Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The train puffed out thick coal smoke, its wheels rolling over sections of rails, and the hedges and villages outside the window automatically receded into blurry patches of color.

The carriage swayed rhythmically, and Richard leaned against the window, missing modern life—the express train that would get him to Paris in a few hours instead of a whole day.

Louise sat opposite him, scribbling something in her notebook, occasionally glancing at him furtively.

"What...are you drawing?" Richard noticed her little movements.

Louise paused for a moment, then quickly closed the notebook: "It's nothing."

"Why are you blushing?" Richard asked, even more puzzled.

"Blushing? I'm not blushing." Louise pressed the back of her hand to her cheek.

"You have it." Richard leaned forward. "Let me see."

"No," Louise said, clutching her sketchbook to her chest. "It's not finished yet."

Richard squinted; he had just caught a glimpse of it: the figure on the paper was sitting by the window, clutching something in its hand.

Are you drawing me?

Louise did not deny it, but the tips of her ears turned red.

"That's an infringement of portrait rights, miss." Richard leaned back in his seat and shook his head.

Louise paused for a moment, then asked, "What power?"

"Portrait rights," Richard explained, "meaning your face is yours, and you can't let others draw it and sell it for money."

Louise frowned, then smiled and asked him, "You made this up, didn't you? There's no such law in England, nor in France. I'm sure there isn't one in all of Europe."

Richard opened his mouth, but found that he really couldn't refute it.

The concept of portrait rights is still a hundred years away from taking shape. In this era, portraits of kings are printed on coins, and portraits of nobles hang in galleries, and no one will ask, "Did you consent to this?"

"Uh, okay," Richard said sullenly, "I made it up."

Louise covered her mouth with her sketchbook and laughed, "Even so, it's a good idea."

"Really? You think so too?"

"Of course, I don't want to see my head hanging everywhere either," Louise said half-jokingly.

After a moment of silence, Louise suddenly asked him softly, "Now I'm asking you, may I paint you?"

Richard rubbed his nose. The girl in front of him didn't seem to be joking; she was serious.

"Why? I'm nowhere near as pretty as the models in the gallery."

"Oh, not nearly as good," Louise teased him with a mischievous grin, but her eyes softened instantly. "But I want to remember you."

Richard looked at Louise; she had long eyelashes, a high nose bridge, and would furrow her brows slightly and purse her lips unconsciously when she painted.

He sighed, bowed dramatically, and spread his arms in a gesture of respect: "Go ahead and paint, Your Majesty, I won't charge you."

Louise glared at him: "You want to charge me?!"

"That's what portrait rights mean!"

She lowered her head and continued drawing, a smile playing on her lips.

The train continued moving forward, the towns gradually becoming more densely packed; Paris was approaching.

"By the way," Richard suddenly said, "where will we stay when we get to Paris?"

"Where would you like to stay?" Louise looked up.

"I don't know, I'm not familiar with Paris," Richard thought for a moment, "Any recommendations?"

"Well, I was originally going to stay at the Hotel Morris." She shrugged, mentioning one of the most luxurious hotels in Paris in a simple and unpretentious manner.

"Uh...really?" Richard subconsciously touched his empty purse; staying there for a few nights would probably mean swimming back to London.

"What's wrong?" Louise noticed his expression. "You think it's too expensive? Don't worry, the room belongs to my brother, you don't need to pay."

"Your brother?"

"The Prince of Wales," Louise continued drawing, head bowed, "stayed there when he went to Paris, and the room was usually empty. The butler said I could use it."

Richard sat up straight. The Prince of Wales was the future King Edward VII of Great Britain.

"You mean..." His throat was a little dry, "we're going to stay in the Prince of Wales's room?"

"It's not 'we'," Louise corrected. "It's me; you're staying in the guest room next door."

Richard leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath.

He was a small businessman whose factory had been seized by Greenwood, and he was about to move into the future King of England's palace in Paris.

"Don't worry, Mr. Brian," Louise reassured him. "The beds at the Morris Hotel are very comfortable, much better than train seats."

