The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1193: Chapter 133: There Are No Secret Police in Gottingen (6K6)

I offer neither salary nor accommodation or food. What I offer is hunger, thirst, combat, death, and endless forced marches. Those who truly love the motherland from their hearts, not just with words, follow my steps and advance with me!

——Giuseppe Garibaldi

By September, Gottingen had already begun to show the initial signs of autumn, the air filled with the fresh scent of leaves and freshly harvested rice.

Sunlight penetrated the thin mist, sprinkling golden warmth at the entrance of the old inn, draping the entire small town in a layer of warmth.

In a cramped little room, separated by just a door from the hallway, chairs around the table, the bed, and beside the wardrobe were all crowded with people.

Everyone was silent, with only the occasional rising thick smoke seen inside the room.

Garibaldi was sitting by the window, through the clear glass, one could see the tranquil scene outside.

Compared to the spirited days in Paris a few months back, Garibaldi now looked much more weathered. His eyes were deeply sunken, bloodshot with fatigue, and his stubble had grown quite coarse, forming a stark contrast to his usual neat image.

Garibaldi’s attire made him appear rather peculiar, his shirt worn out from days of hard escape, frayed at the edges with several holes visible near the pockets. The once luxurious dark blue sailor coat was gone, replaced by a rural housewife-style long dress, covered in dust and mud stains, with a worn inner sweater, and the fringed edging of the coat’s collar, fluffed and dirty from long exposure to wind and rain.

The leather gloves had worn out almost losing their original sheen, and the calloused fingers were stiffly curled. The sailor’s sword on his waist hung crookedly, its hilt bearing several scratches and grime, indicating numerous hasty draws and sheaths.

His black trousers were stained with blotches of dirt, the edges frayed and ragged, smeared with a lot of mud.

Just then, a gentle knock on the door interrupted the heavy slumber in the air.

Everyone’s gaze fixated on that door, Great Dumas and Nourri exchanged glances with Garibaldi, the Frenchman nodded slightly at them, then lifted his coat to reveal the beloved gun tucked in his belt — the one he’d flaunted to Arthur, the Thirteenth Year of the French Republic.

Great Dumas placed one hand on his gun holster, walked to the door, pressed his shoulder against the door panel, and asked in a low voice: ”Who is it?”

A swift response came from outside: ”Cops.”

In an instant, heavy breathing echoed through the room, as both Nourri and Garibaldi placed their hands on their gun holsters.

Seeing this, Great Dumas quickly lowered his hand to signal them not to panic.

Great Dumas in a low tone asked again: ”What kind of cops?”

The outside voice also replied in a low tone: ”The kind that suppresses marchers.”

Click.

Great Dumas pulled the door handle, unable to hold back a curse: ”Arthur, damn it, can’t you answer normally? Without caution, Adolphe and Giuseppe might’ve already drawn their guns and shot you dead.”

Arthur, with one hand on his waist, leaned against the door’s edge with an arm, saying, ”Wouldn’t that be nice? Haven’t you wanted to do that for a while?”

With that, Arthur smiled, waving at Garibaldi and the others: ”Giuseppe, it’s been a while. Ah, Heinrich, and Mr. Nourri are here too.”

Great Dumas was just about to unleash another French verbal assault, but a glimpse from the corner of his eye revealed a lady behind Arthur, the Frenchman abruptly halted his expression of affectionality to an old friend: ”Ah... Miss Yvonne is here too!”

Fiona bowed her head slightly, then gently bent her knees, greeting Great Dumas: ”How have you been lately, Mr. Dumas?”

”Getting by just fine, I’ve opened a theater and I’m working as the theater manager.” Great Dumas replied cheerfully: ”If ever you’re in need of scripts, feel free to come to me anytime.”

”Oh?” Fiona arched an eyebrow slightly, her smile with a hint of mischief: ”Can you write those kinds of scripts?”

Great Dumas laughed heartily: ”Of course, I’m well-versed in both fields. I can write historical dramas, and as for popular plays, I’m even more adept.”

Unaware of the underlying context, Heine, thinking they were discussing some big business, also expressed his eagerness: ”If you’re ever in need, I can also participate, do you accept poetry plays?”

Fiona couldn’t point it out straightforwardly, so she politely declined: ”This form of performance might be too novel for our kind of smaller venues, where the repertoire is rather vintage, and the guests are all old-fashioned, they don’t quite fancy novelty.”

”Is that so?” anxious for income, Heine chased after the topic: ”I believe old-fashioned is relative, they can’t be more old-fashioned than Priests in a church, right? Guests wouldn’t read only the ’Bible’, would they?”

Arthur entered the room, taking off his white gloves: ”Heinrich, I think you should apply at Scotland Yard. Deriving the truth from a single clue, you could surpass both me and Mr. Victor.”

Heine, without false modesty, remarked: ”Perhaps it’s linked to my early experiences, after all, when I was in Dusseldorf, I spent all my time outwitting Prussian secret police.”

”Rest assured.” Arthur pulled out a chair to sit, gesturing to Great Dumas to shut the door: ”There are no Prussian secret police in Gottingen, at most there are a few student organizations here.”