Unlike the somewhat formal and ceremonial audience he had granted the Navy Minister, His Royal Highness the Crown Prince received the Marquis de Saint-Priest, Minister of War, in a manner far more discreet.
The setting was his private study—a richly appointed but quiet chamber paneled in dark oak, the fire in the hearth crackling softly beneath an ornate marble mantel. All servants were sent away with a nod, and the guards posted ten paces from the door, beyond earshot.
Once alone, Joseph unfurled his plan with calm precision, his words laced with both confidence and implication. As the Minister listened, the lines on his weathered brow deepened.
At last, Saint-Priest could no longer contain himself. "Nijmegen?" he exclaimed. "How in heaven's name did Your Highness come to learn that she is being held there?!"
Joseph suppressed a smile. He could hardly admit the truth—that he had watched a modern historical documentary centuries beyond the present. Instead, with a hint of aloof mystery, he replied, "Ah, monsieur, allow me to keep certain matters veiled. Suffice it to say, the information is reliable beyond doubt."
The Marquis paced for a moment, digesting the details. His expression turned grave.
"The plan is daring," he muttered. "Too daring, perhaps. One misstep from a courier, one intercepted message… and we could find ourselves embroiled in war."
Joseph folded his hands behind his back, his tone steady. "The risk, while present, is not as grave as it seems. Should the plan come to light, Prussia will still have little appetite for conflict—not with its treasury as dry as a sun-baked canal. As long as Her Highness Princess Wilhelmina remains unharmed, King Frederick will be inclined to play along with our version of events."
Saint-Priest frowned, stroking his chin. "I shall, of course, raise this matter before Her Majesty. It must have her sanction."
Joseph inclined his head graciously. "Naturally."
As he escorted the Minister to the door, he paused.
"Oh—and one more thing, monsieur le marquis."
Saint-Priest turned. "Yes, Your Highness?"
"Given the gravity of what I have provided today—an operation, a resolution, and the budget to make it possible—should you not thank me properly?"
The Minister blinked. For a moment, he looked as though he had forgotten his own name. Indeed, the Crown Prince had cleared a path through the Cabinet, conjured funds from thin air, and devised the core strategy for dealing with the Dutch crisis—and he had yet to utter a word of gratitude.
He bowed his head, contrite. "I… truly owe Your Highness a debt of thanks."
Joseph smiled thinly. "Then perhaps, instead of words, a token of goodwill?"
"Your Highness has but to name it."
Joseph's voice was light, almost playful. "Twenty of your finest spies."
Saint-Priest turned pale, his eyes wide with horror. "Twenty?! Your Highness, forgive me, but do you suppose I pluck spies from the hedgerows? I doubt the entire army can claim twenty truly skilled operatives!"
Joseph raised an eyebrow. "Eighteen, then."
"Two," the Minister said firmly. "And that is stretching our reserves."
"Fifteen."
"Three. No more!"
"Twelve. Final offer."
"Four. Not a man more."
The two haggled like merchants in the souk, the future of espionage bartered over a fireplace. At last, the Minister relented, wiping his brow.
"You shall have three elite agents, and eight regular field operatives. That is the very best I can do without denuding our intelligence network entirely."
Joseph agreed with a gracious smile, though inwardly he was quite satisfied. The cornerstone of a national intelligence bureau—however modest—had now been laid.
But the day's work was far from done.
No sooner had Saint-Priest departed than the two men recommended by Queen Mary arrived in succession. Joseph received them with the courtesy due to capable servants of the Crown and engaged each in long, deliberate conversation.
The first, Monsieur de Besançon, had served as a regional trade coordinator and led the Mounted Police in rooting out smuggling networks. He was a man of order, skilled in logistics, with a firm but fair manner.
The second, Captain Frient, had once commanded a company in the Flanders Regiment and now oversaw recruitment within the Royal Infantry. He had the bearing of a man forged by discipline and war.
Joseph weighed their temperaments carefully and, after hearing their own inclinations, made his decision. Besançon was appointed Director of Paris Police Services, a position requiring administrative excellence and organizational command.
