SGB Chapter 275

## Chapter 275: The Great Century (4K4)

**London, Westminster, 4 Whitehall Street, Metropolitan Police Headquarters.**

Louis Bonaparte, with a stack of documents in his arms, bustled through the halls of Scotland Yard. Colleagues passing by would briefly raise their hats in greeting.

Despite having joined Scotland Yard a month ago, the officers’ curiosity towards him hadn’t diminished. It was already a sensation for someone from the Bonaparte family to become a police officer at Scotland Yard. But Louis Bonaparte was more than just a Bonaparte, he was a strong contender for the next heir to the family throne.

His older brother, who had joined the Carbonari uprising alongside him, had died in Italy. His uncle, former King of Spain Joseph Bonaparte, was now old and frail.

The current head of the Bonaparte family, Napoleon’s son, was known for his weak health. As a result, this young man, who had always been overlooked within the family, had quietly ascended to the position of second in line for the family’s leadership.

In other words, as long as he stayed healthy and lived long enough, he had a real chance to lead the Bonaparte family into the future.

The officers of Scotland Yard saw Louis Bonaparte as just another officer. He was friendly and approachable, and although his gestures hinted at aristocratic upbringing, he never came across as arrogant or condescending. It was easy to forget he was a member of royalty.

However, unbeknownst to them, the young man’s tailcoat pocket held a warm letter. He had received it that morning. The letter was from Vienna, the capital of Austria. The sender was his cousin, Napoleon’s only legitimate heir, the grandson of Austrian Emperor Franz I, and Duke of Reichstadt of the Austrian Empire – François Joseph Charles Bonaparte.

*Dear Louis,*

*How are you doing? It’s funny to think that when we last parted, you were 7 and I was 4. To be honest, I barely remember what you looked like. But somehow, maybe it’s the blood connection, I still care about you, and about every member of the Bonaparte family.*

*My father and stepmother wrote to me recently, saying they had found you in London. Thank God, you weren’t buried under the cannons of the Apennine Peninsula. Though I’m younger than you, it’s not appropriate for me to say this, but I still hope you live long.*

*Louis, from the perspective of protecting our family, I think it was incredibly reckless of you to join the Carbonari uprising. But judging from a young man’s perspective, I completely understand your impulsiveness.*

*Louis, I’m even a little jealous of you. You could stand under the sky of the Apennine Peninsula and proudly declare yourself a Bonaparte. But I can’t do that. The Viennese court has always had mixed feelings about me. On one hand, they acknowledge the noble Habsburg and Bonaparte blood flowing through my veins. On the other hand, they refuse to mention my father in front of me.*

*Yes, they almost never mention Napoleon’s accomplishments. Since I was very young, I’ve been taught that I’m a Habsburg, taught to hate France, to be hostile towards the French soil.*

*I was confused for a while, and I even considered embracing this identity they gave me. But when I truly tried to integrate, I suddenly realized they didn’t truly see me as a noble Austrian Habsburg.*

*They would flatteringly call me a prince of Austria, but behind my back, they’d call me Little Napoleon.*

*My heart felt like it was being torn apart. I felt my soul scream. That’s when I finally understood. I’m not some Austrian prince, and I don’t belong to the Habsburgs. I’m just a noble prisoner of the Habsburgs, bound by chains.*

*From that moment, I went crazy trying to make up for the missing part of my past. I craved understanding my father, and I craved understanding this land of France. But they wouldn’t let me. They wouldn’t even let me enter the Royal Library of Vienna, for fear that I would see the truth I wanted to know.*

*To gain access, I began to actively seek military training and started to request from my grandfather to join the Austrian army. I finally got to see the past of the French Empire through the military doctrines they taught me. On the sand table, I finally learned about the glorious achievements of the Bonaparte family.*

*After completing my military education, my grandfather appointed me captain of the 16th Regiment in Hungary. But Metternich still didn’t trust me. My troops were in Hungary, but they placed my command headquarters near the Vienna Imperial Palace.*

*But I didn’t give up. I did my best to prove to them that my efforts were worthwhile. As you might know, my physique is weak, but I can compensate for physical frailty with mental strength. I fell ill several times, but every time I recovered, I rushed back to handle military affairs.*

*When the Carbonari uprising happened in Rome recently, my stepmother sent me a plea for help when she learned that you and your brother were caught in the fire.*

*I volunteered to my grandfather, wanting to lead my troops to rescue you from the mire of Rome. But Metternich directly rejected my request.*

*Metternich said: “Prince, your body has become so thin that anyone who sees you will be alarmed. Even your normal voice is barely audible. How can you command troops like this? Let me be frank, anyone who sees you will worry. For your sake, and for Austria’s sake, you should rest.” He casually relieved me of my military duties, plucked away my feathers one by one, turning me back into a harmless mascot of the Viennese court. My doctor said that Vienna’s winter was too cold and suggested I go to Naples for a cure in the sunshine. But Metternich stubbornly refused.*

*I know he’s afraid of something beneath his calm exterior. He’s afraid of my heroic bloodline. He’s afraid that if my feet ever touch the soil of the Apennine Peninsula, cries of “Long live Napoleon the Second!” will erupt. This happened in France during the July Revolution last year. He cannot allow me, this caged canary, to leave the Vienna cage.*

*This letter was written from my sickbed in Vienna. My body is aching, my heart is bleeding, but I know they can’t break me. Deep within my soul, within my very blood, the French fire burns eternally.*

*Louis, my stepmother’s initial intention in asking me to write was to urge you to be cautious in your future actions. But as I write, I realize I can’t do that. I understand your actions because I also know what the name Napoleon represents.*

*Louis, the political mission that the Bonaparte family has left us is too heavy to bear.*

*Your inept younger brother, François Joseph Charles Bonaparte.*

*September 20, 1831, written from a sickbed in Vienna.*

Louis Bonaparte’s mind kept flashing back to fragments of this letter. His face still held a bright smile, but the storm clouds in his heart remained unseen. He paused outside the office of the Criminal Investigation Department, looking up at the window beside the corridor. London’s rain had been falling for days, and the pedestrians on Whitehall Street were wrapped tightly in coats.

