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The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 13
🕑 Added 2025-02-14 02:22:29 +0000 UTCChapter 13: The Deal
Joseph left two guards to keep an eye on the bank manager, ensuring he couldn’t leak any information, and led his entourage out of the Havre-Bank.
Arden urged eagerly, “Your Highness, shall I lead a team to arrest Guizot?”
Joseph raised a hand to stop him. “Guizot only provided Similion with thirty thousand livres. There’s no evidence to prove his involvement.”
“Then let’s arrest Similion. He might confess and implicate Guizot.”
Joseph hadn’t expected the mastermind behind the scenes to be Paris’ Chief of Police. He frowned and fell into deep thought. Guizot’s unique position meant that without direct evidence, even Similion’s testimony wouldn’t be enough to convict him.
Eymond glanced at the darkening sky and said to Joseph, “Your Highness, it’s getting late. Perhaps we should return to our residence.”
Joseph’s eyes lit up at Eymond’s remark. “Valéan was caught near dusk, right? So, the news likely won’t reach City Hall until tomorrow morning?”
Arden nodded. “He’s just a thug; no one will pay him much attention.”
“Good!”
Joseph quickly climbed into the carriage, leaned on the small writing desk, and penned a letter. Handing it to the captain of his guard, he ordered:
“Viscount Quillian, send someone back to Versailles to deliver this to Her Majesty the Queen. Make haste!”
“As you command, Your Highness!”
...
At four in the morning, Count Hermann, the secretary to Queen Marie Antoinette, arrived at the Saint-Antoine District police station with Antoine, the Commissioner of the Secret Police, both stifling yawns.
Before they could exchange greetings, Joseph warmly welcomed them with hot cocoa and ushered them to sit.
“Your Highness, you summoned us so urgently. Is there an important matter?” Hermann asked.
“There is indeed something that requires your assistance.” Joseph leaned in and began explaining his plan.
Hermann’s eyes widened in disbelief. “If this doesn’t go well…”
“Leave it to me. There won’t be any surprises,” Antoine said with confidence. “Your Highness’s method is excellent. I might even include this in the Secret Police training curriculum.”
Joseph bowed to them. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, then.”
“It’s our honor to serve Your Highness.”
...
As dawn broke, Guizot yawned as he boarded his carriage, lazily tossing his cane to a servant and gesturing idly. “Let’s go.”
The carriage began to rumble forward over the cobblestone road. Guizot, still some distance from City Hall, leaned back to doze when the coachman’s sharp cry, “Whoa!” startled him. The carriage jolted to an abrupt halt.
“What’s going on?” Guizot irritably pulled open the window to see, but the door was suddenly yanked open.
Three burly men, wearing tattered leather hats and reeking of filth, loomed outside the carriage.
Guizot’s bodyguard scrambled for his sword, but a dueling sabre was already pressed against his throat.
A gaunt man with prominent knuckles gestured outside the carriage with his head. “Out.”
The servants and guards hastily disembarked. When Guizot moved, a hand pushed him back down. “You stay put.”
Then the three men climbed into the carriage. The man with the blade closed the door and ordered the coachman, “Keep driving. Act like nothing happened.”
As the carriage resumed its journey, Guizot quickly composed himself. He leaned back, his voice icy. “You’re Valéan, aren’t you? Who sent you?”
As Paris’ Chief of Police, Guizot was familiar with the leaders of its prominent gangs. He recognized the man with a half-missing left ear—the deputy leader of the Black Sheep Gang—from a meeting the previous year.
Valéan glanced at the gaunt man seated on Guizot’s left, then lowered his head hesitantly. “I’ll let my superior speak.”
The gaunt man scraped his stubbled cheek with the blade and gave Guizot a sidelong look. “Monsieur Guizot, our boss wishes to discuss a deal with you.”
“You?” Guizot sneered. “What makes you think you’re qualified to negotiate with me? Get out of my carriage!”
Ignoring him, the gaunt man continued, “It’s about those twenty thousand livres. You’ll regret not listening.”
Guizot drawled, “Twenty thousand livres? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Why bother denying it?” The man smiled. “Similion and our boss visited a tavern. After a few drinks, he spilled a lot, including the task you assigned him.”
“That idiot!” Guizot cursed under his breath. Turning to the window, he added dismissively, “Whatever it is, take it up with Similion.”
“No, this isn’t his decision to make. Our boss wants the twenty thousand livres paid directly to us.”
Amused, Guizot chuckled. “What nonsense are you spouting?”
“You’ve likely heard that a large contingent of royal guards has arrived in the Saint-Antoine District. No one dares to stir up trouble there anymore.”
Guizot’s expression shifted slightly. “And?”
“Similion’s task will be difficult to accomplish, whether by us or the Hoss Gang,” the man said, holding up two fingers. “But our boss is keen to earn that twenty thousand.”
Guizot smirked. “You want payment without doing the job?”
“No, we’ll do it. But we’ll aim higher—something worth twenty thousand. One job, then we’ll quit.”
Intrigued, Guizot leaned forward. He’d heard about the royal guards’ crackdown on gangs in the Saint-Antoine District and had been fretting over it. “What do you propose?”
“Not what we propose—what you need us to do.”
Dropping his pretense, Guizot grinned wickedly. “If you can humiliate the Saint-Antoine police, get the story on every newspaper’s front page, and have all of Paris talking for a year, I’ll consider paying the twenty thousand livres.”
The man pondered briefly before replying, “We could infiltrate the Saint-Antoine police station, kill ten officers, and burn it to the ground. How does that sound?”
“Excellent.” Guizot stroked his chin, a sinister smile creeping across his face. Burning the station would disgrace the Crown Prince and delight the City Commissioner. “It’s settled!”
The man nodded, repeating deliberately, “To confirm: you’re hiring us for twenty thousand livres to kill ten officers and burn down the police station. Correct?”
Guizot found the phrasing odd but didn’t overthink it. He assumed it was just a thug’s lack of articulation. He nodded instinctively. “Correct.”
“No one forced you to make this decision?”
“What? Of course not.”
The man’s eyes locked onto his, smiling. “I’m curious, Monsieur Guizot—why spend such a large sum on something that gains you nothing?”
Guizot’s face darkened. “Fool, that’s none of your concern! Now, get out and return to Saint-Antoine to do your job!”
“Indeed, it’s time for business.” The man sheathed his sabre, removed his tattered hat and fake beard, and revealed an iron handcuff, which he dangled in front of Guizot. “Guizot, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to murder police officers, arson, and endangering the Crown Prince’s safety. By the authority of the Royal Police, I formally detain you.”
The Royal Police, a more refined name for the Secret Police, had extensive authority, including direct arrests.
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