Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

March 11th.

Outskirts of Vienna.

The warm spring wind blows through Trondheim Village, the tender green grass blades bow low, like a mother’s hand gently stroking a child’s small head, everything appears so tranquil and lazy.

In that small estate on the northwest side of the village, the gentle murmuring sound of the marble fountain is heard.

Beside the pool, Mrs. Scheller sits under a not-so-tall maple tree, the golden sunlight filtering through the leaves falls on the popular novel in her hands.

Her gaze sweeps over the French words one by one, yet she does not smile with the plot of the book, instead, a faint fatigue inadvertently shows between her brows.

The Springer Spaniel curled at Mrs. Scheller’s feet suddenly stands up and vigorously wags its tail towards the young man of about sixteen or seventeen years old, tall and slender, with light gray eyes, walking into the courtyard gate.

“Mother, Mrs. Fink said you let the servants go sow oats with the serfs? “The young man unbuckles his sword and tosses it to the butler beside him, irritably loosening his tie, and says loudly, “Once we return to Vienna, this will be laughed at by them…”

“Hush—” Mrs. Scheller puts down her novel, raises her hand to signal, “Lucas, mind your manners.”

She then adds upon remembering something:

“Oh, Madam Colombier is coming this afternoon to discuss your military service. You’ll need to help me arrange the reception room later, those chairs are very heavy, it requires your strong arms.”

The young man protests with a pout, “I want to go horseback riding later. These tasks should be done by the maids.”

Mrs. Scheller’s voice grows louder: “Lucas, don’t be willful. You know our family is short-handed lately.”

In truth, she doesn’t want her son doing these tasks unbefitting of his status.

But the Emperor had conscripted many of her serfs to the battlefield, leaving the farmland untended.

It is now spring sowing season, so she had to order the household servants to help in the fields, or this year’s harvest would be severely affected.

Her husband needs money to maintain the necessary dignity in Vienna, money is needed everywhere in the house, and if there’s no money to appease the military committee officials, her Lucas might be conscripted into the Imperial Guard.

If the harvest is poor, this household won’t last for long.

Lucas shouts: “Hopefully David can come back soon.

“The Emperor’s reward to him is surely enough to hire dozens of serfs, then there’d be no troubles at all.”

David is his older brother, serving as a cavalry lieutenant in the Royal German Legion.

Mrs. Scheller’s worry on her face diminishes a bit as she recalls the letter sent by her eldest son last week.

The letter says the Emperor’s army in Northern Italy is over a hundred thousand, the French only have less than sixty thousand, and have been forced to abandon Trento.

She doesn’t know where Trento is, but imagines Marshal Alvinczy should soon return triumphant.

Her David would also return along with him.

Lucas comes over and takes her arm: “Mother, when are we returning to Vienna? I really don’t want to stay in this bleak place any longer, no balls, no salons, oh God.”

Mrs. Scheller sighs, the last time the French were at Vienna’s doorstep, she fled with her family to Trondheim Village.

That incident even made the house prices here rise by forty to fifty percent, luckily her family has a small estate in the village.

She thinks of her former neighbor De Man. Their family had no choice but to squeeze into a dilapidated farmhouse.

Though the French army has withdrawn for more than half a month now, people are still haunted by fear, wanting to wait and see how things unfold.

She strokes her son’s hair glowing in the sunlight: “Let’s wait for your brother to come back. Then we’ll go back to Vienna together.”

She sighs again: “I heard Baron Trapp’s family hid in Presburg, hopefully this won’t affect your and Alisa’s marriage…”

As Mrs. Scheller is speaking, she suddenly hears the sound of bells clang from afar, stands up somewhat nervously, and looks towards the village church.

Usually, that’s a sign something big has happened.

Lucas shouts excitedly: “It must be Marshal Alvinczy defeating those damned French! I’ll go check!”

However, before he runs out the courtyard gate, he sees their family servant Joslin sprinting in, drenched in sweat, bumping into him and causing him to stumble.

The servant acts as though he hadn’t seen his young master, and gestures towards Mrs. Scheller:

“Madam, ma’am, they say Marshal Alvinczy was defeated by the French! Tens of thousands dead, tens of thousands captured! And someone said…”

Lucas grabs the servant’s collar: “What are you saying? That’s impossible! You’re talking nonsense!”

Though Mrs. Scheller’s face turns pale, she still maintains her composure, stands up and says: “Lucas, calm down. Joslin, what else did you hear?”

The servant gulps nervously: “They say…say what’s it called, that Frenchman, is leading a hundred thousand troops marching toward Vienna. It’s all over, everything’s finished!”

Mrs. Scheller interrupts him: “Stop yelling, nothing will happen. Mantua is still far from Vienna, the marshals will surely find a way to stop the French.”

She pauses, then looks towards her younger son: “Lucas, get ready, we’re leaving for Presburg early in the morning tomorrow.”

Just then, the voice of the parish priest comes from outside the estate:

“Please inform Mrs. Scheller, the war commission has delivered the casualty list. Please send someone to the square in front of the church…”

Indeed, it is this casualty list that informed the villagers of the situation at the front lines.

Mrs. Scheller didn’t catch what the priest said later, the book in her hand fell to the ground with a thud, and she rushed into the house.

Soon, she came out hastily wearing a coat, holding a hat, staring intently in the direction of the church: “Lucas, I…I’ll go take a look…”

The young man immediately follows along.

Since their family’s coachman is helping in the sowing, they walk on the village’s uneven paths, taking nearly half an hour to reach the parish church.

The place is already crowded with people, their heads hanging down, from time to time sharp crying sounds of women ring from the direction of the clock tower.

Two priests are perfunctorily comforting the people—truly, too many people need comforting; it’s hard to repeat the same words sincerely dozens of times.

Joslin forcefully parts the crowd, Mrs. Scheller and her son squeeze to the front of the clock tower.

A few officers stand before several large wooden boards, pushing back people who get too close. Sheets of paper are affixed on the boards, each with a list of names.

Those are the fallen.

At this moment, whether they are tenant farmers, serfs, or nobles, there is no difference.

They are just names on the paper.

Oh, there is a slight difference.

The noble’s page of names is surrounded by a beautiful border.

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