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The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 164
🕑 Added 2025-04-26 19:04:01 +0000 UTCChapter 164: "Thunder Shaman" Franklin
“Ten million!” The middle-aged man with brown eyes froze as if his mind couldn’t process such a vast number.
After a moment, he suddenly burst into laughter. “Haha, I see now. The person you’re talking about must be the King, right?”
Marat immediately shook his head. “No, Vals, you’re mistaken.”
Ever since Marat gained access to the government’s financial data, he had known that the King, even if he wanted to, could never embezzle tens of millions. In fact, most of the time, the King was subsidizing the national treasury out of his own pocket.
“It’s Necker,” Marat said in a grave tone. “Jacques Necker.”
Vals was momentarily stunned, then laughed even harder. “Monsieur Necker? Haha, you’re saying that Necker embezzled money? Don’t joke with me, Marat! He’s the Minister of Finance who cares the most about the poor! During his tenure, he barely even raised taxes.”
Necker had spent years in France investing immense energy and resources to build his image as a friend of the poor, someone who stood against royal authority to help the impoverished. In this regard, his efforts had been undeniably effective.
“He didn’t raise taxes,” Marat nodded, “but perhaps that’s only because the taxes wouldn’t have gone directly into his pocket.”
Before Vals could refute, Marat immediately continued, “Shortly after he took office, he signed a loan agreement with a Swiss bank for five million livres under the pretext of ‘filling the financial gap,’ with an interest rate of 23%.
“At the same time, several other banks were offering loans at significantly lower interest rates. I even found documents showing that in the same month, the municipal government of Brittany secured a loan with a 19% interest rate.
“Necker’s explanation was that ‘the Swiss bank had a more reliable reputation.’ Hah, as if a bank lending its gold to the government should worry about its own credibility.”
Marat glanced out the window at a cleaner busying himself with posters for Fashion Week. “While you were enjoying the festivities, I went to Switzerland and discovered that the bank providing the five-million-livre loan was owned by Necker’s friend. Oh, and they had previously partnered to import grain from England.
“Of course, this is just the first questionable loan I’ve investigated.
“During his more than seven years as Controller-General of Finances, the French government borrowed over one billion livres from various banks and nobles. I suspect a large portion of these loans were riddled with issues.”
Vals frowned. “You’re saying that Monsieur Necker leveraged unreasonable loans to profit from the banks?”
“That’s likely the case. If he secured just 1% of the kickbacks from these loans, it would amount to over ten million livres!”
“No, impossible!” Vals shook his head, murmuring, “Monsieur Necker wouldn’t…”
Marat was prepared. He pulled a few sheets of paper from his coat pocket, spread them on the table, and said, “These are copies of the documents related to that five-million-livre loan. Take a look for yourself. If you still don’t believe me, I can take you to see the originals.”
Vals straightened the documents with two fingers, glanced at them, and recoiled as if bitten by a snake. His tone turned somber. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You were once the most brilliant journalist in finance and trade, with many friends in the financial system. Perhaps you could provide me with some information on Necker.”
Vals pursed his lips, contemplating for a few seconds before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you. Back then, I only paid attention to the positive news about Necker. I truly don’t have anything valuable to offer.”
“Anything at all would help.”
“There’s really nothing…”
Vals trailed off suddenly. Looking at Marat, he said, “Wait, there’s one person who might have what you’re looking for!”
“Who?”
“Calonne, the previous Minister of Finance,” Vals replied. “He had significant conflicts with Necker. It’s rumored that his dismissal was tied to Necker.
“Once, after Necker criticized his tax policies, Calonne publicly said, ‘Don’t think I’m unaware of what you’ve done.’ You know, it’s often your enemies who know you best.”
“Calonne,” Marat murmured thoughtfully, nodding. “Where is he now?”
“Have you forgotten? He was exiled to Lorraine.”
“Thank you so much!” Marat clapped the middle-aged journalist firmly on the shoulder, grabbed his hat, and headed for the door.
...
In the office of the Royal Armory on the southeastern side of the Palace of Versailles, Joseph, having just finished a lecture on “Production Management,” tiredly rubbed his temples and glanced at the documents before him.
A sharp-chinned middle-aged man gestured to the papers. “Your Highness, this is the routine work report. This one is the special investigation report on officials involved in Fashion Week. This is the special report from the Police Department. And this is Marat’s application for additional manpower.”
Joseph reviewed and signed each document, remarking absentmindedly, “Thank you for explaining, Mr. Clos. By the way, why isn’t Marat here today?”
Marat usually handled such submissions himself, never delegating them. After all, the Jacobins were generally wary of the royal family.
Clos replied, “Marat had urgent business and left for Lorraine last night.”
“Lorraine?” Joseph set down his pen. “Did he say why?”
“It seemed to be related to the official he’s investigating.”
Necker? Joseph frowned. Such a major issue, and Marat hadn’t informed him.
“How many people did he take?”
“As you know, the Department of Justice has limited staff. It was just him and Mr. Evans.”
Joseph immediately sensed trouble—Marat was underestimating the ruthlessness of capitalists. Perhaps Necker’s carefully crafted image as a genteel and caring individual had lulled everyone into lowering their guard.
He quickly turned to Count Eymond, who stood nearby. “Count Eymond, please notify Fouché immediately. Have him dispatch men to find and protect Marat.”
“At once, Your Highness.”
...
Philadelphia, United States.
On the western bank of the Delaware River.
Outside Benjamin Franklin’s estate, Thomas Jefferson frowned slightly as he watched a limping French envoy step down from a carriage. Sending such an unknown and physically impaired envoy seemed almost insulting to the United States.
However, as an experienced diplomat representing a small nation, Jefferson knew how to mask his displeasure. Smiling, he stepped forward, placed a hand on his chest, and bowed. “Welcome to Philadelphia, esteemed Archbishop Talleyrand.”
Having spent many years as an ambassador to France, Jefferson’s French was impeccable.
The elderly man in the wheelchair beside him, seemingly weakened by age, raised a frail hand in greeting. “Envoy, welcome. When I was in Paris…”
Talleyrand nodded to Jefferson, then smiled at the man in the wheelchair. “You look quite spirited, Monsieur Franklin. May the Lord bless you. Oh, I often heard your name in Paris. You were a renowned figure of the time, and a good friend of mine even has a portrait of you in his home.”
Talleyrand knew well that this octogenarian was the man most capable of influencing U.S. policy. Without Franklin’s tireless efforts at last year’s Constitutional Convention, even its smooth proceedings would have been in doubt.
Before long, in the brick-red, three-story villa on the eastern side of Franklin’s estate, Jefferson’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he asked, “Are you saying that the French government intends to eradicate the Barbary pirates?”
Talleyrand straightened his back confidently. “Indeed. His Majesty, the King of France, deeply sympathizes with the plight of American ships in the Mediterranean. Against the objections of several cabinet ministers, he has decided to eliminate those wicked men once and for all!”
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