The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 175

Chapter 175: Your Enemy Always Knows You Best

“Oh, of course, please go ahead.” Fouché stepped aside courteously.

After all, he was officially just a minor police officer. Even being allowed to guard Necker here depended on the authorization signed by Count Robert, one of the secret police commanders.

The tall officer nodded and smiled at him before approaching the prisoner. He examined the disheveled, unshaven man closely, confirming that he was indeed Necker, before making a pretense of frisking him.

“We’ve already searched him thoroughly,” Fouché remarked from the side. “Rest assured, there are no dangerous items or valuables.”

The officer moved to Necker’s side, as if inspecting the pockets of his breeches. Leaning in, he whispered rapidly into Necker’s ear, “Say nothing, and within three days, you’ll be rescued and taken to England.”

Necker’s heart sank. He turned his head to look at the officer, but by then the man had already put on his gloves and was heading for the door. “No issues here. I’ll leave the rest to you.”

Once the officer left, Fouché immediately closed the door and signaled his men. “Quickly, get started!”

The interrogation of Necker began that very night.

The lead interrogators were two secret police commissioners, with Fouché and others observing from the side. For a case as significant as this, one that alarmed the Queen, the official responsibility naturally fell to the royal secret police, the “henchmen” of the monarchy.

The questioning dragged on until dawn, but Necker said almost nothing.

Even when confronted with irrefutable evidence, he merely gazed calmly at the interrogators’ enraged outbursts, neither confirming nor denying anything, as if the events had nothing to do with him.

The two interrogators, exhausted and yawning, decided to take a short break.

Fouché instructed Prosper to keep a close watch on Necker, forbidding even the secret police to leave without permission. He then took an assistant with him to return to a cell on the third floor of the Bastille.

The officer standing guard outside the cell saluted him with a raised cap. “Everything is normal, sir.”

Fouché nodded, glanced inside through the small window in the door, then pulled over a chair and dozed off by the door.

By noon, the clatter of dishes jolted him awake.

Squinting, he saw an officer and two soldiers carrying food trays toward the cell.

Fouché’s men immediately stepped forward, exchanged a few words with the officer, and watched as the latter smiled and nodded before taking a bite from each dish with a spare set of utensils.

Only then did the police open the door and gesture inside. “Please, go ahead.”

The officer entered the cell and, under the watchful eyes of several guards, laid out the sumptuous meal on the table. Yet no one noticed his thumbnail dipping briefly into the creamy pea soup as he set it down.

After arranging the food, the officer gestured toward the stiffly seated Necker and the woman and child huddled in the corner of the room. “Please enjoy your meal.”

Nearly an hour later, loud shouting and a woman’s shrill screams suddenly erupted from the cell.

Fouché sprang from his chair, fully alert, and rushed into the room.

There, Necker lay writhing in pain on the sofa, his body convulsing intermittently. Dark, blackened blood oozed from his unkempt beard, dripping onto the carpet.

Fouché reached out to check Necker’s carotid pulse, then turned to his men. “Was he poisoned?”

The officer pointed at the food on the table. “It seems so, sir. Shortly after eating, he complained of stomach pain, and then this happened.”

“Quick work,” Fouché sneered coldly. He barked orders to his subordinates. “Arrest the person who delivered the food.

“Oran, bring some animals to test these dishes.”

“Yes, sir!”

...

Palais-Royal

The Duke of Orléans pushed open the doors of a second-floor hall, smiling as he addressed the bankers gathered there to discuss their predicament. “Come now, gentlemen, no need to look so grim. Things aren’t as dire as they seem.

“I suggest we all enjoy a fine dinner. Perhaps the matter will already be resolved by then.”

“Even you had dealings with Necker. How can you remain so unperturbed?” asked the owner of the Béranger Bank, eyeing him warily. “What exactly have you done?”

“You’ll know soon enough.” The Duke gestured toward the corridor. “The dining room is this way.”

Count Isaac, sensing something in the Duke’s demeanor, asked excitedly, “You’ve truly resolved it?”

