The gang members glared viciously at the distant Church and bellowed at the crowd, “Don’t be deceived by those priests. Their food distribution will only last until tomorrow or the day after. If you don’t want to starve, you need to rely on us!”
According to their boss, the spy of the Duke of Orleans, they had to incite a riot of at least 500 people today to get paid.
Yet now, only around a hundred people had gathered—their unscrupulous kind could be found anywhere, and even with food available, they wanted to muddle in the nobles’ homes to loot. They’d stolen quite a loot these past days.
By five in the afternoon, the riot group still hadn’t reached 200 people. The leading gang leader cursed under his breath and dispersed the crowd, taking his underlings back to their dwelling.
Seeing this, the cobbler across the street immediately stood up and whispered, “Officer, they’ve left.”
“Sit down first.” Prosper, pretending to be a customer, calmly put on his boots and waited another moment before signaling to the dozen or so “citizens” standing or leaning around, “Keep close to your targets.”
These people subtly nodded and followed from a distance behind certain individuals in the riot group.
Prosper personally followed the gang members with two others.
According to His Royal Highness the Crown Prince’s instruction, this riot had erupted quickly and spread extremely fast, surely someone was instigating it behind the scenes.
The core task of the Police Affairs Department was to find out the instigator behind the riots. People from the department were already in place in the southern provinces, and Prosper personally took charge of Montpellier where the situation was the most severe.
The gang members entered a two-story building on the west side of the city. Prosper circled the house once, seeing guards at both the front and back doors, and was almost certain in his heart.
At two in the morning, the leader of the “Carcass” gang, Seba, was awakened from his sleep with a gun to his head.
“Who, who are you?” he asked, looking at Prosper and bellowing apprehensively, “You’ll regret messing with the Carcass gang!”
“Nightfire Gang.” Prosper uttered the three words. These people were of great use, so he still needed to put on a bit of a show.
“The gang from Adege Town?” Seba stiffened his neck, “This isn’t your turf!”
Prosper smiled, “I’ve heard you’ve made a good sum recently. To be honest, I’m interested in doing business.”
Although highly reluctant, Seba eventually gave away the address of that “important person” under the threat of the handgun—it was something his underlings had discovered by secretly following the “important person.”
Prosper left and returned before dawn, announcing to the Carcass gang, “The business now belongs to the Nightfire Gang. The important person will only contact me. And for you, each person gets two livres a day, take it or leave it?”
In reality, he had just led the Police Affairs Department, in cooperation with the Secret Police, to the hotel mentioned by Seba, where they had apprehended two individuals and found over a thousand livres and some riot plans in that room.
Although these two individuals had not yet confessed, it was almost certain that they were the ones manipulating the riots in Montpellier.
Seba was dissatisfied with the “salary” being halved, but it was still a decent income.
So after the Nightfire Gang promised not to encroach on the Carcass gang’s territory, he reluctantly agreed.
Prosper immediately ordered him to gather all his gang members to prepare for a big job.
At the same time, similar scenes unfolded in the provinces across southern France.
The Church’s efficiency was excellent, certainly surpassing France’s bureaucratic system. The priests carried bags of grain out from the cellars, and the shortage of food was quickly alleviated, with the hungry masses dispersing.
And the Police Affairs Department struck out everywhere in response.
The Duke of Orleans’ privately nurtured spies were no match for the national intelligence agency after all, and most of the insurgents ended up under the control of the Police Affairs Department.
…
Northeast France.
Strasbourg.
Marshal Francois, who was also the Duke of Broglie, leaned back in his chair, looking out the window at the proud cypress trees under the bright sun, and said in the rigid tone characteristic of a soldier, “So, the insurrection in the south has been quelled then?”
His son, Charles Louis Victor, hesitated before answering, “That’s about right, Father. There are still riots in places like Foix and Bayonne. You know, even in good years, those areas tend to have problems.”
In the southern border provinces of France, separatist forces had always been active. In other regions, rugged and remote, people would still greedily rob wealthy households even when food shortages vanished.
Marshal Francois nodded slowly, “Has anyone carried out that order from the Royal Family?”
Louis Victor knew he was referring to the order to recall the officers, “As far as I know, no one has, Father. It’s obvious, leaving their posts would mean losing everything.”
The marshal sighed, yet with some relief; fortunately, he was too old, and his son was of no use – that’s why they hadn’t got involved with the affairs of the Marquis of Lucenay and others.
Although he was a stakeholder and had returned to his post to express support for the military faction, at least he hadn’t threatened the Royal Family, so there was still room for maneuver.
Staring at the halo produced by the sunshine, he shook his head slightly after a long while, “If it drags on like this, the Marquis of Lucenay and the others will be stuck in a quagmire. Is the outcome already destined?”
Finally, decades of political experience helped him make a decision. He looked up at his son and said, “Victor, get ready, we’re going to Paris.”
The latter was immediately shocked, “Do you mean to betray…?”
The marshal over seventy years old shook his head, “I am only loyal to His Majesty the King, and there is no betrayal. Oh, and don’t forget to write to the Palace of Versailles, reporting our decision.”
…
January 24, 1789.
South-central France, Foix Province.
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This area was already close to the Provence-Alpes-Cote d’Azur region, less than 100 kilometers to the south, and one would arrive in Montpellier.
Joseph, dressed in a brand-new Cavalry uniform, galloped past amid the cheers of the soldiers by the road, occasionally smiling and waving back.
After the action in Tunisia, his riding skills had improved significantly, and his legs had developed calluses, which made marching much easier for him—riding a horse was tiring, but it was still much more comfortable than walking.
As for carriages, he had chosen remote backroads all the way to conceal the army’s movements, which made riding in carriages akin to torture for the buttocks.
Thanks to over a third of the wooden trackway from Paris to Lyon being laid, the advance speed of the Guard Corps at the beginning was extremely fast, reaching 38 kilometers per day.
However, once the wooden trackway ended, the speed dropped back to less than 30 kilometers per day, but this was still very fast.
The most pitiful were Murat’s Corps. Although they had trained with the Guard in Tunisia for a while, they still couldn’t keep up with the marching pace.
Andre had to constantly keep the formation in check to avoid falling behind—this was the biggest obstacle to increasing marching speed—and nearly lost his voice from shouting every day.