The deeper he delved into the heart of Saint Denis, the more profound its impression became. This was 1899; back in the Europe, the nobles still clung to their crumbling thrones. Yet here, in this dazzling crucible of the West, the towering structures of Saint Denis already dwarfed even many modern cities. Indeed, few nations today could boast such monuments to civilization.
But beneath the gleaming façade, the grotesque blemishes of capitalism festered, openly visible. In the sprawling slums, the wretched poor lay sprawled on the grimy earth, sleeping wherever they collapsed, devoid even of a blanket, their clothes barely clinging to their emaciated forms. Meanwhile, in the luminous, vibrant pleasure palaces, the obscenely rich reveled in their decadence, their carriages cushioned by the very backs of human porters. These impoverished souls, stripped of all dignity, plastered humble, fawning smiles on their faces, allowing the gentlemen to step directly onto their backs to ascend into their opulent conveyances. Then, with sickening subservience, they would scramble to pick up the few paltry coins tossed contemptuously onto the ground.
The city streets blazed with electric light, casting long, stark shadows. Under the brilliant glow of the streetlamps, the city's middle-class residents strolled, unburdened. Their lives, though a far cry from the unchecked extravagance of the elite, were leagues removed from the squalor of the slums. At the very least, their anxieties weren't about whether they would eat tomorrow, but what they would eat. And peering into the inky depths of the dark, quiet alleys, one could discern the shadowy forms of countless vagrants. Though, at this time, they weren't truly vagrants; true vagrants starved to death. These wretched figures huddling in the shadows were simply laborers, broken by the unrelenting machinery of progress.
"See, Hosea, Arthur," Dutch murmured, his voice laced with a dark, knowing satisfaction as their horses clip-clopped through the streets. Their gazes, filled with a raw, almost childlike curiosity, devoured every detail of the alien landscape. "This is civilization. Vampires dwell in these luxurious villas, sucking the very lifeblood of the city to uphold their lofty status."
As the undisputed vessel of Western civilization, Saint Denis dwarfed every other place they had ever roamed, a colossal entity beyond their previous comprehension. Factories, sprawling and complex, churned out their unseen products, their intricate workings baffling the outlaws. The city's myriad amenities and technologies stretched their understanding, opening their eyes to a world they barely knew. Of course, only Arthur and Hosea found their minds truly expanded.
"Dutch," Hosea muttered, his voice barely audible above the low hum of the city, his eyes fixed on the massive power plants spewing ceaseless plumes of exhaust, "can we truly contend against this… this so-called civilization?" He found it impossible to reconcile their small Van der Linde Gang against such immense industrial power, such an unstoppable force.
"Oh, Hosea, right now, the most we could do is kill every single employee in those power plants," Arthur chuckled, a grim, cynical edge to his humor.
"Hosea, don't fret, old friend," Dutch soothed, his hand resting reassuringly on his companion's shoulder. He couldn't bear to see his old friend's fighting spirit dwindle. "We'll take it one step at a time, and eventually, we'll stand at the very pinnacle of the world!"
In truth, everyone understood the insurmountable difficulty of confronting such vast capital. Even Dutch, in his moments of chilling honesty, acknowledged it. This was precisely why he relentlessly pursued the development of firearms. If economic power proved elusive, why not resort to military suppression? Capitalists? Wall Street tycoons? I'll simply occupy Wall Street, and then all your capital will, quite naturally, become mine! If only he could achieve his soaring aspirationn . If Robespierre could butcher entire aristocratic nation then so could he!
A fierce, predatory light flared in Dutch's eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. Before true power was amassed, any grand ambition was merely a pathetic boast.
The three men found a respectable hotel. After each secured a helper to assist with their washing—a stark luxury—they retreated to their individual rooms.
"Oh, Arthur, are you sure you don't want to try?" Dutch called out, already walking towards his room, his arm draped possessively around a strikingly attractive woman. He didn't forget to turn his gaze to Hosea, who walked ahead. "And you, Hosea, no interest?"
"Hahaha, no, Dutch, I'm an old man," Hosea laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "I simply don't have that kind of energy anymore." He vanished into his room.
"What about you, Arthur?" Dutch persisted.
"No," Arthur replied, waving his hand, his mind utterly consumed by Mary. There was no room for other women, not now, not with her image burned into his thoughts.
"Oh, well, I suppose only I shall have a tiring night then, fellas," Dutch declared with a hearty laugh, pulling the woman into his room.
Material counterfeiting was still a rarity in this era; the legitimate market remained unsaturated, offering vast fortunes for the taking. Consequently, the shoddy, fake materials that plagued future generations were largely absent.
And without counterfeiting, the hotel rooms boasted excellent sound insulation. With good sound insulation, Hosea and Arthur were able to enjoy a deep, undisturbed sleep. Their impression of Dutch's boundless stamina over the past two days had been strong, but they hadn't truly grasped its incredible extent.
The service worker, initially contracted for hourly services, ended up ministering to Dutch for the entire night. When she emerged the next morning, she had to lean heavily against the wall to walk. Yet, the expression on her face was one of profound satisfaction, a testament not only to Dutch's astonishing prowess but also to the generous sum he had bestowed upon her.
After a hearty breakfast, the trio acquired three immaculate gentlemen's suits in Saint Denis. They visited a barber, their beards trimmed, their hair styled, striving for an appearance of impeccable gentility. Only then, perfectly transformed, did they leisurely seek out Ms. Dorothea, who was delivering a fiery feminist speech in the bustling square before a prominent clothing store.
Spotting the three impeccably dressed gentlemen approaching, Ms. Dorothea immediately stepped forward, her voice ringing out. "Gentlemen, gentlemen! Do you believe in women's rights? Will you stand with us? Ninety percent of us women cannot survive in this cruel society! We desperately need the right to work, we…"
"Oh, madam, madam," Dutch interrupted smoothly, seizing the initiative, "could you please pause for a moment? I have a couple of questions for you."
"Alright, sir, please ask," Ms. Dorothea conceded, reluctantly closing her mouth. "But please, support us. We women have suffered enough oppression!"
Her attire, Dutch noted, was surprisingly refined, a fact that particularly pleased him. In reality, Ms. Dorothea's family undoubtedly possessed considerable standing; otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to openly advocate for women's rights in this public square without being forcefully driven away.
Back in Chapter 3, a women's rights demonstration in Rhodes had been met with the chilling declaration: "Oh, you will die…" Clearly, the women's rights movement was far from popular at this time and could easily provoke mass attacks from enraged men. Indeed, feminism itself, in this era, was often subtly guided by congressmen, its objectives often confined to suffrage, with precious few demands for equal work or true equality in status. This laid bare a brutal truth: any movement in America, from its very inception, was never truly controlled by the poor.
And this, Dutch realized, was the very loophole he could exploit.