The others, noticing the Duke’s silent smile, erupted in celebration.

“God bless you, Duke! You’ve saved us all!”

“Excellent news! This changes everything...”

“I swear, you’re the most brilliant Capet!”

As the bankers lavished him with praise, the butler, Donnadier, hurried in with a small, wax-sealed note, which he handed to the Duke with great reverence.

The Duke, basking in his triumph, held the note aloft for all to see before breaking the seal and slowly unrolling it.

But as his eyes scanned the two lines written within, his expression darkened. He turned sharply to Donnadier. “Didn’t Lavallière report success?”

“Yes, sir. His message at noon confirmed it.” The butler’s voice trembled as he replied.

The Duke ripped the note into shreds and hurled them to the floor. “How is this possible?”

The note, sent by his informant within the secret police, contained just two lines: “Necker was interrogated this afternoon. He did not implicate any banks.”

Yet Lavallière had assured him that Necker had been poisoned during lunch!

Suddenly, the Duke remembered something and grabbed the butler. “Has Lavallière been discovered?”

The butler, still confused, bowed hurriedly. “I’ll send someone to investigate immediately.”

Slamming the hall doors shut, the Duke paced back and forth, muttering curses under his breath. “That fool Lavallière! Why didn’t he prepare better?”

He stopped abruptly, realizing that if Necker had survived the poisoning attempt, he would no longer trust the promise of escape to England.

This meant the secrets between Necker and the banks might soon be exposed to the royal family.

Grabbing a chair, the Duke slumped into it, his mind in turmoil. What now? What could he do next?

...

The Duke of Orléans wiped the sweat from his palms on his coat. He had already lost control of public opinion and the higher courts. His infiltration of the military had been undone by an inexplicable assassination attempt. If he now lost his grip on the financial sector, the Orléans family’s century-long challenge to the throne would undoubtedly come to an end during his lifetime.

No, there had to be a solution. The Duke clenched his fists, his mind racing. What resources could he still mobilize?

Count Kappfeil, noticing the heavy tension in the room, cautiously interjected, “Shall we still proceed to lunch?”

...

Bastille

In the third-floor cell, Necker, now clean-shaven and wearing a white jacket and a wig, stared in shock at the body lying on the ground—a man who was the spitting image of himself.

Fear surged through him. If not for the police taking him to a house opposite the Bastille for interrogation, the corpse lying there, bloodied and lifeless, would have been his.

The truth was, Fouché had planted a condemned prisoner in the cell to impersonate Necker. Thanks to Necker’s previous disheveled appearance, it was hard to notice the deception at first glance.

Joseph had long been aware that the Bastille was as porous as a sieve. Jeanne, the woman behind the infamous “Diamond Necklace Affair,” had escaped from here, so someone as significant as Necker was an even easier target. Thus, Joseph had instructed Fouché to set up a decoy to attract attention, while the real Necker was detained safely in a nearby residence.

Suddenly realizing something, Necker turned to Fouché in alarm. “What about Susan and the children?!”

Susan was Necker’s wife. Using his family to bait assassins into revealing themselves was a risky move.

Fouché gestured toward an inner chamber. “They’re fine. My men personally delivered their meals.”

Necker sighed in relief, though his gaze soon returned to the corpse on the floor, hardening. “This was all part of your plan to manipulate me, wasn’t it?”

The door swung open, and Prosper entered. He saluted Fouché. “Sir, the man who delivered the food was a lieutenant named Karl.”

“Was he captured?”

“He’s dead.”

Fouché kicked the sofa in frustration. “Damn it! How did he die? Who killed him?”

“He was poisoned,” Prosper replied. “He’s still breathing but unable to speak.”

Fouché turned to Necker, his tone dripping with mockery. “Care to take a look? See how we’ve poisoned a soldier just to entrap you.

“His Majesty has already pardoned you. Now, who do you think wants you dead the most?”

Necker slumped in defeat, the last shred of hope extinguished in his heart.

...

Not long after, Joseph arrived at the Bastille, summoned by the incident.

