The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 167

Chapter 167: A Fateful Encounter

A battered coal wagon came to a halt in front of an old inn on the eastern outskirts of Tulle.

Erich pulled the reins, turned around, and knocked on the wagon's compartment. Speaking softly through the small window, he said, “We’re here. Check your ‘tools.’”

After dismounting, Erich spent 2 sous to learn Marat’s room number from the innkeeper. Turning to his two subordinates, he instructed, “Room 32 on the first floor. Dim, you’ll distract them at the door. Ekhendorf, come with me through the window. Let’s keep this quiet. No need for me to say more, right?”

The two burly men nodded silently, one of them immediately walking off.

Inside Room 32, Marat was sorting through clues related to Necker when a knock came at the door. A voice called out, “Sir, here’s the beer you ordered.”

“You must be mistaken. We didn’t order any beer.”

But the knocking persisted. “The payment’s already been made…”

Marat’s assistant, Evans, stood up, puzzled, and was about to open the door when Marat suddenly stopped him. Frowning, he looked toward the window.

The next moment, the sound of shattering glass pierced the air. A hand reached through the broken window to fumble with the latch.

Marat’s pupils contracted, but his mind remained calm. Having worked for years in anti-monarchist journalism, he had faced danger before. Quickly extinguishing the candle, he grabbed a nearby travel bag, which contained a loaded pistol.

Evans, however, panicked and backed away. Remembering the “innkeeper” outside, he thought to seek help. As a novice just a few months into his job, Evans had no inkling of the killers’ cunning. He turned, opened the door, and shouted, “Someone’s trying to break in…”

Marat cursed inwardly, “No!” but before he could act, Evans collapsed backward, a blade lodged in his chest.

In that flash of a moment, Marat, lit by the faint hallway light, raised the bag, aimed at the figure in the doorway, and pulled the trigger.

“Bang!” The figure fell back. Marat dropped the bag and rushed out of the room.

Behind him, the window creaked open. The first man to leap through saw Marat’s retreating back and, without hesitation, hurled a dagger.

Just as Marat reached the hallway’s end, he felt a sharp sting in his left hip. His hand reached instinctively and found a dagger embedded there.

Having some medical knowledge, Marat knew he couldn’t remove the blade. Pressing hard on either side of the wound, he limped toward the exit.

By now, night had fallen. In the inn’s lobby, the inebriated proprietor was slumped over the counter, dozing. Seeing the two figures chasing him, Marat fled into the streets.

In a small town like Tulle, the nighttime streets were deserted. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Marat ran toward the town center. But the faster he moved, the more blood flowed from his wound.

The relentless sound of pursuit behind him left him no choice but to keep running, silent to avoid giving away his position.

Soon, dizziness set in. His vision blurred, and he felt his chest tighten. Just as despair began to creep in, he saw a figure by the window of a small house ahead, looking at him.

He waved desperately and then stumbled, his left leg giving out beneath him.

The person inside, a young woman in her early twenties, hurried out and helped Marat up. Before she could ask anything, he weakly pleaded, “Hide me... They’re trying to kill me…”

Though flustered, the woman steadied herself upon hearing Marat claim to be a Parisian police officer. Gaining some courage, she dragged him behind the fence outside her house.

No sooner had she closed the gate than two men, guns in hand, approached.

The taller of the two scanned the area before preparing to continue the chase, but the shorter man crouched down, running his fingers over the ground. Soon, his hand came away sticky. Bringing it to his nose, he sniffed and then scanned the area warily.

“It’s blood. He’s close.”

The taller man nodded and began searching the nearby trees, his eyes finally falling on the small house.

Hearing the bootsteps drawing nearer, Marat’s heart pounded furiously. He scarcely dared to breathe.

Suddenly, the steps stopped outside the fence. Relief washed over Marat, but then hands appeared on the fence. A figure climbed to the top, staring coldly down at the cornered prey.

“Good evening, Mr. Meddler. Where will you run now?”

“Run!” Marat shouted desperately, shoving the young woman aside and bracing himself for death.

A gunshot rang out.

Marat flinched, waiting for the pain that never came.

“Did the assassin miss?”

Trembling, he cracked his eyes open. The figure atop the fence had toppled straight down.

Moments later, seven or eight figures burst through the gate. One of them, by firelight, spotted Marat and shouted, “Here he is! It’s Mr. Marat!”

Prosper from the Intelligence Bureau rushed over, kneeling by Marat’s side. “His Highness foresaw you might be in danger and sent us to follow you. We heard the gunfire just as we reached the inn. Are you injured? We’ll get a doctor immediately!”

…

Paris.

On the second floor of the Royal Industrial Planning Bureau, Fouché laid a report before Joseph, saying gravely, “Your Highness, Mr. Marat was attacked on his first night in Tulle. His assistant, Mr. Evans, was killed on the spot. Fortunately, a woman named Charlotte Corday helped him escape, though he sustained an injury to his leg.”

Joseph frowned, flipping through the report. “He met with Calonne, asked about Necker, and then someone tried to kill him. Were the attackers caught?”

“Two were killed, one escaped under cover of darkness,” Fouché replied. “According to Prosper’s investigation, the two dead men were local gang members.”

He hesitated before adding, “Your Highness, could it be that Calonne wanted to stop Marat’s investigation into Necker and sent the assassins?”

Joseph shook his head, raising Marat’s report. “Marat is convinced that Calonne and Necker have a feud. He wouldn’t cover for Necker.”

