Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Queen Isabella II lay on her side on the sofa, with her handsome male lover standing beside her.

She was dressed in black mourning clothes, and unlike her plump figure in the oil painting, she now had a gaunt face and sunken eyes. She even had no appetite for the grapes that her male lover offered her to peel.

Louise stepped forward and curtsied: "Your Highness."

Richard also bowed.

"You... are sculptors from England?" Isabella's melancholy gaze lingered on them for a moment.

"Yes, Your Highness, I am Louise, and this is my manager, Richard." Louise nodded. "I would like to request your permission to create a statue for you."

Isabella said expressionlessly, "I have many statues, in Madrid, in Seville... now they've probably all been smashed by the revolutionaries."

The atmosphere froze at freezing point.

Isabella sighed, then asked, "Did Luisa introduce you?"

Richard stepped forward and took the ruby ​​ring from his pocket: "Yes, Your Highness, Lady Louise asked me to return this ring to you. She said..."

Isabella's gaze fell on the ring, and her expression suddenly changed.

"Did Louisa give it to you?" Her voice turned somber.

"Yes."

"She gave my ring to a businessman without asking me?" Isabella twirled the lace trim on the sofa with her fingertips.

Richard fell silent. He realized that this was not a token between ordinary sisters, but a scar left by a power struggle.

Louise tried to speak: "Your Highness, Mr. Richard simply..."

"I know," the Queen said, extending her hand and sitting up with the help of a male servant.

She tapped Louise with her fingertip: "Miss Louise, you may stay. I'll allow you to draw a few sketches."

Then she glanced at Richard: "As for this gentleman..."

She didn't finish her sentence, but her meaning was already quite clear.

Richard bowed and turned to walk toward the door. Louise glared at him, her eyes saying: Didn't I tell you not to talk nonsense?

Richard walked out of the drawing room, the door slowly closing behind him.

My ribs are throbbing under my vest, and now there's something else: self-esteem.

"gentlemen?"

A childish voice came from the side.

Richard turned around and saw an eleven or twelve-year-old boy standing at the corner of the corridor, wearing a military uniform with gold trim, looking like a little general.

"They say you're an art dealer?" the boy asked.

Richard recognized him: Alfonso XII, Isabella's son.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Did your mother kick you out?" The boy tilted his head. "She does this all the time. Last time she even kicked out an ambassador."

Richard silently crouched down to the same height as the boy. He noticed the holster hanging from the boy's waist; it was a .24 caliber dueling pistol.

"Do you like guns, Your Highness?" Richard asked.

The boy shook his head, nervously clutching the hem of his clothes: "No, sir, but my teacher said that target shooting is a popular pastime among the nobility..."

He bit his lip: "But I like pigeons! I don't want to shoot them, so sometimes I deliberately miss..."

In the 19th century, target shooting among nobles often involved using shotguns to kill released mud pigeons.

Richard gave a wry smile. Seeing the boy's voice growing softer, he suggested, "How about this, Your Highness, we won't use pigeons."

"Then what should we use?" Alfonso looked up in confusion.

Richard looked around; before him lay the hallway leading to the kitchen. "Do you think the French Emperor would mind if we borrowed a few plates?"

Soon, the two arrived at the outdoor shooting range, where a servant stood by, holding a stack of carved porcelain pieces with a puzzled expression.

"This is..." Alfonso watched curiously as Richard placed the plates one by one on the wooden stakes at the shooting range.

"A plate." Richard dusted off his hands. "Bigger than a pigeon, can't fly, and, well, it won't hurt."

The boy's eyes lit up instantly, but then dimmed again: "But the teacher said that shooting a live animal doesn't count as real shooting."

"No, Your Highness," Richard placed the pistol in Alfonso's hand, "shooting is about hitting what you want to hit, not what you don't want to hit."

Alfonso paused, then a smile finally broke out on his suppressed face, and he nodded vigorously.

"Lower your elbows," Richard gently pressed on his shoulder, adjusting his posture. "Yes, breathe, aim at your target..."

boom!

The plate shattered with a crack, and shards scattered in the sunlight.

"I hit it!" The boy jumped up excitedly. "Sir, did you see that? I hit it!"

"Very well, Your Highness." Richard smiled. "Want to try again?"

"Again!"

boom!boom!

Plates shattered one after another, and Alfonso's laughter grew louder and louder. He was no longer a deposed king, but an eleven-year-old carefree child.

"Sir," Alfonso lowered his gun, panting but beaming with excitement, "you're better than all my teachers!"

"You flatter me. It was because I was teaching you how to break plates." Richard said, his hands behind his back, looking at the shards scattered on the floor.

The boy smiled and holstered his pistol. "Sir, will you stay in France?"

"I don't know, Your Highness..." Richard's eyes suddenly darted around, and he squatted down to take out a sample of a fixed-load bullet from his briefcase.

"Do you know what this is?" Richard asked, placing the bullet in his palm.

"Brass...bullets?" Alfonso took them and twirled them in his hand.

"Yes, Spain has the world's largest copper mine, Rio Tinto."

"I know that place!" the boy blinked. "My mother said it's our home."

"If you ever return to Spain," Richard said, "would you let me visit you?"

Alfonso suddenly frowned: "Do you think I can go back?"

Richard pursed his lips. "In my hometown, there's a legend that a prodigal son who leaves home will one day return, as long as he cherishes his homeland. Your Majesty, do you miss Spain?"

"Yes," the boy said. "I want to see my pony, I want to see my palace. My mother says it's a mess there now, but I'm not afraid."

"You are a brave prince, you will surely return." Richard crouched down and extended his hand to him. "Don't forget me when you do."

"It's a deal!" Alfonso grasped Richard's hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Looks like you guys had a lot of fun."

Richard heard the sound of military boots rolling over the lawn behind him, and a deep male voice sounded in his ear.

He turned his head, his heart suddenly clenching.

Napoleon III stood a few steps away, wearing a dark gray military coat, his goatee spiking high. Soldiers wearing caps on either side of him held their rifles high, shouting loud commands.

"Your Majesty," Richard quickly stood up and bowed.

Alfonso quickly bowed as well: "Your Majesty."

Napoleon III patted the boy's head, then walked to the edge of the firing range and looked down at the broken porcelain shards.

"A plate?" He glanced at Richard. "You taught him to use a plate instead of a pigeon?"

"Yes, His Highness does not like to shoot pigeons," Richard replied nervously.

Napoleon III was about to speak when he stopped, then turned to Alfonso: "Your Highness, why don't you go back to the villa and see if there's anything you can do to help?"

The boy responded, lowered his head, and walked back inside, glancing back at Richard with concern as he left.