The Shadow of Great Britain

The wanderer walked out into the alley, lost and dejected, his back hunching once more.

"Wait!"

Unexpectedly, he hadn't gone far when Clara called out to him: "Where can you go without us?"

The wanderer did not turn back; he just shook his head: "There will always be a way, everything will pass eventually, God would never let his most gentle flock fall into the hands of evildoers."

"The flock! Always talking about the flock! Can't you live without God?"

Clara, exasperated, exclaimed: "It's been years since the Vendee, the Girondists, the Jacobins, the Bonapartists, the Royalists, and now the Orleans Party, haven't you seen yet? They're all the same!

No matter who comes to power, there will be no good days, just worse and even worse. I can save you once, twice, three times, but if you keep going on like this, I can't save you countless times! I'm just a girl, not the Senate President!

You promised me that if it didn't work this time, you wouldn't try again. But now you're actually plotting to assassinate the King again! Do you think those police and guards are fools? I guarantee, the next time you act, you won't even get close before they pin you to the ground!"

"But... it's a last resort, we can't leave Paris anymore. Now, the roads out of the city are full of checkpoints, and every carriage coming and going is inspected."

"What's the big deal? Can the sentries recognize each and every one of you?"

The wanderer hesitated: "We've lost someone, Duhan is missing, and we suspect he might have been captured and turned or directly defected to the police."

"What?" Clara was startled: "When did he go missing?"

"Just the night before last. He said he was going for a drink, but we waited until dawn and he didn't return. The leader sensed something was wrong, so we decided to move immediately. Shortly after we left, our lookouts saw a group of people break into our place, likely plainclothes officers from the Security Department."

"Wait... are you saying... they already know your real identities?"

"I... I'm not sure, but that's what the leader thinks."

Upon hearing this, Clara felt a chill run through her.

It was then she realized the perilous situation she and her companions had fallen into.

The false identification documents the Royalist peasants used to rent carriages were all arranged by her. Although she had been very careful to maintain a single line of contact with these compatriots, Duhan did not know her identity and profession. However, he did know there was a middleman for the Royalists, and that their documents came from St. Pelagie Prison.

At this thought, she immediately recalled the counterfeiter Francois, who had helped her tremendously.

While she had mixed the Royalists' needs with the ordinary needs of the Gervais crime syndicate at the time, there was no guarantee it wouldn't be traced back to her.

After all, she was among those who had represented the Gervais syndicate to meet with Francois during that period.

A cold chill ran from head to toe, and Clara couldn't help but shiver.

Clara, stay calm, stay calm!

Though Clara kept warning herself inwardly, in this life-and-death matter, her courage remained insufficient.

The wanderer seemed to sense Clara's emotional change and apologetically removed his worn hat: "Don't worry, once we execute the second plan, their attention will turn entirely to us. After all, Clara, you've done so much for us already, and everyone is really grateful. I... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come today. Forget me, and I'll forget you too."

"Lori!"

Clara shouted at the wanderer by name, but no matter how she called out, the wanderer didn't turn back again, hunching his back as he vanished into the bustling crowd of the alley.

Watching his figure disappear, Clara grit her teeth and stomped her foot fiercely: "Oh God! Sheep are always sheep, and peasants remain peasants!"

...

Paris, Breaux Detective Agency.

Arthur was standing before a full-length mirror, adjusting his outfit for this evening's banquet, a pure black bow tie, a distinctive top hat, a well-tailored tailcoat, and a crisp, clean white shirt with a pleated ruffle.

Beside him were several friends who would accompany him to the banquet tonight.

Mr. Louis Bonaparte of noble lineage, the proud Heinrich Heine, the scriptwriter Dumas the Great, and Vidocq scrutinizing the young gentlemen with his pipe in hand.

However, at first glance, these gentlemen seemed somewhat unfamiliar. Though their builds remained normal and their faces unchanged, the simple embellishments and makeup rendered their appearances vastly different from before.

The cosmetics commonly used by women became magical tools for transformation in Vidocq's hands, changing skin tones, simulating wrinkles, and adding freckles; a few simple strokes altered everyone's facial features, almost as if they were different people.

Usage of wigs and fake mustaches enhanced the transformative effects of the makeup, and for someone as conspicuous as the Great Dumas, Vidocq resorted to using realistic masks made of plaster, clay, leather, animal fur, and papier-mâché.