I am the Crown Prince of France

Chapter 127: My Life Has Always Been Fraught with Caution

Forty minutes later, the lead painter looked at the newly decorated farmhouse with satisfaction, nodded, and signaled his crew to leave. The soldier guarding the house didn't notice that the painter now had an extra paint bucket and that his long-handled brush was missing.

That paint bucket, of course, contained the military uniforms of Odoric's two "subordinates" and the three men's craftsman outfits. The "long-handled brush" had been left behind in the attic.

As the painters left the area, a French Guards officer stopped them to check their documents and count their numbers. They had arrived with eight people, and they were leaving with eight people—everything seemed fine.

The officer nodded, signaling his men to let them pass. No matter how thorough his inspection, he couldn't possibly verify the details with every soldier guarding each farmhouse.

The next morning, the sunlight slanted across the wide road outside Paris, with the temperature so mild that it hardly felt like winter. Several elegantly crafted white carriages, surrounded by a dozen horsemen, slowly approached from the south.

Inside the middle carriage, the Princess of the Two Sicilies, Louisa Maria, gazed nervously out of the window with her beautiful large eyes. She hadn't even reached Paris yet, and she was already deeply impressed—the "Royal Avenue" was astonishingly wide, and the houses lining it were more refined and beautiful than the last, as if the area around Paris was inhabited entirely by nobles.

However, what made her most anxious was the thought of meeting the so-called "Son of Divine Favor," the Prince of France. It was said that, though he was only fourteen—one year younger than herself—he had already completed the curriculum at the University of Paris, successfully overseen the reform of Paris's police force, and was even now serving as the Assistant Minister of Finance for France.

This was beyond mere genius! She, too, was studying advanced mathematics and knew how difficult it was. She also had some understanding of the complexities of national governance. How could he have managed all this?!

Moreover, it was said that the Prince had inherited his mother's looks, being exceptionally handsome, with slightly curly blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a perfectly proportioned face like a Greek statue. The girls at Versailles Palace would be thrilled for months if they could just exchange a word with him.

The thought that such an outstanding prince might become her fiancé made Maria's heart race wildly.

While she was lost in her thoughts, the carriage slowly came to a stop. The ambassador from the Two Sicilies to France, Timothy, who was seated across from her, quickly reminded her in a low voice, "Your Highness, this must be where the Prince has come to greet you."

Princess Maria hurriedly collected her thoughts, glanced down to check her attire, then straightened her back, putting on a polite and graceful smile. Timothy stepped out first and opened the carriage door.

Maria descended the wooden steps from the carriage, gracefully walking past the respectful attendants, their heads bowed. As she lifted her gaze, she suddenly saw a handsome young man dressed in a deep blue velvet coat, white trousers, and a tricorn hat, smiling at her.

The elegant lines of his face and the mesmerizing look in his eyes made her mind go blank for half a second. She could swear that those who had described the Prince's appearance to her hadn't done him even a tenth of the justice he deserved.

Feeling a bit dizzy, Maria walked forward, unable to meet the Prince's gaze directly. She hurriedly lifted her skirt and curtsied seriously, her voice trembling slightly, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness. I'm deeply honored that you've come so far to greet me."

Joseph smiled and placed his hand over his heart in a polite bow. "It's my duty, beautiful Princess. Welcome to Paris."

Following tradition, he gave the princess a cheek-to-cheek greeting. Hmm, her waist was slender, her skin soft and smooth, and her chest... Ahem! Joseph quickly interrupted his thoughts, reminding himself that she was just a fifteen-year-old girl. What was he thinking?

After the greeting, he stepped back and gestured towards her carriage. "Princess, I will lead the way for you. The King and Queen are waiting at Versailles Palace to host a banquet in your honor."

After a bit more polite conversation, Joseph turned and returned to his carriage, instructing the convoy to head back to Versailles Palace.

Seeing that the Prince hadn't invited her to ride with him, Maria felt a little disappointed. She suddenly remembered that she had a competitor—the Grand Duchess of Tuscany, Clementine.

As the sound of drums and horns signaled the convoy's departure, Maria reluctantly got back into her carriage, feeling a pang of sadness. Did the Prince prefer Clementine? She wondered if she could compete with her.

