The Shadow of Great Britain

421: Chapter 239: Great Century (4K4)_2 421: Chapter 239: Great Century (4K4)_2 Not long ago, when the Charcoal Burners’ uprising took place in Rome and Austria declared its intervention, my aunt, deeply worried about you and your brother being caught in the war, sent me a letter seeking help.

I took the initiative to volunteer to my grandfather, planning to bring my troops and rescue you from the mire of Rome, but Metternich directly rejected my request.

Metternich said, “Prince, your body has become so frail that anyone who sees you would find it odd, and you can’t even make a normal sound.

How could you give commands to the troops?

Please forgive my bluntness, but anyone would be worried seeing you like this.

For your sake, as well as for Austria’s, please go and rest properly.”

He dismissed my military powers nonchalantly, plucking out my feathers one by one, turning me back into a harmless mascot of the Vienna court.

My doctor suggested that Vienna’s winter was too cold and proposed sending me to the sunny Naples for convalescence, but Metternich refused just as bluntly.

I know what he fears beneath his calm exterior.

He fears my heroic lineage; he fears that as soon as my feet touch the soil of the Apennine Peninsula, calls to ‘elect Napoleon II as King’ would arise.

Such a scenario had already occurred in France during the July Revolution last year, and he could not let me, the caged canary, leave Vienna’s cage at any cost.

The letter I’m writing now is from my bed in Vienna, where I suffer in body and bleed at heart, but I know they can’t defeat me.

Deep within my soul, in my blood, the unquenchable fire of France burns on.

Louis, the initial reason my aunt asked me to write to you was to persuade you to act with caution in the future.

But as I write this, I realize I simply cannot do it.

I understand your actions, because I too know what the name Napoleon represents.

Louis, the political mission left to us by the Bonaparte family is far too heavy.

Your unworthy brother, Francois Joseph Charles Bonaparte.

September 20, 1831, written from my sickbed in Vienna.

Louis Bonaparte’s mind would occasionally flash back to fragments of this letter.

His face still wore a bright smile, but the gloom in his heart was beyond anyone’s comprehension.

He paused at the door of the Criminal Investigation Department’s office, looking up at the window beside the hallway.

London’s dreary rain had been falling for several days, and the passersby on Whitehall were wrapped up tightly in their overcoats.

Louis Bonaparte, clutching the documents against his chest, couldn’t help but murmur, “Which is colder, Vienna’s winter or London’s?

Charles, are we doing right or wrong?”

He bowed his head, as if pondering something.

However, suddenly a warm voice sounded from behind him, “Right and wrong are but footnotes written by God.

In a person’s life, it only matters to live brilliantly.

Though I dislike Hegel, he did say something quite poetic.

Louis, do you know?

Minerva’s owl only flies at dusk.”

Louis Bonaparte’s body shivered slightly, and he turned around to look.

Arthur had silently appeared behind him, a book tucked under his arm and a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

Louis hurriedly turned around to salute him, then passed over the documents he held, “Inspector Hastings, the minutes from yesterday’s meeting and last month’s crime statistics from Scotland Yard have all been organized.”

Arthur glanced at the file cover, nodded slightly and said, “Well done.

It seems you’re adapting very well to Scotland Yard, you could be considered a quite good secretarial officer.

So…”

Arthur pushed open the office door, smiling and bending slightly, “Why not come in for a cup of tea?

It’s not good to be tense all the time.

Working at Scotland Yard isn’t like being in prison.”

Arthur lifted the teapot from the table, poured him a cup of tea, and took out a plate of pastries from the cabinet beside it.

Yet before he could place them on the table, he noticed that a few of the pastry biscuits in the box seemed to be missing a corner.

Arthur glanced at Agares lying on the office sofa, burping contentedly with his belly covered, discreetly picked the few biscuits out, then turned around with a smile to place the pastries on the table, asking, “What’s wrong?

Feeling down?

I was just like you when I first came to Scotland Yard, going to work every day with a sour face.

This place indeed knows how to make life difficult.”

Louis Bonaparte took the teacup, first laughing softly, then shook his head, “No, sir.

After experiencing the failed uprising and escape, I feel this kind of life is not easy, but it’s not so bad as to leave me with a frown.

Sometimes, I even find doing work quite relaxing.

If I have tasks at hand, keeping busy means I don’t have room for idle thoughts, which mentally relaxes me more.”

“Speaking of which, the case information gathering assignment you gave me on Bernie Harrison, though it seemed trivial, made me feel I was rewarded for my efforts.

I’m somewhat embarrassed to say that this might be the first thing I’ve accomplished in many years.”

“It gives me a sense of satisfaction, and I feel like I’ve really done something with my own strength, albeit my contribution is very minor.”