“Besides, Calonne is shrewd. If he were going to assassinate someone, he wouldn’t do it on the same night they’d just met.”

Joseph contemplated this as Fouché continued his report...

Joseph tapped the report on the desk thoughtfully. “Calonne wouldn’t be so careless. He was once Finance Minister and even Prime Minister. His tax reform laws were his brainchild, although they were ultimately defeated by the nobles and led to his exile. Even Brienne simply copied his reforms later.”

Fouché ventured, “Then could it have been Necker’s men who did it?”

Joseph nodded slightly. “It’s a possibility. If so, it would further confirm that Marat is digging in the right direction.”

He frowned at the report again. “Still, if Calonne has evidence against Necker, why wouldn’t he give it to Marat? The report says Marat received reliable information that Calonne likely possesses incriminating material on Necker.”

Fouché suggested, “Perhaps Calonne simply doesn’t trust Marat…”

Joseph shook his head, tapping his fingers on the desk. “That doesn’t add up. If Calonne has such evidence and truly has a grudge against Necker, why wouldn’t he expose it directly? For example, by reporting it to the King?”

Fouché thought deeply. “If there’s no collusion between them, then perhaps Calonne is under threat—like what happened to Marat.”

Joseph disagreed. “Calonne once held the highest offices. Even in exile, he remains a powerful noble. He could easily hire a small army of bodyguards if needed. And let’s not forget he’s fiercely loyal to the Crown and trusted by Queen Marie Antoinette. Necker wouldn’t dare target him so openly.”

After a pause, Joseph continued, “Calonne might not be acting out of fear but rather out of self-interest. He might be waiting for the highest bidder for the information he has—or perhaps Necker holds evidence against him as well. A mutual deterrent.”

Joseph stared out the window, his brows furrowed. “Whatever the case, the fact remains: Calonne likely has critical evidence. The question is how to make him talk.”

He drummed his fingers rhythmically. “If the reasons holding Calonne back fall within our assumptions, we can address each of them. Once we resolve those concerns, he’ll have no choice but to act.”

“First, we can likely rule out fear for his life. If it were a concern, we could provide him with palace guards, and that would be the end of it.”

“Next, if he’s waiting for a better deal, we need to offer something he can’t refuse. Money won’t do—it’s not just expensive, but Calonne is already wealthy. Power is more persuasive.”

Joseph’s eyes lit up with an idea. “He’s exiled to Lorraine, his political future in ruins. If I could bring him back to Paris, it would be like giving him a second life—a second political life.”

Fouché interjected cautiously, “But Your Highness, the current Prime Minister, Brienne, only took the position after Calonne’s exile. Won’t he oppose this?”

Joseph smiled faintly. “That’s why I’ll need to convince him. Calonne wouldn’t challenge his position. I’ll make sure of it.”

Fouché bowed and left after completing his report.

Joseph wasted no time, heading to Versailles to meet with Brienne.

…

In the carriage, Joseph continued mulling over the implications of Necker potentially holding leverage over Calonne. “If Necker has dirt on Calonne, the only way to force his hand would be to create a scenario where Calonne must reveal it, even if it risks mutual destruction.”

Still, Joseph couldn’t ignore Calonne’s unwavering loyalty to the Crown. During Louis XVI’s fall, Calonne had led royalist efforts to restore the monarchy, sacrificing nearly everything. Such loyalty might prove useful in bolstering royal authority in these tumultuous times.

Joseph idly flipped through the files Marat had gathered, a faint smile forming on his lips. “Perhaps the assassination attempt on Marat can serve as a useful tool.”

…

About an hour and a half later, the carriage arrived at the eastern side of Versailles. A nearly completed wooden railway extended almost to the palace, connecting it to Paris.

It was late afternoon when Joseph entered Brienne’s residence.

The Archbishop greeted him warmly. “Your Highness, had I known you wished to see me, I would have come to you.”

Joseph exchanged pleasantries before cutting to the chase. “Archbishop Brienne, I have an important matter that requires your assistance.”

“I am always at your service, Your Highness.”

Joseph nodded. “I want to bring Calonne back to Paris. What do you think?”

Brienne froze, forcing a smile. “Did I make an error, Your Highness?”

“No, no, you misunderstand. Your work has been exemplary, and His Majesty and I trust you completely,” Joseph reassured him. “Calonne’s return is purely for a ‘business’ purpose. I promise it won’t threaten your position.”

“Business?” Brienne asked skeptically.

Joseph leaned in, lowering his voice. “It could mean hundreds of thousands—perhaps millions—of livres in revenue.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. “Calonne is willing to offer such a large political donation?”

Joseph chuckled. “No, bringing him back is merely part of the plan. You’ll understand in time.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Brienne sighed. “As long as Calonne doesn’t enter the cabinet, I have no objections.”

Joseph thanked him sincerely, surprised at how smoothly things went. He decided to move swiftly, bringing Brienne along to meet Queen Marie Antoinette.

…

At the Petit Trianon, the Queen listened to Brienne’s report with a mix of surprise and skepticism. “You’re suggesting a pardon for Calonne?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Brienne said earnestly. “Calonne was dismissed and exiled for failing to push through the tax reforms, but that was mostly to appease the Assembly of Notables.”

He added, “Now that the reforms are in place and the courts reorganized, there’s no need to cater to those nobles anymore.”

A seasoned politician, Brienne cleverly framed the pardon as a means of reclaiming the authority and dignity the Queen had yielded to the Assembly of Notables in the past.

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