Richard stared out the window at Paris as night fell, at the Hotel Morales, in the Prince of Wales' room. When had his life become like this?

A few hours later, the train stopped at San Lazar station, and they boarded an express train heading straight for the Hotel Morales.

Paris sighs at night; the tolling of Notre Dame bells and the sobbing of the Seine are swept into the wind, and the shadows of half a million people flicker in the lights.

The carriage turned onto Rue Rivoli and stopped in front of an elegant building. The gaslights on the porch illuminated the entire street, making the golden letters gleam.

Hôtel Le Meurice.

Richard stepped off the carriage carrying his suitcase; the journey of over twenty hours had nearly shaken his bones apart.

"Are you alright?" Louise walked ahead of him, her steps as light as a cat's.

"Aren't you tired at all?" Richard rubbed his neck.

"I'm used to it," she glanced back at him, "When I was little, I would go to Scotland with my mother, and it would take two days by special train."

"Then you're physically stronger than me."

The doorman quickly approached and naturally took Richard's briefcase. His bow tie was perfectly tied, and his smile was just right: "Welcome, sir and madam."

Louise spoke a few words fluently in French, and the doorman's eyes immediately lit up. He turned and made a gesture towards the lobby.

The lobby manager practically ran out, a gold badge pinned to his chest.

"Princess Louise," he bowed deeply, "your room is ready. The Prince of Wales suite, as you requested."

"Let's go." Louise walked confidently into the hotel, and Richard quickly followed.

The hotel's dome was plastered with a thin, even layer of gold, and the velvet carpet concealed their footsteps. Ladies wearing pearl necklaces and gentlemen in tailcoats sat around a marble table chatting.

Richard stood in the lobby, dumbfounded. Just as he was about to say something, the manager returned, holding two brass keys.

"This one is yours." He respectfully handed Louise the key, while the other, slightly inferior one probably belonged to Richard.

"Mr. Brian, you are on the same floor as the princess, in the one further in from the street."

"Thank you." Louise took the keys. The manager left, and she turned around to see Richard standing there, clutching the keys, looking lost and helpless.

"What's wrong? Did you lose something?" Louise asked deliberately.

"No, I'm looking for a bar..." Richard tugged at his collar, feeling a little nervous in this situation.

"You usually drink at night?" Louise shook the keys in her hand at him. "I have something to show you."

So the two of them went up the stairs, past the butler waiting at the door, and straight into the door with the bronze eagle emblem, into the Prince of Wales's room.

Pushing open the heavy oak door, the evening breeze rushed in, the crystal chandelier illuminated the space, and a fire burned in the fireplace, making the room warm and harmonious.

"Come quick!" Louise ran to the balcony and then leaned comfortably against the brass railing.

Richard walked over, and the two stood side by side, the wind from the south ruffling his hair.

"This has the best view of Paris." Louise gazed wistfully out the railing, and Richard followed her gaze.

Outside the balcony, the whole of Paris unfolds beneath my feet, with streetlights lighting up one after another on both sides of Rue Rivoli, and the Louvre in the distance.

Richard certainly knew of the Louvre, but at this moment it was right across the window, the glass pyramid yet to be built, the palace like a giant beast sleeping in the night, where countless masterpieces of genius lay dormant.

"That's the Tuileries Palace over there..." Louise pointed to the left, "Napoleon III's palace."

The fountain in the garden shimmered silver in the moonlight, and the trees lining the avenue watched over the path leading to the palace gate.

Arches, domes, statues—Richard had read everything about it in books. Years later, it would be reduced to ashes in a fire, burned by the Paris Commune, and then demolished by the Third Republic.

And yet it still stands there, brightly lit, like the high walls of Asgard, silently awaiting its inevitable collapse.

"Thank you," Richard said suddenly, snapping out of his daze.

"What are you thanking me for?"

"You took me in and let me see such a magnificent view." Richard wasn't joking; being able to see the magnificent Tuileries Palace with his own eyes was truly a spectacular sight.

"You're welcome. I wish you every success tomorrow." Louise raised a glass that wasn't there.

Sweet dreams, Your Highness.