Afterward, Charles went to the Palace of Versailles, where he was received by an assistant to the French Minister of the Navy. They even held a small ceremony in his honor, awarding him a 500-livre bonus. Charles certainly deserved such recognition—without the intelligence he purchased from a smuggler, the joint fleet might still be aimlessly searching the vast Mediterranean.

However, after the ceremony, a French official informed him that the plan for him to testify at the pirate trial had changed. Instead, he needed to return to Algiers immediately to assist French “diplomats” in contacting Yunus Pasha.

…

The region of Bourges in northern France was extremely impoverished, and the parish of Laberne was one of its poorest villages.

Tenant farmer Alberic sat on a wooden barrel, taking deep breaths of the dry, hot air. The cracked earth before him reflected his despair. He simply didn’t have the strength to fetch any more water.

As the weather grew hotter, the stream that once flowed near the village had dried up. Now, he had to walk two miles to the neighboring village to fetch water to irrigate his fields.

Yes, the village had too few communal horses, so he could only use one every ten days.

And the little water he could carry on foot was far from enough to irrigate the 30 acres of land he farmed.

After the hailstorm disaster, he had received government relief in the form of potato seeds, but since then, it hadn’t rained at all.

So far, Alberic had only planted two acres of potatoes, which was all he and his son could water by hand. If they planted more, the potatoes would just wither and die from the lack of water.

Alberic was considering whether to eat the potatoes meant for planting—even though that was strictly against the rules. But the priest had mentioned that these potatoes could only be stored for about two weeks, so he couldn’t just let them rot.

At that moment, a young tenant farmer from the village walked by, ringing a bell and shouting:

“All men to the church!”

Alberic waved at him and shouted, “Didier, is this work for the baron?”

“No, it’s to help out,” Didier replied. “We’re going to help Yanar Parish move some stones.”

“Move stones?” Alberic asked in confusion.

Didier nodded impatiently. “Yes, the government sent them over. They say it’s fertilizer that will help the crops grow better. But it looks like just stones.”

Alberic quickly called his son, and they headed for the church.

Around fifty people had already gathered near the church, all of them whispering among themselves:

“Why are we working in Yanar village?”

“I heard from Mr. Audrian that the government started a ‘Water Pump Loan Act,’ and they got a water pump!”

“But what does that have to do with us?”

Yanar Parish was relatively better off and could barely afford to rent a water pump, while Laberne Parish was so poor that they couldn’t even afford the 200 livres monthly rent, let alone a parish bank.

A villager chimed in, “Mr. Audrian said that under the loan act, Yanar has to lend us the pump for 11 days each month, but we have to help them with work.”

“A water pump?!” Alberic exclaimed excitedly. “I’ve heard that thing can water dozens of acres in a single day. We’re saved!”

Soon, the parish administrator, Mr. Audrian, arrived at the church. He took attendance and then instructed:

“Today and tomorrow, we’ll be moving fertilizer for Yanar Parish. The day after that, we’ll move our own. After that, we’ll help them repair the water channels.”

A smile appeared on his face. “But they’ll deliver the water pump to us tomorrow night!”

The tenant farmers erupted in cheers. With water, there was hope of survival. They immediately set off with Audrian, undeterred by the scorching sun.

Two days later, Alberic’s family received their share of the grayish stones with black spots. According to the priest, this was valuable fertilizer—just crush it into powder, mix it with water, and pour it on the fields. It was said to dramatically increase crop yields.

All the fertilizer was provided on credit by the parish through a contract with a company called “Gemini Trading Company.” It would cost 5 to 7 sous per acre, with payment due after the autumn harvest. But the company guaranteed that if the increased yield didn’t cover the cost of the fertilizer, they wouldn’t charge anything.

These stones were phosphate rocks, commonly known as guano, imported by Joseph from Nauru. This was the best fertilizer available in that era!