Louis Bonaparte held the documents close to his chest and muttered softly, “Which winter is colder, Vienna or London? Charles, are we doing the right thing?”

He lowered his head, seeming to be deep in thought.

But behind him, a gentle voice suddenly sounded, “Right and wrong are annotations written by God. For a human life, it’s enough to live it well. I don’t like Hegel, but he had a very profound saying. Louis, do you know? The owl of Minerva only flies at dusk.”

Louis Bonaparte trembled and turned around. Arthur had quietly appeared behind him, a book under his arm and a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

Louis quickly saluted, then handed the documents to him, “Inspector Hastings, the meeting minutes from yesterday and the crime statistics for Scotland Yard last month have been compiled.”

Arthur glanced at the cover of the documents, nodded slightly, “Well done. It seems you’ve adapted well to Scotland Yard. You’re a pretty good police secretary. So…”

Arthur pushed open the door to his office, smiling and bowing, “Come in and have 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 picked up the teapot on his desk and poured him a cup of tea. He then fetched a plate of snacks from the cupboard. But before he could set it down, he noticed that some of the shortbread cookies seemed to have a corner missing.

Arthur glanced at Agareus, who was lying on the office couch, clutching his stomach and burping. He discreetly picked out the missing cookies, then smiled as he placed the plate down, asking, “What’s wrong? Not feeling well? Actually, when I first came to Scotland Yard, I was just like you, with a sour face every day. This place always finds ways to give you a hard time.”

Louis Bonaparte held the teacup, laughed softly, then shook his head, “No, sir. After escaping from the failed uprising, I feel that this life, while not easy, isn’t depressing enough to make me frown. Sometimes, I even find it quite relaxing to have something to do. Having a full schedule makes it harder for me to overthink, so my mind is more relaxed.

Take the task you gave me of gathering information on Bernie Harrison’s case, for example. It might seem like a small matter, but I truly feel like my efforts have been rewarded. To be honest, I’m a little embarrassed, but this might be the first thing I’ve actually accomplished in years.

It makes me feel fulfilled, like I’ve truly contributed something with my own power. Although my contribution is very insignificant.”

Arthur heard this and joked, “Louis, this isn’t a small matter. For Scotland Yard, this is a huge deal. Besides, the information you gathered is not insignificant. Only truly capable people can do this work. Those bigwigs who make policies have a bunch of people giving them advice. They only need to choose one option from those suggestions. And even if things go wrong in the future, they can just blame the one who gave the advice. But we, as executors and advisors, if we screw up, who can we blame?”

Louis Bonaparte was stunned for a moment, then asked, “Did you come up with that yourself?”

Arthur blew on his hot coffee, “No, but I’ve found many practitioners in history. You may not know, but I majored in history at the University of London.”

Louis Bonaparte, hearing this, couldn’t help but put down his documents, and said with a wry smile, “Sir, to be honest, even though I’ve been with you for over a month, I still can’t figure out what kind of person you are. Newspapers, magazines, police evaluations, street gossip, practical operations, your image is completely different from each source, sometimes even contradictory and paradoxical.

If all this is true, you are both an honest officer who helps the weak and a master of setting traps. You are both a police thug who protects Tory interests against reform and a progressive who embraces Whig values. You are both a passionate piano player and a reclusive scientist who enjoys solitude. You are both a haughty scholar who occasionally spews philosophical quotes and a local ruffian who drinks and eats in the same pub as the dirtiest London scoundrels.”

Reaching this point, Louis Bonaparte sighed and asked, “So, sir, are you a chameleon who changes with the wind?”

Arthur simply took a sip of his hot coffee, “Louis.”

“Yes, sir, what is it?”

Arthur looked up at him with a smile, “I’ve never changed. It’s the times that change.”

Louis Bonaparte was stunned, then exclaimed, “The times change?”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocked, “Speaking of which, I received a letter from a friend in South America yesterday. He’s a great naturalist. He’s not a philosopher, but I think sometimes the way naturalists explain the world is more worth looking forward to.”

“What did he say?”

Arthur looked out at the drizzle, “Louis, this world, it’s not the strongest who survive, nor the wisest, but the fittest.”

Louis, hearing this, simply fell into contemplation. But before he could figure it out, there was another knock at the office door.

“Come in.”

Tom pushed the door open. Seeing Louis, then Arthur, his face turned pale, and he seemed hesitant to speak.

Arthur asked, “What’s wrong?”

Tom thought for a moment before speaking discreetly, “Arthur, Viscount Palmerston from the Foreign Office wants to see you. He seems to want to talk to you about something.”

Arthur grabbed his hat from the desk, put it on his head, and straightened his clothes, “Did he say what it was about?”

Tom looked at Louis, hesitated for a while, and then reminded him, “It seems to be about magazine articles, and some other things. The messenger said that Viscount Palmerston seems unhappy about the recent pro-Polish sentiments on the streets of London.”

(End of Chapter)