The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 182 The Death of Marat and the Assassination of the Free Iris

Klopp's lips curled up slightly. Such an expression on his young face would normally make him seem presumptuous and unreliable, not to mention that he also spread out one hand at the same time. "I certainly don't know what the Sage is planning to do."

Someone in the crowd couldn't help but utter a sound of surprise.

The expressions on the faces of the people changed; some frowned, some opened their mouths, and some exchanged glances.

But Clopin simply pulled his outstretched hand back and placed it on his knee, his posture still quite casual, but his tone became more serious.

"I am still a child much younger than you. Even if the previous generation Clopin had high hopes for me, all I know is how to manage the Palace of Miracles, how to evade the guards, and how to help the homeless and the poor like us."

As for the matters of the wise, they are naturally to decide for themselves; only they can conceive of them.

He finished speaking frankly, and no one around him showed any disdain or disappointment. Because what he said made him seem far less wise than the sage, but it did seem to make no real mistake.

"That's why," Clopin continued, "that's why we sought out someone to contact him, isn't it?"

Judging by the timeline, the information should have been circulating sufficiently. Soon after, we will know the sage's answer.

Footsteps could be heard at the bottom of the tower's stairwell.

"Besides," he said, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, loud enough for everyone around to hear, "our hands and eyes cannot reach those heavily guarded forbidden areas and palaces of nobles. At least the vast majority of the rest of Paris is under our control."

A man climbed up from below, panting heavily, his face flushed from running. He walked through the crowd, stood up to Clopin, bent down, and whispered something in his ear.

Clopin leaned back, his back resting against the cargo box behind him, and the Iron Crown flashed briefly in the firelight.

The subordinate who came to report the news stood up straight and, at his signal, began his routine report on the situation over the past few days.

The people around quieted down, and only the noise from below the square could be heard from afar, as if separated by a layer of water.

Then, the man's first words made their silence even deeper than before.

"Marat is dead," the henchman said.

The afternoon sun shone brightly in the courtyard, and inside the Bastille, several people sat scattered at the foot of the prison wall.

Zhang Chang'an also leaned against the corner of the wall, squinting. The other prisoners were all in similar positions, except for one of them who was holding a crumpled booklet in his hand.

Although this era is not comparable to the Industrial Revolution, it is at least close, due to the outbreak of revolutionary thought and cultural enlightenment—

The events of Montgomery and others coincided with a period of great growth for the French newspaper industry.

This was the periodical subscribed to by the Bastille Prison library, called "Political Gazette of Paris," published every two weeks. Its content was diverse, ranging from major domestic events to overseas news, and it was considered the main channel for prisoners to learn about the outside world in that era.

Morel sat opposite him, the latest issue spread out on his lap, his finger pointing to the headline, reading it aloud word by word.

Although this old fellow wasn't very good at chess, as a former distributor, probably because he often dealt with people, he had a great voice when reading the newspaper, with clear and distinct pronunciation, even more fluent than those street vendors.

Subsequently, the headline immediately shocked everyone.

Jean-Paul Marat was assassinated in his Paris apartment on the evening of the 13th of this month.

After reading the sentence, Morel paused, looked up, and glanced at the people around him.

"Marat is dead." He involuntarily gasped, his tone carrying an indescribable sense of loss. "That Marat of the Jacobins."

The tall man squatting next to Morel was named Georges. He was from the countryside near Lyon and had been in prison for over half a year. He wasn't a talkative person. He scratched his head, frowned, and asked, "Marat, who is he?"

The other prisoner sitting opposite him nearly spat out the bread he was chewing. He wiped his mouth and said in a rough, loud voice, "You don't even know Mara? Aren't you a worker too? He's the voice of us workers!"

George was a little stunned by the shout. He shrank back and mumbled, "I... I used to work in the mines in the countryside. I'm illiterate, how would I know these things—"

Zhang Chang'an chewed the beef jerky tightly, swallowed it a couple of times, and then slowly said, "It's normal that George was arrested after only a few days of working in Paris. It's not surprising that he didn't know."

He gestured to Morel with his chin, indicating that he should continue reading.

Morel cleared his throat, brought the newspaper closer, and squinted as he read on.

"Marah, a Jacobin leader and founder of the newspaper 'Friends of the People,' has long spoken out for the grassroots and advocated for resolute measures against counter-revolutionaries."

On the evening of the 13th, a woman entered his residence under the pretext of providing information. Taking him by surprise, she added poison to his bathtub, causing his immediate death.

"A woman?" George's eyes widened.

"A woman," Morel confirmed, then frowned and glanced down at the newspaper. The group paused, momentarily stunned.

"What does 'poisoning the bathtub' mean?" George pondered, his voice rising again. "Why would he have someone kill him in the bathtub?"

"What's your hurry?" Morel turned the newspaper over and traced the words between the lines: "I remember—right, Mara has a severe skin disease, her whole body is covered in sores, and she often suffers from unbearable pain, which can only be relieved by soaking in a medicinal bath for a long time."

So he even worked in the bathtub, with a board on top, writing articles and approving documents there.

"How did the assassin get in?" George asked again.

Morel continued reading: "The assassin's name is Charlotte Corday, from a declining noble family in Normandy. Marat received her in the bathroom, mainly because she said she had confidential information about the Girondins."

Mara's Jacobin faction, which advocates violence, has indeed been at odds with the Gilents faction.

He muttered this sentence, then continued recounting the newspaper article: "Corday killed him while he was writing down those people's names."

Morrel lowered his voice as he read this, "After Corday did this, she didn't run away. She just sat there waiting for someone to arrest her. During her trial, she said that she killed one person to save 100,000."

The courtyard was quiet for a while. Sunlight shone on the stone slabs, casting long, pale shadows.

Morrel paused abruptly, then turned the newspaper and continued, "There's something else mentioned in this paper."

.

Several people looked at him.

The report later stated that Mara's death was most likely related to a series of recent assassinations of nobles.

It is said that in recent months, several nobles and wealthy businessmen in Paris have been assassinated, and the methods are very similar.

The victims were all poisoned; the poison was colorless and odorless, making it undetectable by testing. The perpetrators were mostly women, and predominantly wealthy and influential women. The newspapers gave them names.

It was called the Iris Flower Serial Assassination Case.

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