Chapter 252: The Scent of Death
"Thank God!" Fouché leaped out of the carriage, his mind replaying the last words the Prince had said to him before leaving Paris: "Go all out; this might be the most glorious moment of your intelligence career."
"Yes, the most glorious moment!" He licked his lips, like a beast about to feast on its prey. He strode toward the wooden house, turning to the Police Bureau officer beside him. "Can we start tomorrow?"
"Yes, sir," the officer nodded immediately. "The speeches began two days ago. People are already at a boiling point."
Fouché suddenly remembered Necker's underground escape tunnel and frowned. "Did you check if there were any tunnels around here?"
"That's difficult to confirm, sir. But the Count of Tiolle rarely stays here, so he probably hasn't made many preparations. Plus, we've stationed our men in the surrounding buildings."
The officer paused for a moment, looking at Fouché. "Sir, there's another problem."
"What is it?"
"The Duke of Orléans has over a hundred well-trained guards. If there's a confrontation, even a thousand rioters might not be enough to overpower them."
Fouché frowned. "What about our men?"
"We've brought in over 60 people from the Police Bureau. But you know, sir, our men aren't trained for direct combat. We can't count on the secret police either."
Fouché entered the ground floor hall. The busy Police Bureau agents stood at attention and saluted him. Fouché casually tipped his hat, then walked straight to a map of Armor city on the wall, studying it intently. Still, he shook his head slightly.
"No, there has to be a way..." He paced back and forth, catching a glimpse of a lighthouse's light in the distance. Suddenly, he stopped, a smile of excitement curling his lips. "Of course, this is Brittany! There are ships and shipyards everywhere. We should be able to find one of those."
He immediately summoned the officer in charge of the operation and whispered a few instructions. The officer looked shocked but hesitated, saying, "We might be able to find one, but... our men probably aren't familiar with how to use it."
"No matter," Fouché smiled. "This is Brittany; it shouldn't be hard to find experienced sailors or retired soldiers among the locals."
The following afternoon.
The process was familiar by now: a speaker began gathering the townspeople, while others in the crowd explained the contents of the pamphlets.
"When someone warned the Count of Tiolle that this might cause bread prices to skyrocket, do you know what he said?" The young speaker waved his arms. "He said, 'If they can't afford bread, let them eat straw!'"
"That devil!" The crowd erupted in furious roars. "He should be the one eating straw!"
"He's a murderer!"
"Kill him!"
The people of Brittany were known for their toughness and stubbornness. A couple of centuries ago, piracy had even been a major industry here. The "Iron Helmets" gang members, already in place, took the lead in urging the crowd toward the Count of Tiolle's estate. He was number 30 on Joseph's "deck of cards," the "Eight of Spears"[Note 1].
As expected, the 1,300 angry citizens were stopped at the estate's gate by a formation of over sixty guards, standing in two rows with their gleaming Charleville 1776 muskets aimed at the crowd.
No one dared to approach—but neither did they want to leave. The citizens stood their ground, encircling the estate's entrance and cursing continuously.
As the standoff dragged on, a group of women arrived with two carts.
They pulled back the straw covering the carts, revealing dark, metallic cylinders underneath. Proudly, they shouted, "The 'Deerskin Boots' was about to be outfitted with this, so we took it from the dock!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. About a dozen burly men strained to lift the wooden framework and metal tubes off the carts. Others expertly assembled the components.
A six-pounder cannon, commonly used on armed merchant ships, now stood proudly before the crowd.
"Who can use this thing?" asked one of the Police Bureau agents.
Before the words were fully out of his mouth, several men stepped forward.
"Leave it to me. I've handled this old friend for twenty years on a ship."
"I can do it too—I served in the artillery."
"And me..."
They quickly and skillfully loaded the cannon. The middle-aged sailor adjusted the elevation using a hammer and a wedge on the gun carriage. He squinted down the barrel toward the estate.
"Yep, that'll do it."
The crowd quickly parted to the sides, and only then did the guards at the gate notice the conspicuous black object about 150 paces away.
"It's a cannon!" the Duke of Orléans's guard captain cried out.
But before the guards could react, the young sailor had already pressed the linstock to the touchhole.
With a thunderous boom, flames burst out, and smoke filled the air. A six-pound iron ball hurtled through the guards' ranks, instantly tearing three men apart with its massive impact. Two more were knocked out by flying limbs.
The cannonball continued its trajectory, crashing into one of the estate's gate pillars and collapsing half of the gate. Shrapnel from the shattered stone killed two more guards and injured another's leg.
At 150 paces, this naval cannon needed little aiming; its flat trajectory ensured a high hit rate.
The remaining guards panicked and scattered, trying to avoid the cannon's deadly fire.
Less than a minute later, the air was shattered by another deafening boom.
This time, the cannonball didn't directly hit the guards; instead, it passed through the stone fence, bounced off the ground, and continued its deadly path, finally smashing into the villa's wall.
In the villa's second-floor study, the Duke of Orléans was discussing the ongoing conflict over "abolishing privileges" in Versailles with the Count of Tiolle and another noble. They were considering how they might exploit the situation for political gain.
Suddenly, they heard a distant explosion and jumped to their feet in surprise.
When the guard captain rushed in to tell them that rioters were using a cannon against them, another shudder ran through the villa, followed by the excited shouts of the mob outside.
After the third shot, the Duke of Orléans's guards finally broke and ran toward the villa. Even the most elite troops rarely had the courage to face cannon fire at such close range, especially with over a thousand rioters surrounding them.
The enraged citizens gave chase, catching the slower guards and beating them mercilessly.
The mob only halted when they reached the villa, stopped by the threat of gunfire from the windows.
"These people wanted to starve us, and now they want to shoot us!" someone shouted in anger.
"Let's break in! I want revenge for my child!"
"But they have guns..."
"Bring the cannon over here—let them see what it can do!"
The Duke of Orléans watched in shock as the rioters surrounded the villa. He stood at a window and shouted, "I am Louis-Philippe II, your Duke of Orléans..."
But the roaring mob drowned out his voice. No one paid any attention to the man in the blue coat at the window.
"Your Grace, it's too dangerous!" The guard captain hurriedly pulled him back into the drawing room.
Before long, the cannon was dragged to a position less than 200 paces from the villa. A few citizens quickly loaded it with gunpowder and a cannonball.
Boom!
The black iron ball, carrying the scent of death, flew straight toward the second floor of the villa.
[Note 1] In French playing card culture, the spade suit is referred to as "spears."
(End of Chapter)
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