The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 55

Chapter 55: The True and False Fouché

It wasn’t just a matter of undergoing inspections to enter the bank; the mere sight of those rowdy-looking policemen stationed at the entrance deterred anyone from approaching Ravelle Bank.

For an entire morning, the bank didn’t conduct a single transaction.

Naturally, the so-called robbers didn’t show up either.

The bank manager couldn’t stand it any longer. He approached the portly policeman with a fawning smile and said, “Officer, I believe the robbers might have given up by now…”

The policeman’s eyes widened. “How do you know the robbers gave up? Do you have ties with them?”

“No, no, absolutely not!” The manager jumped in fright, then grimaced. “But with you standing guard here, the robbers won’t dare come, and our customers are scared away too.”

“That’s not my problem. If I don’t stay here and your bank gets robbed, my salary will suffer.”

The manager understood most of the message. Turning around, he fetched a pouch of silver coins, discreetly stuffing it into the policeman’s hand while whispering, “About your salary, I can compensate you a little.”

The policeman’s heart leaped with joy—ever since being reassigned to the “Daily Affairs Squad,” he’d been dredging river sludge for over half a month and didn’t even have a proper uniform from the police force.

This time, the Police Commissioner personally assigned him to the task, providing him with a uniform and equipment while explicitly allowing him to profit as he pleased. Naturally, he wouldn’t refuse the manager’s bribe.

However, even after taking the money, he didn’t budge. The manager grew anxious. “I’ve already covered your salary. Could you take a rest now?”

“How could I do that?” The portly policeman replied with righteous indignation. “You’ve been so generous to me; I certainly can’t leave you unprotected against robbers!”

The helpless manager had no choice but to inform the General Manager, Étienne.

Étienne came and attempted to bribe the policeman further, but it was no use. In the end, he had to report the matter to the board of directors...

Meanwhile, Laborde Bank was in the same situation. A group of policemen formed a blockade, “protecting” the bank so thoroughly that not even a fly could get through.

The next day, the police claimed to have received intelligence that the robbers might dig a tunnel to reach the vault. They hired workers to dig a trench over four meters deep around the bank in search of the alleged tunnel.

No tunnel was found, of course, but the construction expenses were naturally billed to the bank.

For three consecutive days, neither bank saw a single customer. When senior management from the banks went to protest to Police Commissioner Besançon, they were told, “For your safety, please cooperate.”

By noon, a reporter arrived at Ravelle Bank to conduct an interview. Before he could say anything, the portly policeman eagerly pulled him aside and whispered a lengthy story.

He spoke of how, during a gang crackdown in the Saint-Antoine District, the police had uncovered secret letters linking the gang to foreign robbers. He claimed the Ottoman gang had already infiltrated Paris and threatened not only to rob the bank but also to kill everyone inside…

The journalist hadn’t expected such sensational news. Overjoyed, he slipped the policeman a few silver livres before dashing back to his newsroom to write the story.

Soon, all of Paris was abuzz with talk of the Ottoman gang. Citizens avoided the two banks like they were the plague, staying at least 30 meters away for fear of getting caught up in a robbery.

Meanwhile, Joseph had no idea that Besançon had orchestrated this debacle to punish the banks.

After leaving the Paris Police Academy and returning to the Palace of Versailles, he found a short man waiting for him. The man wore a slightly worn gray coat, had sparse hair, and an unassuming, honest-looking face.

Joseph took a few seconds to recall the man’s name before smiling. “Captain Prosper, what brings you here? Do you have news about that matter?”

This unremarkable man was one of the three senior spies that the Minister of War had promised to assign to Joseph. He had arrived in Paris two days earlier, making him the first to report for duty. Given the era’s limited communication and transportation, many of the other assigned spies were still en route.

Captain Prosper bowed respectfully and, in a hoarse voice, replied, “Your Highness, I’ve already found the person you were looking for.”

“So quickly?” Joseph was taken aback.

In an era without any database of urban residents—or even a comprehensive register of household records—Prosper had managed to find the person with just a name and a few characteristics in two days. He truly deserved his reputation as a top spy, someone even the Marquis de Saint-Priest was reluctant to let go.

“This was nothing, Your Highness. If I were more familiar with Paris, I could have done it in a day.” Prosper furrowed his brow slightly before continuing, “However, there’s a minor issue.”

“Oh? What issue?”

Prosper explained, “There are two individuals named Joseph Fouché who match the characteristics you provided.”

Indeed, the person Joseph had instructed him to find was none other than the future head of Napoleon’s intelligence network, a key figure in the Coup of 18 Brumaire, and later a supporter of Louis XVIII—Joseph Fouché, also known as the “Butcher of Lyon.”

Joseph had initially planned to choose one of these spies to oversee his future intelligence agency. However, through his interactions with them, he realized they excelled in espionage but lacked skills in management, strategic planning, and personnel coordination.

Therefore, he needed someone to serve as the agency’s overall leader to ensure smooth operations. Joseph immediately thought of the infamous Fouché—a man capable of building and maintaining Napoleon’s intelligence empire.

Though Fouché would later rise to prominence, holding sway over the French political arena after the Revolution, he was currently an obscure priest due to his humble origins.

Joseph had tasked his new spies with locating him as a test of their abilities. He hadn’t expected such rapid results.

Now, the only challenge was identifying which Fouché was the one he sought.

He glanced at the sky and said to Prosper, “Please take me to meet them tomorrow.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

...

The next day.

In a small monastery in the northern part of Paris, Prosper and his team—dressed in plain clothes—found Fouché and brought him to a secluded cabin.

Prosper stared at the nervous monk and said sternly, “I am with the Royal Police. Listen carefully: foreign spies have infiltrated your monastery. I can only confirm that you are uninvolved in this matter.

“However, these individuals have stolen critical intelligence. If they are alarmed, the documents might be destroyed.”

The monk’s eyes widened in shock. “Why… why are you telling me this?”

Prosper handed him a packet of powder. “I need you to poison their food so we can ensure they all die at the same time.”

The monk’s face turned ashen. He dropped the poison, recoiling as though it were a scorpion. Trembling, he stammered, “No, there are innocent people among them. I… I can’t kill them…”

Outside the cabin, Joseph shook his head slightly. “It’s probably not him. Let’s go.”

Eymond entered the room to reassure the monk that the situation was fabricated, left him a few silver livres, and rejoined Joseph and the others.

An hour later, in a larger monastery, Prosper repeated the scenario with another monk—a gaunt man with hollow cheeks, lifeless eyes, and thin lips.

When asked to poison the food, this monk’s eyes gleamed. “Sir, if I assist the Royal Police, will I be rewarded?”

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