Before the widespread use of chemical fertilizers, this could be considered the best method for humans to produce fertilizer, capable of maintaining soil fertility for years without the need for fallowing.
Although Europe had simple composting as early as the 17th century, it was all done by experience, mixing organics haphazardly and letting it sit for a while, resulting in rather mediocre fertility. It wasn’t until the mid-19th century, with scientific composting theories, that fertility gradually improved.
Joseph had learned about the basic principles of composting from documentaries in later generations, which is nothing more than a layer of organic matter plus a layer of soil, controlling moisture, and isolating air. Then turning the pile once a month, three months for maturation.
However, theory is one thing, how to operate specifically, and the proportions of organic matter and moisture, needed to be pondered by professionals.
Joseph entrusted this task to the Church.
Indeed, compared to inefficient bureaucrats, the Church was quite attentive in matters of public welfare. Having dozens of priests from different churches each work on composting with various ratios to observe the effects would determine the most suitable composting method. Then, it could be promoted nationwide.
The night deepened.
Alberic and two villagers followed the cart back to the village and then, lighting torches, unloaded the coal next to the pump.
The coal was transported from a small coal mine more than ten miles away. Such small coal mines were now everywhere. Recently, the government had issued the “Coal Mining Promotion Act,” encouraging the exploitation of coal mines and providing subsidies for mines that sold a certain volume of coal.
Since then, investors operating small coal mines with a few dozen people had sprung up like mushrooms after rain and coal prices had continued to drop. Now, if the villagers carried the coal themselves, the village could fully afford the small amount of coal consumed by the pump.
Watching the water flow illuminated by torches continuously pouring into the fields through the canals, although Alberic and the others were exhausted and sore, their faces were filled with smiles.
Obviously, the monthly eleven days of irrigation couldn’t cover all the cultivated land in the village, but it could at least preserve over sixty percent of the crops. Coupled with that supposedly magical stone fertilizer, they should be able to harvest enough grain to sustain the family through the autumn.
Labourn Parish was lucky. Limited by the production of steam engines in France, there were still many areas in urgent need of irrigation that, although they had submitted applications in accordance with the pump rental law, could only anxiously wait for the life-saving pumps.
…
In the eastern part of Tunisia, the City of Sfax.
A man in his thirties, with sunken eyes and a fine high nose, dismounted from a carriage and quickly entered a sugar shop on the street corner which clearly had a French style.
There were many French merchants in Tunisia, especially those high-end shops selling silk, sugar, and tea; many of them were owned by the French.
The shop owner glanced at him, then nonchalantly opened a door on the counter, allowing him to enter the back room.
Prosper from the Paris Police Department was seated inside, dressed in the typical Tunisian long robe in grey-white and wearing a golden bucket-shaped hat, idly playing with dates on a plate out of sheer boredom.
The man with North African features entered the room, and Prosper quickly tipped his hat to him, greeting in French,
“Fabien… ah, sorry, I should say Mr. Isaac, how’s the situation?”
Isaac first took several large gulps of water from the table before excitedly saying,
“I met that officer named Imanzad. He indeed knows Eunice, or rather, he admires him greatly.
“The most fortunate thing is, this Imanzad is about to retire and only holds a nominal position in the Tunisian Army.”
“How is that fortunate?” Prosper started to say but then stopped short, his eyes suddenly lighting up, “Are you saying he has ample time to make a trip to Algiers?”
“Exactly!” Isaac nodded, “Except he doesn’t seem to trust me enough yet, so he was reluctant to make any promises. Next, it’s time for our consul to take action.”
Prosper did not expect things to go so smoothly; they had been in Tunisia for merely ten days and had already made contact with one of Eunice’s former subordinates.
Of course, this was also thanks to Isaac, a member of the Police Department with North African ancestry—previously, his heritage often subjected him to discrimination. But here, his command of Arabic and familiarity with North African customs were considerable assets that helped him excel.
