Make France Great Again

August 20, 1850.

The "Gold Bar Lottery", later known as the "White Slave Trade", was successively launched in major cities such as Paris, Rouen, Lyon, Strasbourg, and Nancy.

The lottery features a pink theme, with the front displaying a string of "winning" numbers and a slogan reading "Give me one franc, and I'll return you a dream!" The back features a bust of Emperor Napoleon with a line of small print in the lower right corner stating [All proceeds from the lottery will be used to establish a "Worker Village" in a charitable manner].

The lottery was immediately and enthusiastically embraced by the vagrant proletarians of France, who, desperate to become overnight millionaires, spent their only money on lottery tickets.

In less than four days, nearly over 3 million tickets were sold out, forcing the printing house to work overtime.

Due to the second edition being printed at night, it was far inferior in workmanship and attention to detail compared to the first edition, resulting in multiple number duplication errors.

The second edition of the lottery reappeared at exhibition stands in various places six days later, with more of the fortune-hunting vagrant proletarian masses joining in.

Not only the vagrant proletarians, but even some workers who adhered to the principle of frugality could not resist the low price and their own gold rush dreams, and they too were willing to spend a little money to fulfill their dreams.

The second edition of 4 million lottery tickets also sold out in just over a week.

After experiencing two rounds of frenzied gamblers, people finally calmed down. However, the Gold Bar Lottery still won nearly 5 million tickets in the next half month's lottery.

In the end, about over 3,000 "lucky ones" were selected to go to California to realize their gold rush dreams.

[The reason there were so many people was due to the printing errors.]

Excluding the 20% share of printing and all major offline deals and the expenses for the lucky ones to reach France, Jerome Bonaparte was left with approximately over 9 million francs.

But these were matters for months later.

At this moment, he was holding a glass of wine, weaving through the ball hosted by the Mayor of Rouen, where every attendee was an elite figure in the Rouen Region, all invited by the Mayor of Rouen to attend the ball.

Jerome Bonaparte was skilled at integrating from one group to another, becoming the center of attention in an instant. He proudly declared to the group members that "no one understands and loves the Republic more than he does!" and "Only by fully realizing republicanism and universal suffrage can France truly be liberated!" with such words.

He would occasionally propose a toast to the Republic, to which Rouen's elites always responded with smiles and compliantly raised their glasses in a toast.

After drinking a glass, Rouen's elites would hint to Jerome Bonaparte to raise tariffs against Britain, thus ensuring France's competitive edge.

Jerome Bonaparte was already used to the comments from Rouen elites who wanted to raise tariffs to monopolize the market.

Ever since the establishment of absolute monarchy, France had maintained the tradition of increasing tariffs to protect its domestic economy.

Moreover, the foundation of French industry was inseparable from industrial protection.

Although raising tariffs would make imported coal more expensive, in a near-monopolistic market, there were still profits to be made.

Slightly tipsy, Jerome Bonaparte agreed to the request of the Rouen textile industry owner, who was overjoyed and continuously toasted Jerome Bonaparte.

With the crowd surrounding him, Jerome Bonaparte returned to his residence in Rouen.

Early the next morning, urgent knocking on the door resonated from outside the bedroom.

Head throbbing, Jerome Bonaparte forced his eyes open and lazily responded with his head buried in the pillow, "Come in!"

"Sir, intelligence from Britain!" Valerovsky placed the envelope beside Jerome Bonaparte's bed.

"What does it say? Read it to me!" The groggy Jerome Bonaparte, not wanting to open his eyes, lazily instructed Valerovsky.

Under Jerome Bonaparte's command, Valerovsky opened the envelope and loudly read the contents: "The former King of Orleans, Louis Philippe d'Orléans, is critically ill. Several doctors have issued a critical condition notice! Please let Your Majesty know!"

A fuzzy Jerome Bonaparte suddenly became alert. He opened his eyes and turned over, inquiring seriously, "What? Say it again!"

Valerovsky once again read the contents from the envelope to Jerome Bonaparte.

"Ha!" The news of Louis Philippe's impending death completely invigorated Jerome Bonaparte. Nothing was more exciting than this news.

"I thought he could survive this summer, but I never expected him to die so soon! Truly a blessing from God!" Jerome Bonaparte was immensely stirred: "I thought there might be some changes…"

"Indeed!" A trace of sadness flashed in Valerovsky's eyes. He still maintained a respectful attitude toward the gentleman residing in Clément.

Back during the Orléans Dynasty, Louis Philippe had often assisted him.

"Good! Good! Good!" Compared to Valerovsky's grief, Jerome Bonaparte didn't hold such a favorable impression of Louis Philippe.

