Prosper, disguised as a customer. He calmly put on his boots and waited a moment before signaling to the ten or so "citizens" nearby. "Follow your targets closely."
The others nodded discreetly and began tailing certain individuals in the rioting group from a distance. Prosper himself, along with two others, followed the gang members.
According to the Prince's instructions, the speed and spread of the riots indicated someone was orchestrating them behind the scenes. The core mission of the Police Bureau was to find out who was behind these riots. Agents were already stationed in the southern provinces, and Prosper was personally overseeing the situation in Montpellier, the area with the worst unrest.
The gang members entered a two-story building in the western part of the city. Prosper circled the building, noting that guards were posted at both the front and back doors. He was now 70-80% sure this was their base.
At 2 AM, the leader of the "Cadaver" gang, Seba, was rudely awakened with a gun to his head.
"Who are you?" Seba shouted, trying to sound tough despite his fear. "You'll regret messing with the Cadaver gang!"
"We're from the Nightfire gang," Prosper replied, stating the name of a notorious gang from the nearby Adigé area. These people would be useful, so a little performance was necessary.
"The Nightfire gang?" Seba stiffened, trying to maintain his composure. "This isn't your territory!"
Prosper smiled. "I heard you've made a lot of money recently. Honestly, I'm interested in that business."
Reluctantly, Seba, under the threat of a gun, revealed the address of the "big shot" they were working for—something he had discovered by secretly tailing the man.
After leaving, Prosper returned before dawn and announced to the Cadaver gang, "The business now belongs to the Nightfire gang. The big shot will deal with me directly. As for you lot, I'll pay you 2 livres a day. Deal or no deal?"
In reality, Prosper had already led the Police Bureau agents, with the help of secret police, to the hotel Seba had mentioned. There, they arrested two men and found over a thousand livres and riot plans in the room. The two suspects hadn't confessed yet, but it was clear they were orchestrating the riots in Montpellier.
Though Seba wasn't happy about the reduced pay, it was still decent money. So after the Nightfire gang promised not to encroach on their territory, he reluctantly agreed.
Prosper then ordered Seba to gather all his men for a big operation.
At the same time, similar scenes were playing out across the southern provinces of France.
The Church's efficiency was impressive, even surpassing that of France's bureaucratic system. The priests quickly distributed grain from their cellars, alleviating the food shortages, and the hungry masses began to disperse.
This was when the Police Bureau made its move.
The Duke of Orléans' private spies were no match for a state intelligence agency. Most of the riot organizers fell into the hands of the Police Bureau.
Northeastern France. Strasbourg.
Marshal François, also the Duke of Broglie, leaned back in his chair, gazing at the cypress trees in the sunlight outside. In his typically stern, military tone, he asked, "So, the riots in the south have been quelled?"
His son, Charles-Louis-Victor, hesitated before answering, "More or less, Father. There's still unrest in places like Foix and Béarn. You know, those places are prone to trouble even in good years."
In the southern border provinces of France, separatist movements were common. And in some of the more impoverished areas, even after the food shortages ended, people continued to greedily loot the homes of the wealthy.
Marshal François slowly nodded. "Has anyone followed the royal order?"
Charles-Louis-Victor knew he was referring to the order summoning the officers back to Versailles. "As far as I know, no one has, Father. It's obvious that leaving their posts would mean losing everything."
The Marshal sighed in relief, somewhat glad that he was too old and his son too inexperienced to get involved with the Marquis de Luckner's scheme. Although he had returned to his post to show support for the military group, he hadn't directly threatened the royal family, leaving some room for negotiation.
Gazing at the sunlight filtering through the trees, he was lost in thought for a long time before he shook his head slightly and said, "If this drags on, the Marquis de Luckner and his group will get bogged down. Is the outcome already inevitable?"
Decades of political experience finally helped him make a decision. He looked up at his son and said, "Victor, get ready. We're going to Paris."
His son was startled. "You're going to betray..."
The seventy-year-old Marshal shook his head. "I've always been loyal to the King. There's no betrayal. Oh, and don't forget to write to Versailles to inform them of our decision."
January 24, 1789.
In the Forez province of south-central France, less than 100 kilometers north of Montpellier, Joseph rode along a road, dressed in a new cavalry uniform, smiling and waving at the cheering soldiers lining the way.
After the Tunisian campaign, his horsemanship had improved significantly, and the calluses on his legs made riding much more comfortable—though riding was still tiring, it was far better than marching on foot. As for riding in a carriage, that was out of the question. To keep the army's movements hidden, they had taken remote paths where a carriage would have been more of a burden.
Thanks to the wooden rails already laid from Paris to Lyon, covering over a third of the distance, the Guard Corps had made impressive progress, marching up to 38 kilometers per day.
However, once the wooden rail ended, their speed dropped back below 30 kilometers per day, which was still remarkably fast.
The Moulins Corps, on the other hand, was struggling. Although they had gained some experience in Tunisia, they couldn't keep up with the pace. To prevent them from falling behind, André had to constantly maintain formation—the biggest obstacle to marching speed—almost shouting himself hoarse every day.
(End of Chapter)