Captain Frient, meanwhile, was entrusted with an equally important post: Dean of the Paris Police Academy, a newly envisioned institution. Joseph, of course, would serve as Principal—a title he bore with a smile that betrayed no small sense of amusement.
"You will both be at the vanguard of the city's transformation," Joseph said. "Monsieur Besançon, your first charge shall be to extend our reforms across the entire breadth of Paris. I have compiled our regulations into a single volume—implement them to the letter.
"The Saint Antoine District is presently stable. Draw personnel from there as needed to assess the remaining wards. And should you require further manpower, I shall provide detachments of the Royal Guard."
From behind him, Captain Kesode shifted ever so slightly, his eyelid twitching. Since the police reforms began, the Royal Guard had been called upon with increasing frequency—to suppress riots, escort officials, and now apparently to serve as glorified beat constables.
Besançon, however, had his concerns. "Your Highness, reorganizing the entirety of Paris's police will require no small sum. Salaries alone will likely exceed 50,000 livres a month. Equipment and uniforms will cost nearly as much."
"Do not concern yourself with coin," Joseph said. "I shall provide 50,000 livres monthly. Begin at once."
The former trade coordinator bowed deeply. "Your Highness is most generous."
Joseph then turned to Frient, his tone shifting.
"Your burden will be equally heavy. First, you must secure a location for the academy—remote, inexpensive, but not so distant that it hinders access. Second, staff must be assembled. Start with veterans. Officers retired from the army—any who can train recruits and instill discipline."
"I know many such men," Frient said without hesitation. "They will answer the call."
"They shall be paid as municipal officials, plus thirty percent," Joseph added. "Recruit without delay."
But that was not all.
"Beyond combat instruction," he continued, "we must teach finance, trade, journalism, and law. Our officers must be equipped with intellect as well as arms."
Frient blinked. "But, Your Highness, those are academic disciplines—what relevance have they to law enforcement?"
Before Joseph could reply, Besançon interjected, comprehension dawning.
"I believe His Highness means that only by understanding the minds of criminals can one apprehend them efficiently. When I first began pursuing smugglers, I knew nothing of tariffs, routes, or ledgers. It was not until I studied the practices of the trade that I made my first arrest."
Joseph nodded. "Precisely. A professional force must be more capable than those it pursues—not merely in strength, but in cunning."
Frient, deeply impressed, quickly opened a notebook and began scribbling notes. "This is… revolutionary."
Before they departed, Joseph provided an additional 20,000 livres in founding capital for the academy and bid them farewell with a sense of satisfaction.
Later, back in the quiet of his study, his personal accountant entered, carrying two expense reports. Joseph perused them in silence, lips tightening as the total sum emerged—70,000 livres in a single day.
His personal fortune, once 200,000 livres, had dwindled alarmingly. Between salaries, Lamark's laboratory, and new institutions, he now held barely 100,000 livres.
He let out a long breath. Money was flowing like spring rain. Without fresh revenue, even royal ambitions would wither.
And so his mind turned to salicin—the fever medicine that had incidentally opened a far more lucrative door.
With a glance at the doorway, he called out softly, "Eman."
The ever-present attendant stepped in, quill and parchment in hand.
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Take down the following order…"
Joseph dictated with precision:
50 kilograms of glycerin
1 kilogram of rose oil
500 seven-ounce glass flacons
500 finely crafted wooden cases, fitted to the bottles
"And on each box," Joseph paused, inspiration fluttering at the edge of memory. He recalled a gift—SK-II Miracle Water, given by a university roommate to a girl who had cried with delight.
He smiled.
"Engrave the name: Eau des Anges—'Angel Water'."
Eman looked up, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"All of it," Joseph added, "must be of the highest quality. Do not spare a single livre."
"As you command, Your Highness."
And so it began—the Crown Prince's first venture into commerce, born not of greed but of necessity, ambition, and a touch of vision. His treasury might be light, but the winds of reform—and of profit—were gathering strength.