Aside from being rivals for the throne, Jerome Bonaparte's own brother also indirectly died at the hands of Louis Philippe.

The hatred between Jerome Bonaparte and Louis Philippe could be described as 'irreconcilable.'

"Your Excellency, we believe we should be more wary of the Order Party!" Valerovsky couldn't help but suggest to Jerome Bonaparte.

"Why?" Jerome Bonaparte asked Valerovsky.

"The obstacles for Louis Philippe are gone. Both the Orléans Faction and the Orthodox Faction are intent on merging! As long as the monarchs of both factions agree..." Valerovsky analyzed for Jerome Bonaparte from a common man's perspective.

"Why not a rift between the two factions' monarchs?" Jerome Bonaparte retorted.

"Your Excellency, they are already at a disadvantage; it's unlikely they would engage in internal conflict again!" Valerovsky spoke cautiously.

"Cousin, you don't understand the Count of Chambord! This guy would never unite with the Orléans Faction, believe me! After Louis Philippe's death, that's when these two factions will completely split." Jerome Bonaparte stated resolutely, eagerly anticipating the internal strife between the Orléans Faction and the Orthodox Faction due to various monarchical and class [feudal hierarchical system vs. bourgeois monarchy system] reasons.

...

While Jerome Bonaparte and Valerovsky discussed Louis Philippe at Rouen Castle, Louis Philippe in Clermont Town, a suburb of London, was experiencing his life's final moments.

As Britain is situated further north than France, London's time is also nearly an hour later than Paris.

When the hazy mist dissipated from over Clermont Town, the warm and gentle sunlight slowly rose, sweeping over every inch of the fields.

The grassy fields and lush forests thrived even more under the nourishment of the sunlight, a refreshing island breeze blew through the depths of the jungle, and a vibrant prosperity filled the countryside.

In this flourishing countryside, only one villa was enveloped in a lingering cloud of sadness.

According to the information gleaned from the peasants leaning against the scarecrow and the country gentry in the tavern, the owners of that villa were on the brink of returning to God's embrace.

As the peasants and gentry casually chatted, they were right; at this moment, a tense and uneasy atmosphere permeated the second floor of the villa. The servants spoke in hushed tones, fearing to irritate their ill-tempered master, yet the source of all this tension came from a bedroom on the villa's second floor.

The bedroom was filled with gentlemen in tidy suits, all eyes focused on the elderly man lying in bed, covered with a white blanket up to his waist—he was the former King of Orléans, Louis Philippe.

Louis Philippe lay there with closed eyes, appearing to be asleep, while beside him was an elderly woman with graying hair, his wife, the former Queen of the Orléans Kingdom.

She watched Louis Philippe with tearful eyes. According to the Royal Family doctor's diagnosis from the previous night, Louis Philippe was unlikely to survive past noon today.

Today was likely the last day Louis Philippe would see through.

"Your Majesty! Your Majesty! They are all here, Count Morel, Mr. Guizot, Audion Barrot—they have all come! Open your eyes, Your Majesty!" The elderly woman called softly to Louis Philippe, hoping to awaken him with the familiar sound of his name.

The ailing Louis Philippe seemed to hear the Queen's calling, struggling in his muddled consciousness to open his eyes. A light appeared in his awareness, and Louis Philippe moved towards the direction it guided. When the "road" came to an end, a vague voice reached his ears, "My child, you still have matters to settle, go back first!"

The voice was so familiar, yet so strange.

Momentarily, Louis Philippe couldn't recall whose voice it was; he followed the guidance of the voice...

I must go back!

Louis Philippe's lips moved slightly, prompting the eternally weeping elderly woman to gasp: "Your Majesty, you're awake? Are you alright!"

Louis Philippe reopened his eyes, observing all present with his cloudy gaze.

Soon, his lips stirred again, and with his expression, it seemed Louis Philippe was exerting all his historic strength. The Queen leaned close to his ear, "Let the Count of Paris come over!"

The Queen quickly signaled for everyone to clear a path for the Count of Paris; the twelve-year-old Count of Paris looked tearfully at his bedridden grandfather.

Louis Philippe extended his hand to touch the head of the Count of Paris, only to find he had no strength for such a gesture.

The Queen promptly placed the Count of Paris's hand in Louis Philippe's hand. Louis Philippe, with a gratifying smile, mustered his strength to speak intermittently, "I...did not... give you a complete throne...hoping my death...will allow you to reclaim the throne!"

Soon after, as if using every ounce of strength, Louis Philippe sat up, his pale face regained a normal hue. Everyone knew this was merely a momentary recovery; they leaned in to listen to his final words.

"Mr. Morel, Mr. Barrow, please convey to the Count of Chambord that I feel deeply remorseful for seizing the throne in the past."