An hour later, a pitch-dark carriage emerged from the back gate of Mono's villa, now laden with a large stack of fabrics on the roof.
The carriage made a few more rounds in the city before returning to the Royal Palace after 10 PM.
Covered head to toe in a black hood like a servant, the Duke of Orleans unloaded the fabrics from the carriage and carried them into the warehouse, his head bowed. Only when there was no one around except his personal guard did he carefully make his way back to his bedroom.
In his study, he recalled the complete set of strategies that Mono had told him earlier. He first took out pen and paper and wrote a secret letter to the Paris Municipal Commissioner Levebelle, as well as the Governor of Montpellier, Palmentier, sealing each one with his private seal and wax.
Then, he pulled out another piece of paper and, deep in thought, began writing down a list of names: the Duke of Seville, Count Seyrelier, the Duke of Durelph, the Duke of Mushi...
Those familiar with the circles of the nobility would immediately realize that all these men were the heavyweights from the "has-been" political power of the Assembly of Notables.
Although they had been defeated in the last incident involving the Royal Family's tax reform, as top-tier nobility, they still possessed a force that could not be overlooked.
Moreover, the people on this list shared another trait, which was what Mono had mentioned: they were among those most affected by the "Millers' Rights Act" and the immigration to Tunisia that had caused a decline in land prices.
Having finished writing the list, the Duke of Orleans checked the names repeatedly before handing both the list and the secret letters to the butler Donnadieu, giving him careful instructions.
Two days later, southwest Paris.
In a sprawling greyhound racing track adjacent to the south bank of the Seine River, the competition was in full swing. With dogs barking resonantly, dust filling the air, over a dozen sleek greyhounds raced like the wind towards the finish line.
The stands all around were filled with prominent nobles—attendance here was not open to just anyone with an invitation.
And in the VIP room in the center of the second floor of the western stands, more than twenty people were crowded together, all looking coolly at the race, appearing quite uninterested.
After a while, a gaunt man wearing a gemstone-blue coat with a cold gaze entered the VIP room, opening its door and striding in.
As the people in the room turned to see him, they immediately rose to greet him:
"You've finally arrived, Your Grace, the Duke of Orleans."
"Ah, Philippe, my old friend, what's the urgent matter that you have called us here for?"
"Your Grace, why not just go directly to the Royal Palace? This noisy place gives me a headache..."
The Duke of Orleans handed his hat to a slightly younger nobleman beside him, smiling and nodding to the others in greeting:
"The Royal Palace is watched too closely and is no longer suitable for meetings. Here, however, we can speak freely."
He had many informants among his subordinates. Political defeats over the past year had made him suspicious, so he had his residence thoroughly checked and indeed discovered that the Royal Palace was under intense surveillance.
Naturally, these were the agents from Joseph's Police Affairs Department. How could they not keep a close eye on a menace like the Duke of Orleans?
However, as an experienced conspirator, the Duke of Orleans had his own countermeasures. For example, in today's dog racing track, nearly a hundred nobles with status had attended, but only a few were his intended meeting targets. Agents from the Police Affairs Department who lacked invitations could not infiltrate the event.
Thus, no one could know whom he had actually met. To all appearances, he merely came to bet on the dogs.
The Duke of Orleans took the chair in the centre, but instead of discussing any "serious business," he casually addressed Count Seyrelier: "Bruzzar, it's quite unfortunate to hear you've recently lost the taxes from seven or eight mills."
The other man, caught off guard and not understanding the purpose of the remark, was visibly angered: "It's that damned law! The mill tax is our traditional right, established over a thousand years, and no one has the right to take it away!"
"Oh, but His Majesty the King did just that."
The Duke of Orleans remarked sarcastically before turning to an older man beside him: "Duke of Durelph, the land value has been weak lately; you must have lost a considerable amount, haven't you?"
"Roughly five or six hundred thousand livres."
This Duke of Durelph, owning thousands of acres of land, was greatly affected by the decline in land prices.
The plight of these two men stirred a sense of commiseration in everyone in the VIP room, prompting a chorus of complaints about their own losses.
The Duke of Orleans then raised his hand to call for silence, his expression turning serious as he spoke in a low voice: "Haven't you all noticed? The Royal Family is abandoning us!
"Let's not forget the tax bill from the beginning of the year, eh? Our authority over the High Court was ruthlessly stripped away, and now we have to pay tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands more in land taxes each year.
"Paying the same taxes as those commoners—it's a humiliation from the Royal Family to us!"
The surrounding nobility immediately nodded in agreement, "It is a betrayal of tradition and honor!"
"Exactly, the Royal Family has gone too far!"
"See, they will surely impose even more taxes on us in the future."
Pleased with the reaction, the Duke of Orleans continued: "We should all see it now, those involved in textiles and paper-making, those upstarts, are the new favorites of the Royal Family! We, on the other hand, will be discarded like old boots in the trash heap.
"Those new factories will draw the farmers into the cities, and one day, your tenants will all run away, leaving your lands untended, and you will not be able to collect even a penny in dues!"