Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

“So, what exactly do you want?”

“Nothing, really…”

Porte Yer watched the two people pass by him and shrugged indifferently. He was about to continue up the stairs when he suddenly turned to look at the short man.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason, but something about the man seemed off.

He grabbed two glasses of wine and quickly followed.

When Baron Mote returned, he pretended to run into him by chance and handed over a glass of wine, casually asking, “Was that someone new you just met?”

“Selena, a Dutchman,” the latter said, taking a sip of wine. “He claims to greatly admire the Crown Prince and wishes for a chance to meet him.”

Porte Yer sneered, “How could the Crown Prince simply summon a foreigner?”

“Exactly, and he only wants to offer 150 francs.”

“Oh, what a poor miser. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“At the inn on Boleche Street. Why, do you want to help him?”

“Oh, of course not. Just casually asking.”

At six in the evening, Porte Yer looked intently at the inn on Boleche Street for a while before he suddenly felt compelled to go inside.

He learned from the manservant with a sou that Selena’s room number was 203, and he headed in that direction.

Just as Porte Yer turned the corridor, he saw Selena coming out from his room, muttering something.

He heard it was in English, “Should really ask for some expense…,” “Damn, everything in France costs money…”

This guy is not Dutch? Porte Yer frowned. His intuition was correct; something was indeed off.

He waited for Selena to leave and checked into the room next door, then climbed into room 203 through the window.

He quickly searched through the luggage inside the room, finding nothing but clothes, a dagger, and an unfinished letter.

The letter was also written in English, generally asking Mr. Sean to send money immediately or the mission would fail. The receiving address was Wexford.

That’s an Irish city.

Porte Yer squinted his eyes instantly, realizing this guy was a spy.

The door lock suddenly clicked, and Selena entered the room with a loaf of black bread—he was so poor that he couldn’t afford the inn’s meal.

In desperation, Porte Yer grabbed the dagger and sprang out, placing the blade against his neck as he turned to close the door, “Hey, Mr. Spy, I’m Aine, the Captain of the Intelligence Bureau’s Task Force. Be honest.”

Selena was startled, raised his hands, and the black bread fell to the ground.

15 minutes later.

Porte Yer, looking at the document in his hand, spoke to the Irishman sitting in front, “So, Mr. McLaren, you were sent by the ‘United Irishmen Association’?”

The latter nodded bitterly, “Yes, sir. I swear I’m not a spy, please don’t arrest me.”

This unfortunate senior member of the Irish independence organization had heard the “Intelligence Bureau’s officer” say he was going to be thrown into prison, and in his panic revealed the truth.

Porte Yer said cautiously, “Why were you trying to get close to the Crown Prince? Planning to assassinate him?”

“No, no,” McLaren shook his head vehemently. “I’m here to seek cooperation with the Crown Prince. You know, in opposing the British, we share common ground.”

“Ha, cooperation? I believe you’d better explain slowly in the interrogation room.”

“Wait!” McLaren slowly took out a letter from his clothes, “This is a letter from Mr. Thorne to the Crown Prince.”

Porte Yer’s eyes swept over the letter quickly, and his heart instantly raced.

He was a smart man and immediately realized this could change the political landscape of Europe.

He looked at the Irishman, “Why didn’t you hand this directly to the Crown Prince?”

“I tried,” the latter said helplessly, “And the closest I could get was over 200 steps away.”

A foreigner without noble status simply couldn’t approach the Crown Prince of France.

“Besides, there are British spies everywhere. I’m afraid if I make a sound I’ll be assassinated.” The Irishman suddenly thought of something and excitedly said, “Right, you’re an officer of the Intelligence Bureau, you must be able to lead me to the Crown Prince!”

“I, cough,” Porte Yer appeared very embarrassed, “Was joking…”

Night fell.

Porte Yer frowned tightly, “I can first find a chance to tell the Court Officials, let them report it…”

Yes, given his status, he also had no chance to meet the Crown Prince.

McLaren immediately shook his head irritably, “No, British spies have numerous ears, they might know about it before it’s reported.”

Porte Yer sighed. The Irishman had already stuck to him, the only one in the know.

Just as he was at his wit’s end, he heard children’s laughter outside, “Haha, Father finally agreed to buy us ‘Leaba’ to eat! Brother, I’ll go with you tomorrow morning.”

“Too late, dummy, tomorrow’s the Crown Princess’s lottery day, it’ll be crowded with people before dawn. If you want to go, you’ll have to get up at 4.”

“So early? Okay, then you’ll have to call me…”

Porte Yer suddenly brightened up, “I’ve got a way to let you see the Crown Prince.”

At 3 a.m. the next day.

Porte Yer and McLaren braced against the chilly autumn wind, staring helplessly at the long queue of three to four hundred people ahead of them.

The shop sign at the front of the queue bore the inscription “Alexandra Bakery.”

Yes, this is the store opened by Alexandra.

One of the important tasks of successive Crown Princesses of France is to act as the royal family’s ambassador to the public, interacting with the Parisians.

The previous Crown Princesses mostly distributed money along the streets, but following Joseph’s advice, Alexandra opened a bakery on this relatively quiet street.

All Parisians can buy bread at 25% off the market price here every day, and the quality is somewhat better than that of ordinary bakeries. Of course, each person can only buy 1 pound with an ID.

Yes, they also sell a premium Russian bread mixed with raisins—Royal Leaba. But it’s slightly more expensive.

And every “Soccer Day,” which is a weekend holiday, Alexandra personally draws 20 lucky winners from all the ID numbers that bought bread the previous week, giving away 6 pounds of bread and half a pound of butter for free.

Whenever this happens, the outside of the bakery becomes extremely crowded, with everyone eagerly shouting “Jesus bless the Crown Princess.”

The sky lightened, and the bakery door opened, the people in line rushed inside.

Porte Yer and McLaren waited over an hour before finally reaching the bakery front, raising their eyes to see the beautiful Crown Princess in a simple white gown, drawing a number from a bunch of small balls.

The maid beside her quickly wrote “7” on the board; it was an ID number, with two digits left.

Porte Yer took a deep breath, left the crowd, and strode toward the Crown Princess.

Immediately, several guards leapt out, swords drawn, enclosing him, “Stop!”

“What do you want?!”

Porte Yer hurriedly knelt down on one knee, “Respected Crown Princess, I am Pierre Yano de Potier, son of Baron Potier. I have a matter crucial enough to influence national diplomacy that I must report to you.”

Alexandra met his gaze for only a second before nodding to the Guard Captain, “Please escort this gentleman to the inner room to wait for me.”

…

Vienna.

In a carriage escorted by over ten cavalrymen, Austrian “famous general” Marshal Reo smiled at Talleyrand, who was sitting opposite, “As soon as I received your letter, I hurried back.”

The latter bowed slightly, “Vienna urgently needs you to stabilize the situation.”

Reo nodded, “You mean the Silesia affair?”

“Yes, there is a group in Vienna trying to bow to the Prussians and sell out Silesia.”

“The Crown Prince once fought alongside you there, and he absolutely doesn’t want it to fall into Prussian hands.”

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