After Fouché briefed him on the events, Joseph’s first question was, “Is the assassin still alive?”

“Apologies, Your Highness. He passed two hours ago.”

“That quickly?” Joseph frowned. “Didn’t you attempt to flush his stomach?”

“Flush his stomach? What is that?”

Joseph sighed. It seemed that stomach pumping had yet to be invented in this era. If it had been, the man might have survived long enough to identify the mastermind.

“What did Necker confess?”

Fouché lowered his head. “He has remained silent, only insisting that he be guaranteed exile before he speaks further.”

Joseph smirked coldly. “Still daring to negotiate? Once our man arrives, he’ll sing like a bird.

“All right, go about your duties. Keep a close watch on Necker.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

After Fouché and his men left, Joseph turned to the Bastille’s commander, Bernard-René Jourdan de Launay.

“Marquis de Launay, do you understand how critical Necker is? Do you grasp the consequences if he were to die?”

“Your Highness, I deeply apologize. It was an oversight by my officers,” Launay stammered, wiping sweat from his brow.

Joseph cast him a scornful look. “Your officers’ oversight?”

“No, no, Your Highness!” Launay bowed repeatedly. “It was my oversight!”

Joseph nodded. “Good. I’ll be sure to report the truth to Her Majesty.”

“What? No! Please, Your Highness, grant me another chance...”

Joseph paused mid-step and addressed him sharply. “Effective immediately, replace all guards at the Bastille’s gates, cooks, and cleaners with my own men. Your officers and soldiers are forbidden from approaching Necker’s cell within a hundred paces.”

“Yes, Your Highness! Whatever you command!”

“And you have half a month to uncover the mastermind behind Necker’s poisoning.”

“Understood! I’ll track them down!”

Joseph knew full well that the banking guild was almost certainly behind the attempt. Launay had no hope of identifying them. However, the Bastille had become a sore point for the French people and a weapon for those smearing the monarchy. By leveraging this incident, Joseph could establish more control over the Bastille for future actions.

...

Late Night, Bastille Second-Floor Interrogation Room

Necker clenched his jaw tightly, repeatedly muttering, “I need the Crown’s promise,” and, “I’ll only speak if I’m exiled.”

Suddenly, the interrogation room door opened, and a familiar face stepped inside.

Necker froze, then exclaimed, “Calonne? You... why are you here?!”

Dressed in a plain black coat, Viscount Calonne inclined his head slightly, smiling warmly. “Good evening, Necker. How long has it been? Two years since I was exiled?”

“You... you’re here?” Necker repeated numbly.

Calonne nodded to Fouché and the others before casually seating himself at the chief interrogator’s desk. Picking up the records and case files, he skimmed through them with practiced ease.

After a moment, he looked up at Necker and smiled again. “His Highness the Crown Prince appointed me as your lead interrogator. Surprised, aren’t you?”

“Why... why you?”

“Well, my dear Necker,” Calonne chuckled. “We’ve been rivals for so long. Who else knows your schemes better than I do?”

Flipping through the files, he continued, “Let’s not waste time. Shall we start with this loan agreement you signed with the Béranger Bank?”

“No! I need a guarantee of exile!”

“Hmm, let me guess. This 4-million-livre loan—surely there were two sets of contracts with Béranger Bank.” Calonne ignored him, his words brimming with vengeful delight. His sharp mind dissected every suspicious detail, drawing from his own extensive experience with corruption to reconstruct events. “See, you evened out the government’s interest payments here, but the money trail here left traces...”

For over an hour, Necker listened as Calonne unraveled his operations with astonishing precision. His expression shifted from anger to disbelief, and finally to horror. Calonne’s deductions matched the facts so closely that by the end, they were indistinguishable from the truth.

“Hmm, I see you’re not denying it.” Calonne nodded in satisfaction, then turned to the clerk. “Did you record everything?”

“Yes, Viscount Calonne.”

“Excellent. Tomorrow, we’ll have the royal police follow these leads, seize accounts, and make arrests. I’m confident we’ll uncover much more.”

Cold sweat ran down Necker’s back...

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