Chapter 522: A Glimpse of Heaven
As night fell, the streets of Paris were brightly lit by gas lamps, bustling with people, perhaps even livelier than during the day. Many laborers didn't finish work until 8 p.m. It was only then that they could catch their breath, step out to buy daily necessities, and take a stroll to relieve their tired bodies from a long day of toil.
However, the shantytown on the outskirts near Antoine Town remained shrouded in darkness. Only occasional screams or curses indicated that people still lived there.
This area was one of the less desolate outskirts of Paris. Its proximity to the workshops of Antoine Town meant that residents could find some work in the area. Though poorly paid, it was enough to barely fill their stomachs.
Inside a small hut cobbled together from broken wooden planks, a woman in her forties wrapped her head in a faded gray cloth. She wore a patched gray dress, its fabric rough from countless repairs. Bathed in the dim light of the stars streaming through a small window, she scrubbed clothes with determination. Her swollen, coarse hands and peeling lips marked her as a laborer who worked tirelessly, yet could barely make ends meet.
"Tommy, hang this up," she said, handing a black dress coat to a boy of about ten. "Make sure not to hang it too close to Mrs. Frank's laundry, or she'll take it again."
After giving the boy the coat, she slipped her red, cracked fingers into her mouth to soothe the pain with the warmth of her breath. She glanced at the silhouette on the bed nearby, hesitated, then spoke.
"Paul, have you heard? The government is saying we can go to the tax office to report any unfair taxes we've paid in the past..."
The man on the bed tried to turn toward her but couldn't muster the strength to move a finger. He managed a weak grunt.
"I heard Mr. Pierre mention it earlier today."
Excited, the woman rose and walked to the bedside. As she moved, her foot pressed on something soft. A sharp squeak followed, and a rat darted out of the window. Startled, she stumbled, knocking over the wash bucket and basin. The icy water spilled, soaking her shoes.
"Oh, dear God..."
She groped in the dark to right the bucket, but most of the water was gone. Tears welled up in her eyes as she murmured, "It's all ruined now. I won't finish washing these clothes tonight..."
Failing to deliver the laundry on time meant a deduction of five sous from her pay—a small fortune for the family. It meant two of her children would miss breakfast or the entire family would have to make do with half their usual bread.
Hearing the commotion, the man on the bed struggled to sit up. He groped his way to the table to steady himself before hurrying to comfort his wife. He placed a reassuring hand on her back.
"It's alright, dear. We'll go to the Tinnis River to fetch more water. We can still finish in time."
He grabbed the bucket and shouted out to the boy outside, "Tommy, look after your brothers. Your mother and I will be back soon!"
"Got it!" the boy called back.
Soon, the couple set off into the night. Four children, ranging from four to ten years old, leaned on the creaky doorframe, watching their parents' silhouettes disappear into the darkness.
Carrying a large washbasin, Mrs. Lyon followed behind her husband. She spoke timidly, "Paul, I'm sorry. Will this affect your work tomorrow?"
The man shook his head silently. He knew he'd struggle to recover his strength with three fewer hours of sleep, but he didn't want to worry her. Tomorrow, he'd volunteer to "go into the pit" early to lighten his workload. Though it wasn't his turn, vomiting from toxic exposure for a few days was better than losing wages.
After walking in silence for a while, the woman brought up the earlier topic again. "Paul, maybe we should go to the tax office. I've kept all our old receipts and penalty slips. If there's any chance..."
Paul sighed, his voice weary. "It's pointless. Those officials only do things to bolster their records. Lord Boca paid the tax farm. Why would they go against him?"
They walked quietly for a moment. The woman gazed at the stars and spoke softly.
"Paul, do you remember Sophie?"
Sophie had been their old horse—five years ago.
"She kept farting and wouldn't eat. She was so weak she could barely stand. You said we should sell her to the butcher, but I wouldn't let you. I fed her oats every day for two weeks, and she recovered! The next year, thanks to her, we harvested 270 bushels of wheat! Remember? We danced around the drying field, and I was pregnant with Johan..."
Paul grumbled, "What's the point of bringing that up?"
"That was the happiest time of my life!" she said with a tearful smile. Holding the washbasin high like she'd once lifted her eldest son Tommy, she said, "Let's try, Paul. Lord Boca shouldn't have taken our land—or Sophie. If we can get it back, we can return to the village and start again.
"Even if the tax office doesn't help, we won't be worse off than we are now. Don't you agree?"
Paul hesitated, sighing. "But it'll cost us a whole day. When I passed Corse Street today, the tax office was packed. We might not even get through the line in one day.
"If I miss a day of work, we won't have bread, and they might dock another day's wages. We..."
"No matter!" she interrupted. "I can take on ten more pieces of laundry starting tomorrow. In half a month, I'll earn back enough for a day of bread. Please, Paul, let's try!"
Paul stopped, turning to her. Gently, he took her swollen, cracked hands, avoiding the two spots already festering.
"Look at your hands," he said softly. "You need rest, not more work."
During the day, she wove baskets, often cutting her fingers on the wicker. At night, her hands soaked in icy water as she scrubbed laundry, worsening her injuries. Her little and ring fingers on her left hand had already lost feeling. Father Hugo had warned they might need amputation to stop the infection from spreading to her arm.
But they had no money for such a procedure.
Even if a doctor offered to do it for free, she wouldn't dare accept. The recovery would leave her unable to work for a month, and her children might starve.
"No! Let them rot!" she cried, pulling her hand away. "One or two days, and maybe we'll get our land back!
"You wouldn't have to push those cursed carts full of dirt. You could finally avoid those toxins!
"I heard Mrs. Frank say her cousin went blind working with that stuff."