Meanwhile, about a league away from where Joseph had greeted Princess Maria, Odoric faintly heard the sound of trumpets. He started stretching his stiff limbs, as he and his two "subordinates" had been holed up in this farmhouse all night.

After a moment, Odoric, now dressed as a farmer, carefully climbed out of the cabinet and peeked downstairs. He immediately saw that the soldier guarding the place was dozing off against the doorframe.

Picking up a short club that had been prepared under the bed, he crept downstairs and precisely struck the soldier on the head, knocking him out cold. Odoric then pulled out a short knife and handed it to the bald man, gesturing for him to finish the job.

Without hesitation, the bald man stabbed the soldier to death and dragged the body inside—killing was as easy for him as having a drink.

Odoric returned to the attic, where he retrieved the long-handled brush from under the bed. He unwrapped the cloth covering the handle, revealing the gun barrel inside. He then removed the stuffed brush head, exposing a wooden stock.

In no time, a British Brown Bess 1742 flintlock rifle was assembled in his hands. He found the powder and lead ball hidden in the handle, loaded the rifle swiftly, and handed it to the red-haired "subordinate."

"When the gold-laden carriage passes by, you fire in that direction," Odoric instructed.

"Huh?" The redhead looked at the distant road, puzzled. "Boss, it's so far away. What if I miss?"

"Idiot, we're just the lookout. Firing the shot signals our people that it's time to act."

Odoric then grabbed a French-made short musket with a sawn-off stock—one of the weapons smuggled in by the painters—loaded it with powder and shot, and handed it to the bald man. "You fire too."

"Leave it to us, Boss!" The two bandits, thrilled at the thought of earning seven or eight thousand livres just for firing a couple of shots, felt incredibly lucky to have joined the Lekwe gang.

Next, Odoric picked up the soldier's dropped Charleville flintlock rifle and searched the body for powder and bullets. He checked the gun's chamber and found it already loaded. Still, he carefully unloaded the powder and reloaded it himself.

From the farmhouse attic window, Odoric's telescope focused on a white carriage. He recognized the coachman—they were from the Prince's household, familiar faces.

Odoric immediately positioned the two men at the window and stepped back, shouting, "Fire!"

Still lost in their fantasies of the Lekwe gang's total control, the two bandits eagerly fired their guns at the distant carriage.

The tranquil outskirts of Paris were suddenly shattered by two loud bangs, sending birds fluttering into the sky from the nearby woods.

The nearby French Guards, from officers to soldiers, felt as if they had been slapped in the face, immediately panicking as they frantically searched for the source of the gunfire.

Bessonval's face turned pale, and the veins on his forehead bulged as he turned and screamed at the messenger, "Sound the alarm, quickly! Tell the Prince's convoy to turn back!"

He continued to shout, "What are you all standing around for? Protect the Prince and the Princess! Now!"

"Balthazar, Claret, take your men and search the area!" As he barked these orders, he drew his pistol and scanned the surroundings, shouting, "Who dares to do this?!"

The French Guards officers began directing the soldiers to fire wildly in the direction of the gunshots, attempting to suppress the attackers.

Inside the farmhouse, the bald man, hearing the gunfire intensify, assumed their own people had started the attack. He quickly turned to Odoric with a sycophantic smile, asking, "Boss, is that good enough?"

But Odoric calmly pulled him to the middle of the attic and positioned himself near the window. Suddenly, the Charleville flintlock in his hand spat fire. The bald man, caught completely off guard, had a bloody hole appear in his chest. The force of the bullet threw him backward, and without even a struggle, he was dead.

Odoric had deliberately reduced the amount of gunpowder earlier, so the body wasn't blown apart, making it difficult to tell that the shot was fired from close range.

The red-haired man by the window was stunned by what he had just witnessed, but Odoric wasted no time. He smashed the redhead in the stomach with the butt of his gun, and as the man doubled over, he struck him hard on the back of the head.

Ignoring the gunfire outside, Odoric calmly reloaded the Charleville, then dragged the unconscious redhead to a pillar in the attic and fired a shot through his throat.

