The Shadow of Great Britain

342: Chapter 211: Encyclopedia of French Stub (5K2) 342: Chapter 211: Encyclopedia of French Stub (5K2) London, Tower Hamlets, Whitechapel District police interrogation room.

The Great Dumas and Arthur sat on either side of the interrogation table, facing Louis Bonaparte, who wore an excess Scotland Yard officer’s uniform.

The Great Dumas bit a pen in his mouth, first looked down at the paper in front of him filled with questions with ink still wet, then turned to look at Arthur and raised his eyebrows at his roommate.

In response to the chubby man’s little expression, Arthur simply nodded slightly to indicate that the exam could start.

Seeing this, the Great Dumas first cleared his throat, then took out a Napoleon portrait print he had just bought from a nearby store to compare with Louis Bonaparte before asking, “Sir, I’m not sure how to address you?”

Louis Bonaparte rubbed his calves, looking annoyed as he said, “How many times have I told you, I am Charles-Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte!

I’m not asking for much efficiency from you British, but at least try to improve your memory!”

The Great Dumas couldn’t help but angrily slam the table, “Sir, please take back your insulting words, the only people sitting in front of you in this office are one genuine French gentleman and one British bald man who hasn’t gone bald yet.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur simply took a sip of tea, “Alexander, you have been gallivanting about lately; I shouldn’t have offended you, should I?”

Hearing this, the Great Dumas quickly corrected himself, “Let me correct myself, all I just said is hypothetical!

There are also some British who are naturally not bald.”

Louis Bonaparte, sitting across from them, naturally responded, “I guess you are referring to the ladies of Britain, as they do make up half the proportion.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the two Frenchmen revealed knowing smiles, and their merry laughter melted the chill of the interrogation room.

Arthur just glanced at them, coldly saying, “Although you can’t provide documented proof of nationality, you must be a Frenchman, at least in spirit.

Alright, Alexander, move on to the next topic.”

Even though Arthur said this, the Great Dumas wasn’t quite ready to let it go, “Arthur, what’s the hurry?

He could just have lived in France for a while, I must test him further.”

Not waiting for Arthur to speak, the Great Dumas quickly asked again, “Listen carefully, sir.

If you are a genuine Frenchman, then you definitely know the answer to this question.

Listen well, what starts with the sensation of being wrapped in warmth, comfort, as if enveloped by the sun, goes through a long, damp, soft, bumpy process, and finally ends with the surprise of seeing thousands of little fools?”

Upon hearing this, Louis Bonaparte grinned and pointed at the Great Dumas, saying, “Aha!

Buddy, if I weren’t a genuine Frenchman, you might have actually stumped me.”

The Great Dumas sternly asked, “So, what’s your answer then?”

Louis Bonaparte straightened up and said, “Easy, I bet you’re talking about crossing the English Channel from France!”

“Absolutely correct!” exclaimed the Great Dumas as he rushed to shake Louis Bonaparte’s hand, while also making sure to turn back to Arthur to assert, “Arthur, I can confirm now, this fellow must be my compatriot, no mistake.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur’s hand spun his pen even more fiercely, “Alexander, are you sure you want to go down this route with me?

Have you two French frogs had enough fun?”

The Great Dumas returned to his seat and coughed twice before picking up the ready questionnaire.

“Sir, although I’m inclined to verify that you are truly a Frenchman, I still have some doubts if you’re related to Napoleon.

Honestly, my father had some business relations with Napoleon, and thus, I’m privy to certain secrets about Napoleon unknown to others…”

Upon hearing this, Louis Bonaparte shuddered, inquiring, “You’re not Fouche’s son, are you?”

“Fouche?” The Great Dumas coughed, “My father wasn’t that well informed, but sir, please be careful.

Next to me sits Inspector Hasting from the Greater London Police Department, the British Fouche.

That is to say, in his presence, you better speak honestly.

Don’t think of playing any cunning tricks, or else if he discovers you’re lying…you know…”

These ambiguous words of the Great Dumas utterly unnerved Louis Bonaparte, who asked, “You…you guys aren’t planning to shoot me, are you?

Damn it, I’m the victim here!”

Arthur leaned his arms on the table, hands clasped at his mouth, and said, “Sir, although I also wish to believe you, you know, you can’t produce nationality documents, nor any other form of identification, not even an entry passport.

Had it been during the Napoleonic Wars, just those factors alone could have had you sentenced as a foreign spy and condemned to hanging.

Not to mention, a moment ago you just proved yourself to be French, which indeed compounds your offense.”

“But I’m not a spy, neither is this the time of the Napoleonic Wars!”

“Exactly,” nodded Arthur.

“That’s why we won’t shoot you; Britain is quite humane in that regard.

But while we won’t execute you, we can’t rule out that you might be an associate of the Fred crime syndicate.

So until the truth is uncovered, we lean toward detaining you temporarily.

If you don’t want to be locked in an electrified cage, you better start explaining things clearly and thoroughly.”