Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

“Ha, spare me.” Pierre Yano de Potier put on an exaggerated expression of distress, “I hate dealing with accounts. Besides, Lady Lavicia can’t do without me.”

He is currently acting as a Latin teacher for Lady Lavicia, essentially helping her plan reasonable appointments among several lovers to avoid them discovering each other’s existence and engaging in duels.

An easy and pleasant job, bringing in enough income to cover his own food and drink, with an extra 25 francs to send home each month.

The three of them drank for a while, and by nine in the evening, each returned home.

They were unaware that this would be their last chance in years to drink together.

The next morning, the blond youth Chommon received a notification for an interview at the Paris Army Officer Academy — this meant he could essentially enter this military school, unless he publicly defied the interviewer.

The officer who delivered the notice did not leave immediately but instead curiously examined the porcelain in his home: “Hmm, very beautiful. Is it produced in the East?”

“No, sir, just British imitations,” Chommon replied honestly, “My grandfather bought it before the Seven Years’ War. You know, no one wants such things now.”

The officer nodded, sat on a chair, and looked at Chommon: “If you’re available, I would like to know your views on honor.”

The young man immediately stood straight: “It is life, a gift from Jesus, the most precious thing in the world, sir.”

“Very good. I’ve heard you can draw, and speak German?”

“Yes, sir. My father taught me.”

“He must be very knowledgeable. So, what do you think of liberalism?”

“Well… At certain times, it has its value, but above all, one must ensure order and rules. I dislike those who shout ‘freedom’ and ‘rights’ all day as they do as they please; what this world needs is…”

After he had expressed his ideas thoroughly, the officer nodded slightly again, took out paper and pen, and noted something.

Chommon’s mother placed the tea with three large spoons of sugar in front of the officer along with some small pastries, politely saying: “There’s not much to serve, please help yourself.”

As she turned, she secretly gave herself a signal.

The officer thanked her and looked at the young man again: “Mr. Chommon, if you become an officer, would you prefer to stay in command to direct battles or rush to the front line to personally kill the enemy?”

“Of course, I’d rush to the front! Whether it’s flintlock guns or cannons, they can’t stop me…” Chommon suddenly recalled his mother’s signal, his voice softened, and he muttered, “But, being able to command soldiers to defeat the enemy with perfect tactics is what an officer should do…”

“Okay.”

The officer asked questions while recording, after half an hour, he put away his notes and stood up: “Mr. Chommon, thank you for chatting with me for so long.”

“No, no, it’s nothing. I enjoy talking to people.”

The officer bid farewell and suddenly stopped, asking: “One last question, why do you want to become an officer?”

Chommon replied without hesitation: “I want to follow the Crown Prince’s horse and conquer the whole of Europe!” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “also, I want to protect…”

The officer smiled, raised his hand to interrupt him: “Mr. Chommon, would you like to be an ‘Honorary Representative’?”

“Honorary Representative? What is that?”

…

In the ‘Joslin’ tennis club in the southern part of the Saint-Germain District.

Rochefort reached out his chubby hands to the middle-aged man in front of him, pleading nearly: “Mr. Jerome, as long as I manage it properly, relying on the goods loan can ensure the cash flow won’t…”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rochefort.” The middle-aged man picked up his briefcase, “9,000 francs is the minimum requirement for the agency. If you really want to do this business, go gather the funds. Considering our relationship, I can wait another three days for you.”

The chubby man watched the person leave and sat back in his chair, somewhat disappointed.

Yes, nowadays France is full of opportunities, in steel, chemicals, pharmaceuticals, everything can make money, but the basic requirement is to have funds.

His family only provided him with 3,000 francs in capital, and even if his family sold all their countryside land, it was impossible to raise 9,000 francs.

As for borrowing, a hundred or two hundred francs might be possible, borrowing more money meant waiting for doors to be shut in his face.

“Ah, such a rare opportunity.” Rochefort chuckled to himself, “Why not go rob the discount bank…”

He looked down at his short legs and shook his head in disappointment.

He drank the coffee on the table, picked up his briefcase and walked towards the door, hearing two men at the table next to him speaking in slightly accented French: “Jack, I know you have supplies left, spare me a bit, just 10,000 pounds, just 10,000 pounds.”

“James, let’s be frank, I do have some stock, but you know, it’s hard to import wool from outside now, and I must keep some for emergencies.”

Rochefort turned his head and saw a middle-aged man with relaxed bags under his eyes and prominent ears imploring, “The price is negotiable, 3 francs, no, 3 francs 5 sous per pound, how about that? If I continue to run out of stock here, I will lose the trust of those old customers in Lyon.”

Rochefort felt a sigh in his heart, these wealthy men who could take out 35,000 francs all at once, yet still had to humble themselves to seek others.

Soon, the man named Jack stood up and left, the middle-aged man still trying: “The price is negotiable, you see, I’m really about to go out of business…”

The other party walked straight out of the club.

Rochefort was about to follow out but suddenly stopped without knowing why, turned around to look at James and thought: he has a large sum of funds but is struggling for business, and I have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity in my hand.

Perhaps, we could cooperate?

He immediately stepped forward, bowed to the man with the prominent ears: “Honorable sir, I am Henry Francois de Rochechouart, son of Baron Rochechouart. Would you mind if I sit here?”

The latter was stunned for a moment, then revealed a habitual smile: “James House Walsh. Glad to talk with you.”

Rochefort sat down opposite him: “Are you British?”

“No, no,” Walsh smiled and waved his hand, “I’ve long been a Parisian. My home is in the Royal Palace Gardens.”

Rochefort suddenly felt even more hopeful. A villa in Royal Palace Gardens now costs at least 110,000 francs.

After exchanging pleasantries with Walsh, he said: “Mr. Walsh, I have a good business opportunity you might be interested in.”

“Oh? Please tell me more.”

“You know ‘briquette stove’? A very useful stove, can be placed anywhere in the house, can be used for heating and cooking. Most importantly, a day’s fuel costs only a few deniers.

“And I have an opportunity to become the agent for these in the Saint Antoine District.”

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