Prosper also gulped down several mouthfuls of water—without drinking enough before going out in this accursed place, dehydration would soon become unbearable—and pulled Isaac to head for the door,
“Let’s go find Consul Joan right now.”
Three days later, after several meetings between the French consul and Imanzad, the latter finally boarded a smuggling ship that had been waiting in the harbor with the agents of the Police Affairs Department.
They were to head directly to Dahra in Algiers to meet Eunice, who had left Tunisia more than thirty years ago.
…
Versailles Palace Square.
The place was crowded, and the square had likely gathered tens of thousands of people. They had all come from Paris to attend His Majesty the King’s birthday celebration.
A month ago, the newspapers had said that around three days before and after the King’s birthday, grand song and dance competitions and swordsmanship contests would be held. Of course, the most attractive event was the distribution of free food every afternoon at 5 o’clock.
Of course, many people had come for the lottery advertised in the newspapers as well, with a jackpot of up to 3,000 livres—just for the price of one sou, one could buy a ticket.
On the King’s birthday, His Majesty himself would announce the winning numbers and present the substantial prize money in public.
The Parisians were very interested in these kinds of get-rich-quick schemes. Most people with some spare money had bought a lottery ticket. Some, to increase their chances of winning, bought several or even dozens of tickets.
Although the festival had not yet begun, there were already numerous vendors selling snacks or small toys, and street troupes were performing in the open. Everywhere there was a festive and merry atmosphere. People had long thrown the hailstorm that had destroyed 65% of France’s agricultural harvest out of their minds.
In the hall on the first floor of the Versailles Palace, a slightly overweight official seated behind a wooden table glanced at his watch, stood up, and prepared to remove the wooden sign that read “Swordsmanship Competition Enrollment.”
Just then, a young man, rather slender and with his hat brim pulled down low, approached and politely stopped him, speaking in a strange voice,
“Please wait, I would like to sign up.”
“Oh, very well, you’ve come just in time,” the official had to sit back down in his chair and, taking up his pen, said, “You cannot sign up for someone else. Please tell me your name.”
“Jean-Francois Henri de Freze.”
The official quickly wrote down the name, stamped it, and then handed the slip of paper to him:
“Please keep your enrollment receipt safe, Viscount Freze.”
“Thank you,” the latter took the paper slip and turned to leave.
The official suddenly remembered something and called out to him:
“Wait! Did you say you are Viscount Freze?”
The young man did not answer, simply quickened his pace with his head down.
“Stop him!” the official in charge of enrollment shouted.
Three guards immediately surrounded the “Viscount Freze.”
The enrollment official walked over, looking at the registrant with a suspicious eye, and said:
“If you don’t mind, could you please take off your hat?”
“Viscount Freze,” with no other choice, took off his tricorn hat and showed him an apologetic smile.
She was clearly a beautiful lady with charming eyes and a sweet smile.
“As I suspected! You are Miss Soleil, sister of Viscount Freze, aren’t you? You really shouldn’t be doing this,” the enrollment official said, reaching out his hand, “This is a competition for gentlemen, fighting and killing is not suitable for a lady as beautiful as you. Now, please give me back your enrollment receipt.”
“But then, to whom shall the championship go, if not for my participation?” Soleil smiled slightly, and suddenly, with a powerful tug at the guard on her left, she hooked her boot around his ankle. Taking advantage of his loss of balance, she quickly slipped past him from the left side.
The guard ended up blocking the view of the opposite guard. The last guard hurriedly gave chase, but after circling the stairs twice, he had already lost sight of Soleil.
Meanwhile, in the center of the Marble Courtyard, the noble ladies’ competition was already in full swing on a wooden stage.
About five or six hundred nobles formed a fan shape around the stage, with Queen Mary at their center.
A row of soldiers stood behind them, keeping the thousands of commoners who were watching from the outer circle at a distance. The people of Paris had rarely had such an opportunity to witness noblewomen demonstrating their singing talent.
Suddenly, the nobles let out cries of excitement: “Madame Garlan! It’s Madame Garlan!”