In later years, Nauru became extremely wealthy from selling guano, to the point where every citizen owned a luxury car and bought houses in Australia. However, once the guano was depleted, the nation quickly fell into poverty—that’s another story.

Due to limited transportation capacity, only two ships had returned with a total of 600 tons of phosphate rock. For now, these were being supplied to the most desperate areas in France. But the second fleet, consisting of seventeen ships, had already reached the Pacific. When they returned, they would greatly boost France’s agricultural output.

For now, though, France couldn’t make this public knowledge, as the British still dominated the seas. If word got out, the British might try to seize the cargo. As a backup plan, Joseph was also promoting composting.

Composting involves processing organic matter like leaves, straw, food scraps, and even manure with microorganisms, breaking it down into humus, which plants can absorb as fertilizer.

Before the widespread use of chemical fertilizers, this was the best method for producing fertilizer and could maintain soil fertility for years without the need for fallowing.

Although simple composting had existed in Europe since the 17th century, it was mostly based on experience, with organic matter randomly mixed and left to sit, resulting in mediocre fertilizer. It wasn’t until the mid-19th century, with the development of scientific composting methods, that fertilizer quality began to improve.

Joseph had seen documentaries about composting in his previous life and understood the basic principles: layering organic matter with soil, controlling moisture, and isolating it from the air. The pile should be turned every month and would be ready in three months.

However, while the theory was straightforward, the specifics of how to do it, including the ratios of organic matter and water, needed to be worked out by experts.

Joseph assigned this task to the church. When it came to matters of public welfare, the church was often more efficient than government bureaucrats. With dozens of churches experimenting with different composting methods, they would eventually find the most effective one and then promote it nationwide.

…

Late at night, Alberic and two other villagers returned to the village with a cart of coal. By torchlight, they unloaded the coal next to the water pump.

The coal had been transported from a small coal mine ten miles away. Such small coal mines were now everywhere. After the government passed the “Coal Mining Promotion Act,” encouraging coal mining with subsidies for mines that met certain sales thresholds, small-scale mines had sprung up like mushrooms. The price of coal was dropping steadily. As long as villagers were willing to haul it themselves, they could afford the coal needed to power the water pump.

Watching the water flow through the channels to the fields, Alberic and the others, despite their exhaustion, couldn’t help but smile.

Sure, the 11 days of watering each month wouldn’t cover all the fields, but it would save more than 60% of the crops. Combined with the miraculous fertilizer stones, they should be able to harvest enough to feed their families this fall.

Laberne Parish was lucky. Due to France’s limited production of steam engines, many areas still in desperate need of irrigation had applied for water pumps under the loan act but could only wait anxiously for their lifeline to arrive.

…

In eastern Tunisia, in the city of Sfax, a man in his thirties with sunken eyes and a thin, high-bridged nose stepped out of a carriage and hurried into a French-style confectionery shop.

French merchants were common in Tunisia, especially those selling high-end goods like silk, sugar, and tea. Many of these shops were French-owned.

The shopkeeper glanced at the man and then casually opened a gate behind the counter, allowing him to walk straight into the back room.

Inside, Prosper, an officer from the Paris Secret Police, sat in a grayish-white robe typical of Tunisians, wearing a golden bucket-shaped hat and boredly toying with some dates on a plate.

When the man with North African features entered, Prosper quickly raised his hat in greeting and spoke in French:

“Fabien… oh, I mean Mr. Ishaq, how did it go?”

Ishaq first grabbed the water on the table and drank several gulps before excitedly reporting:

“I met with that officer named Imanzadeh. He indeed knows Yunus—actually, he admires him.”

“The best part is, Imanzadeh is about to retire and holds only a minor position in the Tunisian military.”

“Why is that good news?” Prosper started to ask but then paused, a realization dawning on him. “Wait, you mean he has enough free time to go to Algiers?”

“Exactly!” Ishaq nodded. “But he still doesn’t fully trust me, so he’s hesitant to commit. The next step is up to our dear consul.”

