Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Richard and Louise stood in the workshop, the bullet blueprints on Chassepot's desk, as he carefully examined the bullet's primer.

He sat at his workbench, held the bullet up to the light, and gently poked at the edge of the copper casing with a fine needle.

"The primer assembly is very even." Chasseppo put down the needle, picked up a graduated magnifying glass, and placed it at the bottom of the bullet. "The amount of propellant is well controlled, which is impressive."

"Thank you," Richard replied.

Chassepot took a folder from the drawer, which contained several pages of forms that required specifying the size, material, and manufacturing process of the bullets. This was no problem for Richard.

Then, he wrote something on the form with a pen and finally signed his name.

"Fill this out and take it to the first floor to get it stamped." He tucked Napoleon III's letter into the document and handed it to Richard. "Remember, if anyone stops you, show them the letter."

Richard filled out the form with a puzzled look: "You mean someone will stop me?"

"I said if," Chasseppo picked up the magnifying glass again, "you'll understand once you step out this door."

Richard and Louise exchanged bewildered glances. They tried to ask more, but Chassepot remained silent, lost in his own world.

The two had no choice but to leave the room and follow the signs to the purchasing area. Just as they were about to go in, a loud and clear male voice came from behind them.

"stop!"

The two turned around, and a middle-aged sergeant in military uniform strode over. He had at least three medals hanging on his chest, one of which was the Knight of the Legion of Honour, and his collar was embroidered with a golden oak leaf.

He looked down at Richard, scrutinizing him as if he were inspecting a defective item.

"Which department are you from?" His French was rapid, as if he were interrogating someone.

Louise glanced at his name tag: DuPont Salomon.

“We’re not from the military,” Louise replied in French. “Mr. Chassepot sent us…”

"Are you British?" DuPont switched to English, his eyebrows furrowing. "We don't buy things from foreigners."

"As for Chassepot," he said, a slight smirk playing on his lips, "he only handles the technical aspects, not the procurement department. The procurement department is under the Ministry of War, and the Ministry of War..." He paused, "is under my jurisdiction."

"Sir," Richard handed over the folder that Chassepot had given him, "we have Mr. Chassepot's files."

DuPont took it, glanced at it briefly, and his expression changed from arrogance to a sneer.

"Bullets," DuPont said, tucking the folder under his arm, "does our great inventor think that the current bullets are no longer usable?"

He handed the folder back dismissively, but didn't let go.

"You're a soldier, so do you know anything about bullets?" Richard asked, gripping the other end of the folder.

The officer paused for a moment.

"Do you know the difference between copper-cased bullets and paper-cased bullets? Do you know why Mr. Chasseppe spent the whole morning testing my bullets?" Richard looked directly into the sergeant's eyes.

The officer's chin tucked in slightly, and his eyes narrowed. "Young man, do you know who you're talking to?"

"I don't know," Richard said, "but I do know that you're intercepting a document with an imperial edict."

He pulled the letter from the folder and held it up to the officer; it was in Napoleon III's handwriting, messy but powerful.

The officer stared at the letter and remained silent for a while.

"His Majesty the Emperor ordered Chasseppo to test the ammunition." His voice was slightly weaker. "But he didn't say..."

"His Majesty tested my bullets himself in Biarritz," Richard interrupted, "and after firing, he said, 'Go find Chassepot.'"

He put the letter away and placed it back into the folder.

"Now that Schacepol's test is over, let me handle the paperwork." Richard remained unfazed. "You can stop me, but you have to tell me, who are you acting on orders?"

The officer's lips twitched, and his gaze lingered on Richard's face for a long time.

Louise, seeing the pensive officer, seemed to have found another opening and asked in perfect Oxford accent, "Sir, are you still going to stop us?"

The officer was taken aback. This accent was the royal tone, the English spoken at Buckingham Palace. He recognized it.

He sighed in defeat, even his previously puffed-out chest deflated slightly: "Do you British always bring a princess with you when you do business?"

Richard didn't answer. He took the folder and said to Louise, "Let's go."

The officer did not stop them any further and could only watch the door close.

"The Englishman," he muttered to himself, then turned and walked away.

The spacious lobby of the purchasing office was eerily quiet. Several clerks sat behind high counters, with stacks of documents half a person's height in front of them.

Richard walked to an empty counter and handed over the folder.

The clerk flipped through the forms and pulled another one out of the drawer.

Richard took the form and rolled his eyes: it was filled with blank spaces—name, nationality, address, money order number, amount…

He could only pick up the pen on the table and start filling it out.

"That person outside," Louise whispered beside him, "Won't he come back to cause you trouble?"

Richard thought for a moment: "No, he's not a bad person. He's just been here too long and forgot what bullets are for."

He filled in the last blank and handed the form back.

The clerk checked the form, took out a stamp, dipped it in ink, and stamped a red eagle emblem on the bottom of the form.

"This is your draft withdrawal voucher. Please proceed to the National Bank of Paris to complete the remaining procedures."

The bill of exchange finally reached Richard's hands. He wiped the sweat from his brow with relief, thankful for the Emperor's letter and Chassepot's reminder; otherwise, following the normal procedure, he might have had to stay in Paris for more than a month.

Richard glanced down at the draft: fifty thousand francs. At the exchange rate at the time, that was about two thousand pounds.

"The other half will be paid after verification," he read softly. "In addition, for every thousand rounds produced, you can receive half a franc in royalties."

"Are you satisfied now?" Louise asked with a smile.

"Almost," Richard snapped his fingers, "Now my factory can run again."

"Is all you think about is business?"

Richard looked up and thought for a moment.

"And the tie," he said. "The one you tied for me, it looks really good."

"I'll tie a perfect knot for you next time, and you'll treat us to dinner tonight!" Louise said, arms crossed.

"Huh? Are you going to eat my factory out of business, miss?" Richard exclaimed, his mouth agape in exaggerated surprise.

Suddenly, he felt a gaze, like a knife piercing his back.

He turned his head reflexively, but saw nothing. The door he had come from was now half-closed.

"What's wrong?" Louise looked towards the door with equal concern. "Is it the officer from earlier?"

"No, did you close the door properly?" Richard asked.

"Of course I'm that careless?" Louise denied.

"Maybe it's just my imagination..." Richard grabbed the draft. "Let's get out of here."