The French doors on the west side of the second floor of the villa, along with the frames, had vanished without a trace. Half of the wall just behind the windows had collapsed, revealing jagged red bricks, while the corridor on the other side of the wall was filled with brick dust and bloodstains.
A hole had been punctured in the roof as well; how the cannonballs managed to turn up there was anyone’s guess.
Cheers like a tidal wave came from outside; the makeshift gunners felt as though they had punched Count Tirolle themselves, the thrill of vengeance rushing to their heads.
Several gunners were preparing to reload when they suddenly noticed the guards, who had been laying at various windows taking aim, beginning to panic. Most of them withdrew back inside the villa.
“Look, those guys are scared!” someone immediately shouted pointing at the villa.
“They know the crimes they’ve committed, and now they’re feeling guilty.”
“Let’s all rush in there, and avenge our families!”
Shouting, people surged toward the villa from all directions. Sparse gunfire came from the doors and windows but did little to stop the tide of people. Your journey continues with empire
Fouche, observing the situation from nearby, frowned upon seeing this. The resistance inside the villa had stopped too abruptly.
He immediately realized something and turned to an officer beside him, barking, “They might be trying to escape! Go—no, I’ll go myself! You keep a close watch on the nearby buildings!”
“Yes, sir!”
Dressed as an ordinary merchant, Fouche took five subordinates and joined the riotous crowd rushing into the villa.
The entire villa was already in utter chaos, everyone frantically looting valuables and wantonly destroying everything in sight.
Hysterical shouts and laughter, along with faint cries, set the main melody, with the accompaniment of wood and porcelain shattering; hundreds of people were creating a symphony of madness and destruction here.
Soon someone set the kitchen on the south side of the first floor of the villa ablaze, and a light breeze swiftly spread thick smoke throughout the house.
Fouche looked around and quickly moved to the staircase.
Everywhere were rioters and guards locked in desperate combat, and occasionally someone would tumble down the stairs. Fouche skillfully avoided these people and ran up to the second floor.
Before him lay an even more chaotic battlefield. The thick smoke had already drifted up, but people ignored it completely, coughing as they lunged at the guards. Gunshots were heard intermittently, but any guard who fired was quickly overwhelmed by more people.
Fouche proceeded along the corridor to the villa’s central atrium and saw seven or eight guards gathered outside a room, nervously pointing their guns in all directions.
A few bodies of the rioters lay nearby, and a large portion of the west wall had collapsed, with heaps of broken bricks beside it.
He immediately realized that this was the room that had been struck by the cannon.
With so many guards gathered here, there had to be an important figure inside the room!
As he pondered how to blend in, smoke slowly drifted over. An officer from the guards ran from the other end of the corridor, shouting at the guards at the door, “The fire has reached the drinking room next door; you, you, and you, come with me and put it out!
“Just hold on a little longer, Auror will be here soon with reinforcements from the Count of Castel family!”
The officer left with a few guards. Those at the door tried to wave away the smoke but were soon streaming with tears.
Fouche took a deep breath, signalled to his subordinates, and while the guards were struggling with the smoke, he bent down and squeezed through the hole in the wall.
The smoke inside the room wasn’t too thick. An officer who heard the noise immediately turned around. With a fierce smile, Fouche drew the pistol from his waist, pulled the trigger, and blew the officer away.
Fouche immediately saw someone lying sideways on the armchair in the middle of the room.
The person’s face was pale, the wig askew, startled by the gunshot, struggling to lift their head to look this way.
The face covered in dust belonged to none other than the Duke of Orleans.
Fouche put away his pistol, took a few steps forward, and then noticed that the person in the chair had lost his entire left arm below the elbow, the stump tightly bound with a bandage. A shard of glass, over an inch wide, was still embedded in his right back. Although thick bandages wrapped around the glass, blood continued to drip from the end of it.
“You…”
As soon as the Duke of Orleans opened his mouth, pain twisted his features, followed by a bout of coughing that left his mouth covered in blood spatter. His lungs had clearly been severely damaged.
The sounds of the guards and agents from the Police Affairs Department fighting came from outside the door, but it quickly subsided.
Standing before the Duke of Orleans, Fouche stared at him as though admiring a painting he was very pleased with and spoke in a calm tone, “Your Grace, good morning. I regret to inform you that you have been convicted of grave treason and conspiracy against the Royal Family. His Highness, the Crown Prince, has tasked me with pronouncing your death sentence.”
As the words “Crown Prince” reached the Duke of Orleans’ ears, his eyes bulged, veins on his forehead throbbing, struggling to speak but spasming with pain. Cascades of cold sweat washed away the powder on his face, revealing streaked grooves.
“Yes, His Highness is well aware of all those things you’ve done behind the scenes,” Fouche continued as if anticipating his response, nodding, “And then, he took care of those…well, how shall I put it, little tricks of yours?
“Oh, right, there is something His Highness wanted me to pass on to you.”
Fouche drew a small silver box from his coat, opened it, and took out the contents to unfold.
It was a crown folded out of paper. The Duke of Orleans stared intently at the paper ring in Fouche’s hand, dyed gold and drawn with gemstones, his eyes bloodshot. He wanted to roar, wanted to tear the paper ring to shreds, yet found himself like a frozen worm, utterly immobile.
Fouche placed the meticulously crafted “crown” on the Duke of Orleans’ head, then drew a dagger, smiling faintly, “His Highness said that he understands very well your long-standing dream to ascend the throne. However, this is all you are suited to wear.”
As he spoke, he lifted the dagger, only to find that the man’s body had suddenly slumped down in the chair.
Fouche frowned, reached to check the Duke of Orleans’ carotid artery, then sighed in annoyance and sheathed the dagger.
Shortly after, more than a dozen agents of the Police Affairs Department left Count of Castel’s villa from different directions, each carrying items such as plates and candlesticks, indistinguishable from ordinary rioters.
The agents on the outer perimeter also withdrew one after another, like inconspicuous drops of water among the thousands of rioters.
…
Palace of Versailles.
Mirabeau, bowing to Queen Mary, indicated, “Your Majesty, you see, those who opposed the bill have clearly been persuaded. This is a reform welcomed by all, where the nobles, in their noble character, have forsaken some minor rights to bring great hope to countless peasants.”
He glanced out the window at the petitioning nobles as he spoke.
Those were the new Nobility who supported the “abolition of noble privilege,” while the ranks of the Old Nobility had quieted down.
The core members of the Old Nobility had long lost interest in government affairs—their number included nine people killed in their homelands by rioters. The rest had their estates completely devastated, not just manors wrecked or burnt but, most importantly, all their assets, land deeds, bonds, and even the certificates of noble lineage had disappeared.
In that era, nobles without wealth befitting their status had no distinguished standing, and their political influence would dissipate with it.