Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The next morning, Paris was just waking up from the morning mist, and the aroma of freshly baked croissants wafted through the window.

Richard stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting his bow tie for the third time. He never wore a bow tie, but this was his first time entering the palace to meet the best gunsmith in France.

He tugged at his bow tie, feeling it tighten around his neck.

"Are you fighting with it?" Louise's voice came from the doorway.

She wore a dark blue dress, light makeup, and her hair was neatly styled in a bun.

"I'm thinking... should I switch to a tie?" Richard said.

"Hmm..." Louise touched her chin and walked closer to him, as if she were deconstructing an oil painting.

"So, any ideas?" Richard tugged at his coat.

"It's tied a little crooked." She looked Richard over carefully.

"Really?"

"Besides, you're not suited for a bow tie." With that, Louise ripped off his bow tie, pulled a tie from the shelf, threaded it through her fingers, and neatly tied a four-in-one knot.

Richard turned to look in the mirror, and it looked much better now.

"Let's go, don't keep Mr. Chassepot waiting."

The mornings in Paris are much quieter than the nights. Only a few horse-drawn carriages are running on the streets, and cleaners are washing the sidewalks with water. The air is filled with the smell of bread and coffee.

The military procurement office is located on a quiet street in the Saint-Germain district, in a gray brick building.

The doors and windows were narrow, making it look like a prison. Two guards in blue military uniforms stood at the entrance, their necks held high.

Louise took the initiative to step forward and negotiate: "Good morning, gentlemen, we would like to see Mr. Antony Alfonso Chassepot."

The guard didn't move his neck, but merely glanced at them and said in his provincial-accented French:

"Mr. Chassépo does not see guests."

Louise frowned. "We have urgent business to attend to."

"Everyone says they have something important to do." Another guard laughed. "Gunsmiths, chemists, retired medics—everyone wants to make a name for themselves."

Richard took out a letter from his pocket and unfolded it in front of the two of them.

He couldn't speak a word of French, yet he made the smiles on the soldiers' faces vanish instantly. They stood at attention, saluted, and moved in perfect unison, as if they were one person.

"Please come in, sir." The guard who had spoken earlier pushed open the door. "Mr. Chassepot's workshop is on the second floor, at the end of the corridor."

Louise walked beside Richard and lowered her voice: "Do you know how smug you looked just now?"

"Really? I'll be more careful next time," Richard chuckled.

The corridor was quiet, with only their footsteps echoing between the walls.

The walls were very simple, with only the imperial emblem, flag, and bronze signs. The door at the end of the corridor bore the inscription:

Anthony Alfonso Chassepo

Richard took a few deep breaths and knocked on the door.

"Come in." A hoarse voice came from inside.

He pushed open the door, the room filled with the smell of gunpowder and machine oil, a smell he was already used to in his family's arsenal. The workbench was piled high with parts, blueprints, and semi-finished products, as well as several disassembled rifles.

A man with a mustache was standing with his back to the door, examining the barrel of a rifle with a magnifying glass.

The oil-stained apron was hastily tied around the waist, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing dark marks on the forearms.

Richard had seen it in the workshop; it was a trace left by long-term contact with gunpowder.

Chassepot glanced at them so quickly that Richard couldn't even see them clearly.

"I told the gatekeeper not to let the gun seller in."

Richard placed the order on the worktable, on top of a pile of drawings.

Chasseppud glanced at Richard's bow tie and stopped what he was doing:

"Are you from England?"

The sudden use of English startled Richard, who quickly replied, "Yes, the Emperor wants you to see my bullets."

"Interesting." Chasebo straightened up and put on the glasses hanging on his chest. "The last person to have His Majesty write an edict was myself, when the Chasebo rifle was put into service."

He pressed the order down with a screwdriver, pulled out a chair, and sat down: "So, where are your bullets?"

Richard took a sample from his briefcase and handed it over.

Chassepot took it, not looking at the bullet, but first at Richard's hand: "You're not a craftsman?"

"No," Richard answered crisply.

"Then how did you make this?" Chasebo asked, fiddling with the bullet in his hand.

"I own an arms factory in London."

"Ah, arms dealers." His expression changed. "I hate people like you the most."

Louise quickly interjected, "He's different from other arms dealers; he's not the kind of person you're thinking of."

"Of course, of course," Chasseppo replied absentmindedly, pushing the bullet under the magnifying glass. "A copper casing; it's more malleable than paper, and its airtightness is also better."

"How did you do it?" Chasebo examined it carefully.

"First, press and stretch the copper material into the cylinder wall, and finally anneal and pickle it," Richard replied without hesitation.

"Genius." An uncontrollable smile crept onto his lips.

"Sorry?" Had he just praised himself? One of the best gunsmiths of the 19th century had just praised himself? Richard couldn't believe it.

"Don't get cocky, I meant the bullets." Shasepola opened her goggles and wiped her hands with a felt cloth. "Do you know what's wrong with my rifle?"

"Usually after firing two to five rounds and reloading, the residue will quickly clog the chamber," Richard said from memory. "Prolonged firing will damage the rubber rings and seriously affect the airtightness."

Xia Sebo looked up in surprise: "You know more about guns than I thought."

He took a document from the drawer and pushed it in front of Richard. "This is data from last year's Battle of Mentana. What problems do you see?"

Richard picked up the document and quickly glanced through it.

"Rate of fire." Richard frowned. "The theoretical rate of fire for the Chassepot rifle is 15 rounds per minute, but in actual combat it's only 8 to 10 rounds per minute because soldiers need to stop to clean the barrel and change the rubber rings."

Chassepot stood up and took a Chassepot rifle from the gun rack on the wall. The stock was engraved with "Mle 1866".

He loaded the copper-cased bullet into the chamber, closed the bolt, and picked up the gun.

boom!

The gunshots made Richard's ears ring in the closed room, and he then realized that there was a small shooting range next to Chasseppe's studio.

At the end of the firing range, instead of paper targets, there were iron plates covered with bullet holes.

He glanced down at the spent cartridge case, then at the chamber of the gun.

"No residue!" Chasseppo exclaimed excitedly. "How many bullets can you fire like this?"

"Fifty shots, almost no jamming."

"Sir," he turned and looked at Richard sternly, "do you know what you've done?"

"A bullet?" Richard scratched his chin.

"No!" Chassepot shook his head with a smile. "You've made the best bullet in Europe in the last ten years. It will help us win the war!"

Which war?

"The next war!"