Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

"Mr. Balthasar, you can't just look at the appearance," Joseph whispered to his fashion designer, "They're here to walk the runway, not attend a ball."

He pointed to the giant T-shaped catwalk in the square, "You see, when the guests gather below the stage, they can only see the models' figures, postures, and the clothes they are wearing, and can barely make out their faces."

Balthasar nodded again and again. He had only been exposed to these "runways" and "T-shaped catwalks" for two days and was still feeling his way around.

The publicity for the recent Fashion Week was in full swing, and the whole of Paris was buzzing about it.

Therefore, after the ad for recruiting models for Fashion Week was published, the ladies of Paris were instantly abuzz—wearing the latest fashionable garments in the splendid Old Palace, becoming the center of attention for Europe's upper class under countless lights, and with a high reward for it, who wouldn't be tempted?

Yes, in this era there simply was no such profession as a fashion model, so Joseph had to cast from the public.

Instantly, "model" and "catwalk" became the most popular words among Parisian women. Whether actresses, singers, or fallen women, and even noble young ladies, as long as they had a modicum of confidence in their looks and figures, were tempted to go to the Tuileries Palace to sign up and give it a try.

After several preliminary rounds of screening by Balthasar, these few dozen people had been selected as the best among the candidates.

Joseph helplessly watched the models who were either stiff in movement or deliberately displaying their "career-lines." He sighed, stood up, and clapped his hands sharply to get the models' attention, then did something he least wanted to do but had to do—demonstrated the catwalk himself.

"Watch carefully, your second step should land here." His scalp tingled with embarrassment, but he persevered, "First lift your knee, 'swing' your lower leg out, and then the next step…"

"Don't use too much force with your hands, just let them hang naturally... I didn't ask for your hands to go limp! Forget it, just put your hands on your hips.

"Don't let your eyes wander, have a vacant look..."

Although he himself was not a professional, having at least seen pigs walk if not eaten pork, he managed to imitate the countless times he had observed Victoria's Secret in his previous life, and could somewhat replicate the look.

Once he had walked back and forth, the models immediately responded with warm applause.

Joseph sat back in his chair with a dark face and said weakly, "Whoever masters it first can become a coach, with double the pay."

Under the incentive of money, the models immediately started to take things seriously. Several noble young ladies with dance training began to get the hang of it and their movements gradually looked the part.

Joseph let them practice on their own, and then turned to the other side of the hall to the male model group, raising his hand to gesture, "Please, gentlemen, have a go as well."

Dozens of handsome French lads immediately raised their long legs, and in their high-heeled shoes, they walked with a coquetry that was far more convincing than that of the ladies next to them.

"Stop..." Joseph felt like he was about to have a heart attack, "That's not right! The steps you're doing are for ladies..."

One bold blonde hunk immediately said, "Your Highness, isn't that just how you walked a moment ago?"

Joseph halted him from continuing with a murderous glare and turned to his captain of the guards, "Viscount Kesode, could you please walk a few steps to show everyone? Just like you do when you stroll in the Palace of Versailles normally."

"Yes, Your Highness." Kesode hastily came to the center of the hall, walked forward with his head high and chest out, exuding vigor and power.

Joseph turned to the male models, "Please practice like this."

Under a construction shed in the square of the Tuileries Palace, the chief auditor of the Fashion Week organizing committee was staring intently at the west hall. There, dozens of beautiful women in gorgeous dresses were walking one by one across the wooden platform, with alluring gazes, charming demeanors, and graceful elegance.

He unwittingly swallowed a gulp of saliva and asked the president of the merchant association next to him, "Viscount Freselle, what is happening over there?"

"It is said to be a method of showcasing fashion invented by His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, also called a 'fashion show'," Freselle replied casually, but in his heart, he couldn't help lamenting: How does the Crown Prince come up with such a splendid idea at his age, ahem, such a brilliant idea. With this kind of fashion show, this year's Fashion Week is sure to shock all of Europe.

...

"Brian, that despicable, shameless bastard!" Vilran slammed the letter in his hand down on the table with a bang, "I swear! One day, I will tear you to pieces with my own hands!"

His attendant heard the noise and hurriedly pushed the door open to inquire, "Are you all right, my lord Earl?"

"I am fine. Get out!"

Vilran turned his head and roared, his complexion colder than the pristine snow outside the window.

The letter was written by the Duke of Orleans. Judging from the date, it was sent out the second day he left Paris. However, the postman clearly didn't keep up with his pace, and it wasn't until he paused in Smolensk that he finally received it.

The content of the letter was brief, informing him that British-French trade negotiations had officially begun. The representatives for the negotiations were Brian and the Minister of Civil Registry, Nico Herve.

Vilran's teeth gritted with a grating sound, and he remembered asking Brian about when the trade negotiations would begin just half a month earlier. Brian told him that some financial data needed for the negotiations were not yet ready and that it would take a considerable amount of time to prepare.

Afterward, he was dispatched to Russia to convey so-called "France's concerns about the Russo-Turkish War".

Little did he expect that as soon as he left, the British-French trade negotiations began.

What he couldn't accept the most was that the person who replaced him in the negotiations was that worthless "transparent minister", Nico Herve!

For a long time, he sat limply in the chair. This place was over 2,000 kilometers from Paris, and even if he rushed back immediately, by the time he arrived in Paris, the treaty would undoubtedly have already been signed.

What awaited him would only be the ridicule of the entire Parisian political arena.

In the fireplace, the wood crackled and the fire burned bright, but Vilran felt only a bone-chilling cold. He knew that his political career was likely over...

...

The west bank of the Seine, at Mirabeau's villa.

Mirabeau had not expected His Royal Highness the Crown Prince to come for a sudden visit, thus when he came out to greet him, he appeared somewhat flustered, "Oh, it is a pleasure to see you, Your Highness."

He took a half step back with his right foot, placed his right hand over his chest, and respectfully bowed.

Joseph smiled and said, "I am also pleased to see you, Count Mirabeau. Actually, I have come today because there is something I would like to seek your assistance with."

Mirabeau personally opened the grand door for him, "You know, Your Highness, I am always eager to serve you."

Once in the drawing-room, Mirabeau invited Joseph to sit and pointed enthusiastically to the freshly served tea, "Your Highness, you simply must try this, freshly imported from the Far East, not at all like those cheap commodities from India. Oh, by the way, what do you need me to do?"

"Thank you for the tea. The flavor is excellent," Joseph said, lifting the creamy and fragrant tea cup as a gesture to Mirabeau, then continued, "You might have heard that the government is promoting the cultivation of potatoes across the country."