Chapter 537: The Prince's "Mistresses"
Joseph had initially been prepared to enjoy a relaxing massage, but he had greatly underestimated both the force behind those delicate hands and the amateur nature of their owner's technique.
Camelia's every move missed its mark, her fingers repeatedly pressing on tendon connections, twisting and pulling with enthusiasm. Combined with the strength she had developed from daily cleaning and hauling heavy soup pots, her techniques soon had Joseph tearing up in pain.
"Ahhh—stop! Stop!" Joseph cried out, his voice breaking into a plea. "I can't take it! I'm dying!"
At this moment, the newly arrived Sorel heard the scream and froze in alarm. Squinting through the dim light, she saw a woman pinning the Prince to what looked like a "long table," one hand pressing against his neck while the other raised a dark object that appeared ready to strike.
Hearing Joseph shout, "I'm dying!" sent a shiver down Sorel's spine. An assassin!
Thank heavens she had arrived in time! This was her chance to redeem herself for the Prince!
With no time to draw her sword, she darted to the massage table and delivered a swift kick, sending the "assassin" flying.
Outside, Captain Cressaud also heard Joseph's cries and dashed into the room, sword drawn, just in time to see a cloaked figure kick Camelia and begin unsheathing a blade.
Damn it! An assassination attempt?!
Without hesitation, the captain lunged forward, his blade whistling through the air as it struck the intruder's weapon.
"Clang!" Sorel's sword flew out of her hand under the force of Cressaud's blow. He quickly pinned her to the floor with his blade at her chest.
Hearing the commotion, Joseph sat up, rubbing his aching shoulder, and saw his captain locked in combat with a black-clad figure.
Both Sorel and Cressaud turned to the Prince and shouted in unison:
"Your Highness, be careful—there's an assassin!"
At the same time, a groaning Camelia propped herself up, clutching her shoulder, and cried out:
"Your Highness, run! There's an assassin!"
After their cries, the three of them stared at each other in confusion. Why was the "assassin" outing themselves?
Moments later, a dozen royal guards rushed in with muskets aimed, forming a circle around everyone. One of them lit the gas lamp, flooding the room with bright light.
Joseph finally saw the face beneath the hood and exclaimed in surprise:
"Sorel? It's you? How did you get in here?"
"I..." Sorel glanced at Camelia, who was holding her shoulder in pain, and quickly said, "Your Highness, she was about to assassinate you! I was trying to save you!"
Joseph looked at the tearful and pale-faced Camelia, who was now being tended to by the maids. He sighed.
"She wasn't trying to assassinate me, Sorel. Her technique was a bit... vigorous, but it wasn't an attempt on my life."
Ten minutes later, the guards withdrew, leaving Sorel sitting shamefaced before Joseph with her head bowed. She pushed a bundle of 5,000 francs toward him.
"Your Highness, I truly only came to return the money... I was afraid you wouldn't accept it, so I snuck in..."
After explaining herself, she turned to Camelia, who was still wincing in pain as the maids applied a compress to her shoulder. Sorel bowed deeply and said:
"My deepest apologies, dear lady. This is entirely my fault... I'll pay for your medical expenses. Please forgive me."
Once Joseph confirmed with the court physician that Camelia had only suffered minor injuries, he breathed a sigh of relief. Then, picking up the large stack of banknotes, he handed it back to Sorel.
"You've misunderstood. I only wagered 10 livres on you that day. Ahem, not because I lacked confidence in you—I just don't like gambling."
"Ten livres?!" Sorel froze, her face cycling through shades of red and white. Looking at the 5,000 francs in her hands, she remembered her conviction that the Prince had bet heavily on her victory. Embarrassment coursed through her as she realized how wrong she'd been.
Joseph sighed, feeling utterly drained by the evening's events. He turned to Cressaud and said:
"It's late. Please escort Miss Frez back to her residence."
"Of course, Your Highness."
Sorel hesitated before setting the money on the table again. "Your Highness, thank you for your understanding. Please consider this compensation for disrupting your rest..."
Joseph refused, but after some back-and-forth, he finally conceded.
"All right. I'll accept it under one condition: I'll invest this money in the King's Fund under your name. You'll receive annual dividends."
Improving France's dire finances had become second nature to him—no opportunity was too small to seize.
Sorel nodded and, after a hasty bow, fled the room in a fluster.
Two days later.
At the Lavoisier residence, Madame Lavoisier, Marianne, dabbed at her tears as she confided in her friend, Perna:
"It's all Antoine's fault. His soul was clouded by greed, and he committed such shameful acts. Now he's consumed with guilt and spends his days repenting."
After receiving a 15-year prison sentence from the High Court, Antoine Lavoisier had been terrified. He wanted to beg the Prince for leniency but feared incurring his wrath—especially since the Prince had championed the tax reforms he had undermined.
Thankfully, Lavoisier had heeded the Prince's advice two years ago and ceased his tax farming activities; otherwise, his punishment might have been even harsher.
He had sent Marianne to seek help from Perna, hoping the doctor's connection to the Prince might aid his case. Little did he know Joseph had already resolved to request a pardon from the King on his behalf.
Perna consoled Marianne softly:
"Pay the fine as quickly as possible. I promise to ask the Prince to help. Oh, and you may need to prepare a bail payment."
"Thank you, dear Perna. You're the only one who can save Antoine!" Marianne grasped her friend's hands, crying profusely.
The two women spoke until the afternoon, and only after Perna's repeated assurances did Marianne finally relax. Then, curiosity got the better of her.
"By the way, have you heard the rumors about the Prince's mistresses?"
"Mistresses?!" Perna's heart skipped a beat.
"I heard one is some wild girl named Sorel, and the other is his maid. Apparently, the two got into a jealous fight over the Prince the other night. The maid was injured, and the royal guards had to intervene to stop them.
"My dear, you should act quickly! Don't forget—you've been by the Prince's side the longest. You should assert your status as his chief mistress and teach those two their place!"
"Cough, cough, cough!" Perna choked on her tea, her cheeks burning crimson.
It was the first time someone had referred to her as the Prince's mistress—let alone his chief mistress!
But deep down, a warm sweetness blossomed in her heart.
She knew her lowly status meant she could never marry the Prince. For years, she had repressed her feelings, content just to stay by his side.
But Marianne's words planted a seed of hope.
Yes... even if I can't marry him, wouldn't being his mistress allow me to stay by his side forever? Oh, heavens! What am I thinking? How utterly scandalous!
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