I am the Crown Prince of France Chapter 666 666: Camellia's Crisis

"Annemarie, my dear, what are you staring at?"

A soft voice suddenly sounded behind Herriot, startling her. She spun around to see a girl in an erald green, lace-trimd gown, her hair swept into an elegant bun. Her fox-like eyes glead, and her radiant smile seed to light up her face.

"Ah, Veronique, it's you," Herriot stamred, blinking rapidly in an effort to stay calm. "You didn't hear… anything, did you?"

"No, of course not," Veronique Legri smiled and shook her head. "Why? Did I miss sothing?"

"No, no, nothing at all," Herriot exhaled in relief.

"Why didn't you go to the dinner?" Legri asked casually, her eyes flicking upward as she caught sight of Callia's retreating figure in the distance.

Her eyes narrowed for the briefest mont before her expression softened with concern. She took Herriot's arm gently and leaned closer.

"My dear," she said quietly, "as your friend, I feel obligated to warn you: it's best to stay away from that woman."

Herriot turned to her sharply, disbelief written across her face. "What are you saying?"

Legri sighed, as if burdened by the truth.

"You have to face reality, darling. Just look at her — that enchanting face, that alluring figure. No man can resist her. That includes… well, the Prince. And now she has Perna's protection. I know she may have wronged you in the past, but she's not soone you can afford to provoke…"

Among the Versailles nobles, gossip was a beloved pasti, so it was no secret what had happened at Notre-Da during the infamous fight over the "True Love Token."

Herriot, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, planted her hands on her hips. Her face turned crimson, her voice rising into a shrill pitch.

"Why should I? She's nothing but a lowly Moravian! I am a noble Frankish aristocrat! She should be the one avoiding ! I'm not afraid of her—let her co! Let's see who bests whom!"

"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry, I misspoke!" Legri exclaid, lowering her eyes as though frightened. Her trembling voice carried an almost apologetic tone. "She is indeed nothing more than a vulgar country girl next to you. But she uses her beauty and cunning to trap others in her sches. You might end up in trouble because of her—like that ti at Notre-Da…"

Herriot was shaking with fury, her whole body trembling.

"This is Paris!" she shouted, throwing decorum aside. "Versailles belongs to us! She has no right to act so arrogantly here!"

Legri pulled on Herriot's arm as if to calm her.

"Please don't get so worked up. Opposing her will only bring you pain. I'm genuinely worried for you!"

She glanced at Herriot's expression, then added with a whisper:

"If only she were dead… If Heaven were just, it would punish her by drowning her in the river. That would send her straight to Hell. Otherwise, she'll continue making your life miserable at Versailles."

"Enough!" Herriot roared, shaking off her friend's hand. She grabbed her skirt and fled from the cabin.

As the sun set, the breeze over the Seine cooled Herriot's face, but to her, it felt as if knives were slicing through her skin.

Just then, she heard a voice from the stairwell:

"Oh, Mr. Ording! I completely forgot the yogurt sauce! It's the soul of the nut-stewed pigeon dish. Please deliver the food to the dining room—I'll fetch the sauce from the pantry."

Herriot froze. She knew that voice all too well.

It was her. That Austrian witch!

Because the Boroscaphe's kitchen made use of its boiler's hot water and high-temperature coal ash, it was built beside the boiler room, requiring a short walk across the deck to reach the pantry at the rear.

Monts later, Herriot spotted the familiar black-and-white dress moving across the deck.

She instinctively hid behind the wheelhouse, then imdiately stomped her foot in frustration.

"I'm not hiding from her!" she muttered indignantly.

The sound of a door closing reached her ears. Callia, humming a cheerful tune, erged carrying a jar of yogurt sauce.

As she passed Herriot's hiding spot, the words Veronique had whispered earlier crept unbidden into Herriot's mind: "If Heaven were just, it would punish her by drowning her in the river…"

Herriot felt a strange tightness in her chest. Her eyes bulged, bloodshot with rage, as she glanced around the deck.

The crew was busy slowing the ship. There wasn't another soul in sight.

Without thinking, she removed her shoes and crept up behind Callia. As the Austrian maid reached the stairway at the edge of the deck—where she was closest to the rail—Herriot let out a low growl and charged at her with a violent shove!

On the prow of the paddle-sail ship Seven Birds, Soler leaned against the railing, staring gloomily at a nearby barrel. She muttered under her breath:

"Kind sir, please, can you return my bet? So poor souls desperately need that money…"

Her expression darkened, and she ruffled her hair in frustration.

"Ugh! How ridiculous! The race is already a day in, how could I expect to get a refund?"

She sighed, her thoughts drifting to the group of unfortunate people she had recently saved.

Having rescued a dozen slaves from traffickers, she found herself in a bind. Many of them ca from far-off lands, including five from North Arica's Creek Nation.

After treating their illnesses and purchasing passage for nine of the Asians to return to Java, Soler realized she no longer had enough money to send the Creek people back to Arica.

Desperate, she had wagered her last 400 francs—along with three months' salary—on Seven Birds winning the race, earning a spot onboard to keep an eye on her investnt.

If Seven Birds triumphed, she'd make 880 francs, more than enough to send her charges ho.

But she hadn't counted on that smoky steamship being so fast!

Now, even though Seven Birds had switched rowers in Rouen and caught a favorable breeze, the steamship was still a distant shadow ahead.

A plu of white mist suddenly rose in the distance. Soler squinted at it curiously, unaware it was steam venting from Boroscaphe.

As the mist cleared, she saw two figures on the steamship's deck. One of them toppled overboard, splashing into the Seine.

Her eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of a pink wide-brimd hat adorned with feathers, its owner hurrying away from the scene.

"Captain Orsain!" she shouted, running to the ship's helm. "Soone fell overboard!"

"Where?" Orsain and his crew sprang into action.

"Who?"

Soler pointed urgently toward the steamship ahead.

"From that ship—Boroscaphe!"

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