"Please, Paul. If we succeed, we'll have our paradise back!"
Their last hope lay with the tax office.
Paradise?
Leonor froze in place.
He had once been a farmer, a man with no particular skills. After his land had been seized by Lord Boca as payment for taxes, he had no choice but to come to Paris, taking on the cheapest and most undesirable jobs available.
Now, he worked for a dye factory. His job involved hauling cartloads of earth from seven or eight miles away to the factory. This soil, said to contain "alkaline substances," was dumped into large vats of toxic liquid to neutralize the poisons.
The work itself wasn't the worst part, but every ten days, he was required to descend into the vat and manually stir the soil into the liquid with a shovel. This brought him dangerously close to the noxious chemicals. After a day of such work, he was left dizzy, with his lungs and eyes burning as if set aflame.
By comparison, his days as a farmer seemed like a lost paradise. Waking up at dawn to till the soil, watering the crops, and returning home by sunset, though exhausting, left his body only sore—not destroyed. Even after paying taxes and tithes, they'd always had enough food to get by. His wife's hands had been unblemished back then, and his vision still clear.
He realized he had almost forgotten what that life had felt like.
Now, every ounce of his strength was consumed by 14-hour workdays. Any remaining energy was spent worrying over their meager scraps of bread. He barely had the will to think of anything else.
From beside him, his wife kept talking.
"Tommy is already 10 years old, and he still doesn't know how to read. Father Hugo said Mark is old enough to attend the church literacy classes, but instead, they have to clean chimneys to make money.
"If they can't learn to read, how will they ever find better-paying work?"
She hesitated, then added, "Oh, right. Mr. Faustin from the laundromat said the order to review tax accounts came directly from the Prince himself. Maybe the bureaucrats won't dare ignore it this time…"
A glimmer of hope flickered in Leonor's dull, tired eyes.
He vividly remembered how Paris had been when they first arrived. Gangs ran rampant, and pickpockets were as common as summer mosquitos. He and ten or so coworkers had needed to walk home together for safety.
Then, the Prince had launched a sweeping police reform. Leonor had witnessed the police, invoking the Prince's name, chase down gang members with firearms, corner them, and drag them off in droves.
Since then, life in the city had become much safer. Now, even at 10 p.m., people like him could walk to the Tinnis River to fetch water—a situation unimaginable just a few years earlier.
He also thought of the "miracle medicine," the Prince's Blessing, which could treat nearly all common ailments and was sold for just a few sous. Other medicines prescribed by local doctors cost over a franc. Many neighborhood children, including his own, owed their lives to this medicine, especially when it came to high fevers.
And then there was the memory of the Prince himself, resplendent in his golden armor, leading a triumphant army through Paris earlier that year. Leonor had seen him, a figure shining like a golden war god.
Surely, Leonor thought, the bureaucrats wouldn't dare defy such a man's orders.
With that thought, he nodded resolutely to his wife.
"Alright, my dear. Let's give it a try."
Paris – Corse Street
Leonor sat wearily on the ground, his stomach growling audibly. He had brought only half a pound of bread to sustain him through the long wait, thinking that waiting in line wouldn't require much energy.
"Next!"
The shout came from up ahead.
"It's your turn," someone nudged him.
Startled, Leonor scrambled to his feet and approached one of the long row of tables set up in front of the tax office.
A young clerk glanced up at him. "Your name? And what issue are you filing?"
"I… I'm Paul Gressien Leonor," he stammered. "I think, five years ago, the tax collector, Lord Boca, said I owed taxes…"
Swallowing nervously, he continued, "He fined me. But… I'd like to know if that was actually fair."
The clerk took the handful of receipts and papers Leonor handed him, nodding politely. "Can you explain the situation in more detail?"
Recalling what his supervisor at the factory, Mr. Pierre, had helped him prepare, Leonor took a deep breath.
"That spring was colder than usual. It slowed the growth of wheat.
"By May, the wheat was just starting to sprout. Then, Lord Boca sent word to the village that taxes were due early that year—in mid-June.
"In normal years, we'd start harvesting by mid-June. But that year, the wheat wasn't ready until July.
"The tax collector came to my house three times, demanding taxes. He even beat me. But the wheat hadn't been harvested yet—I had nothing to give him.
"So he said I owed a serious debt and imposed a fine twice the amount of the taxes owed."
Leonor's voice wavered, and his lips quivered as he struggled to continue.
"At the time, I had taken out a high-interest loan of 30 livres from Lord Boca to increase my spring planting. Even if I sold my entire harvest, I wouldn't have had enough left to pay the taxes after repaying him.
"The tax collector tied me to a tree in the village square for two days and nights. My wife was pregnant at the time, and the shock caused her to miscarry…"
Leonor's eyes reddened, and he looked pleadingly at the clerk. "Sir, taxes were never collected in June before—it was always July. If they hadn't changed the deadline that year, I could've paid. I've asked around, and Mr. Pierre said Lord Boca didn't have the authority to change the deadline like that…"
The young clerk frowned as he jotted down the details. After asking a few more clarifying questions, he handed Leonor a notice. "You can go home now. If we find any irregularities, someone will contact you."
"Thank you, sir! Thank you!" Leonor bowed repeatedly before heading back toward Antoine Town under the setting sun. Behind him, hundreds more people with similar grievances continued to wait in line.
Three days later, a tax officer arrived at Leonor's home with two assistants.
Tuileries Palace – Second Floor
Godefroid wore a self-satisfied expression as he spoke to the Prince.
"Your Highness, they're planning more than just halting trade. They're working to disrupt the operations of Marseille's port.
"I've heard from Pellier that they're pooling money to bribe port managers and workers into striking."
Joseph's face darkened immediately.
These fools really didn't know their limits.
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