After ensuring there were no loose ends, Odoric grabbed the remnants of the long-handled brush he had prepared earlier, stuffed the Charleville back into the dead French Guards soldier's hands, and then exited through the farmhouse's back door.

He sprinted a few dozen paces to a small grove, where he quickly changed into the Prince's guard uniform he had hidden earlier. He buried the remains of the brush and crouched behind a tree, nervously awaiting the next step.

As the first gunshots rang out, Clossod reined in his horse sharply and waved his hand, shouting loudly, "Stay calm! Everyone, gather around the Prince and the Princess's carriage and protect them from any attackers!"

The French Guards, who were already in a panic, immediately obeyed, surrounding Joseph and the Princess's carriage with over a hundred soldiers.

When the third gunshot came from the farmhouse's direction, Clossod signaled his officer with a glance and then shouted, "Clement, over there! Take your men and catch the assassin!"

"Yes, sir!" Clement whipped his horse around and ordered, "Third squad, follow me!"

In a display that shocked and impressed the French Guards, over twenty of the Prince's guards charged towards the farmhouse.

Meanwhile, Bessonval finally pinpointed the exact location of the attackers after the fourth gunshot. He immediately pointed his pistol towards the farmhouse, shouting, "There! Adrien, take your men and move in!"

"Yes, sir!"

Clement and his squad seemed to be heading in the wrong direction at first, running towards a small grove near the farmhouse. After making a small loop, they suddenly "realized" their mistake and turned towards the farmhouse.

As they passed the edge of the grove, Odoric quickly joined them, accepting the flintlock rifle from a teammate and blending seamlessly into the squad. By this time, the surrounding fields were shrouded in smoke from the repeated gunfire. Even if he had run straight back to Joseph, it was unlikely any of the French Guards would have noticed.

Clement deliberately slowed his men down, letting the French Guards reach the farmhouse first before following them in a rush.

The French Guards officer, Adrien, hesitated between storming the house or laying down suppressing fire. But Clement's shout cut through his indecision: "Cowards! Are you going to wait until they fire at the Prince again?!"

Jolted by the accusation, Adrien drew his sword and pointed it towards the farmhouse. "Charge! Capture the assassin!"

The French Guards surged forward, immediately finding the soldier who had been guarding the farmhouse dead on the ground. Someone nervously fired a few shots towards the attic before cautiously climbing the stairs.

Meanwhile, inside the carriage, Joseph, upon hearing the gunfire, quickly locked the door from the inside—an entirely reasonable action to prevent any attackers from bursting in.

He and Emond swiftly removed the wax seals from the door, walls, and table, carefully storing the wax in their pockets.

Emond retrieved a paper packet of wood shavings from under the seat, scattering them around the carriage. Finally, he forcefully embedded a flattened lead bullet into a damaged section of the carriage's opposite wall.

Now the carriage bore two visible bullet holes—one in the door and another in the table. On the opposite side, a lead bullet was lodged in the wall, and the interior was littered with splinters.

It appeared that a bullet had struck the carriage just moments before.

Joseph then extended his arm towards Emond, giving him a determined look. "Do it."

Emond unsheathed a short sword from his boot and said somberly, "Forgive me, Your Highness."

With a swift motion, the blade left a bloody gash on Joseph's upper right arm. A searing pain shot through him.

Emond sheathed his sword, picked up a sharp piece of wood from the floor, and lightly pierced a small bladder filled with chicken blood he had hidden in his pocket. He smeared the blood on the splinter, making it look as if the wood had caused the wound.

He then sprinkled some of the blood around the carriage, stowed the bladder, and began shouting in an urgent, panicked voice, "Oh, God! The Prince has been shot!"

"Someone get a doctor! Quickly!"

The desperate cry echoed across the field, reaching the ears of everyone within a hundred meters. Those who heard it froze in place, as if struck by lightning—especially Bessonval, who felt his head spin and nearly fell from his horse.

In the following carriage, Princess Maria turned pale with shock upon hearing that the Prince had been shot, tears streaming down her face.

Note: The Royal Avenue refers to a specially widened road funded by the French government, equivalent to a modern-day highway.

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