Prosper was surprised by how smoothly things were progressing. They had only been in Tunisia for ten days, and already they had contacted a former associate of Yunus.

Of course, much of the credit went to Ishaq, the Secret Police officer with North African ancestry—something that had often led to discrimination against him in the past. But here, his knowledge of Arabic and familiarity with local customs were proving invaluable.

Prosper drank several gulps of water—if you didn’t drink enough before going outside in this place, you’d quickly become unbearably thirsty—then grabbed Ishaq and headed out:

“Let’s go see Consul Joan right away.”

Three days later, after several meetings with the French consul, Imanzadeh finally agreed to board a smuggling ship waiting in the port with the Secret Police agents. They were heading straight for Dakhla in Algiers to meet Yunus, who had left Tunisia over thirty years ago.

…

The square in front of the Palace of Versailles was packed with people, likely over ten thousand in total. They had come from Paris to attend the King’s birthday celebration.

A month ago, the newspapers had announced that the three days before and after the King’s birthday would be marked by grand dance and swordsmanship competitions in the square, with free food distributed daily at 5 p.m.

Many were also drawn by the 3,000-livre lottery, which the newspapers had mentioned—tickets cost only 1 sou.

On the King’s birthday, he would personally announce the winning number and present the enormous prize in public.

Parisians were very interested in this chance to strike it rich overnight. Most who had spare money bought a lottery ticket, and some even bought several or dozens to increase their chances.

Though the festivities had yet to begin, the square was already bustling with vendors selling snacks and small toys, as well as street theater performances. The atmosphere was festive, and people seemed to have forgotten all about the hailstorm that had destroyed 65% of France’s agricultural output.

Inside a hall on the first floor of the Palace of Versailles, a slightly plump official seated behind a wooden table checked his watch, then stood to take down a wooden sign reading “Swordsmanship Competition Registration.”

At that moment, a slender young man with his hat pulled low approached politely and stopped him, speaking in a strange voice:

“Wait, please. I’d like to register.”

“Oh, very well. You’ve just made it in time.” The official sat back down, picked up his pen, and asked, “You can’t register for someone else. Please tell me your name.”

“Jean-François Henri de Fraise.”

The official quickly wrote down the name, stamped the form, and handed it to him:

“Here’s your registration certificate, Viscount Fraise.”

“Thank you,” the man said, taking the paper and turning to leave.

The official suddenly remembered something and reached out to stop him:

“Wait a moment! Did you say you’re Viscount Fraise?”

The young man didn’t reply and quickened his pace, keeping his head down.

“Stop him!” the official shouted.

Three guards quickly surrounded the “Viscount Fraise.”

The official approached, eyeing the registrant suspiciously:

“If you don’t mind, could you please remove your hat?”

“Viscount Fraise” hesitated, then reluctantly took off his tricorn hat, offering an apologetic smile.

A beautiful face with a sweet smile was revealed—clearly, this was a young woman.

“I knew it! You’re Viscount Fraise’s sister, Miss Soleil, aren’t you? You can’t do this,” the official said, holding out his hand. “This competition is for men, not suitable for a lovely lady like you. Now, please return the registration certificate.”

“But if I don’t compete, who will win the championship?” Soleil smiled, and suddenly, with a swift move, pulled the left guard off balance with her boot, using his fall to slip past him on the left.

The falling guard blocked the view of the other guard. The third guard quickly chased after her, but after two turns on the stairs, Soleil had vanished.

Meanwhile, in the central marble courtyard, the noblewomen’s competition was in full swing.

At the heart of the group, surrounded by five or six hundred nobles, sat Queen Marie. A row of soldiers stood behind them, keeping back the thousands of commoners who had gathered to watch. Parisians rarely got the chance to witness noblewomen displaying their talents.

Suddenly, the nobles erupted in excitement:

“Madame Galan! It’s Madame Galan!”

(End of Chapter)

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep