Chapter 164: Franklin, the "Lightning Shaman"
"10 million!" The brown-eyed middle-aged man froze as if his mind couldn't process such an enormous figure.
After a moment, he suddenly burst out laughing. "Haha, I know! You must be talking about the King, right?"
Marat immediately shook his head. "No, Valls, you're mistaken."
Ever since he gained access to government financial data, he knew that even if the King wanted to, he could never embezzle tens of millions. In fact, most of the time, the King was subsidizing the national treasury.
"It's Necker," Marat stated gravely. "Jacques Necker."
Valls paused, then let out an even louder laugh. "Monsieur Necker? Haha, you're saying Monsieur Necker embezzled money?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Marat! He's the Finance Minister who cares most about the poor! He barely raised taxes during his tenure."
For so many years in France, Necker had invested considerable effort and resources into cultivating an image as a friend to the poor, one who helped them resist royal authority. His efforts in this regard had been remarkably successful.
"He didn't raise taxes," Marat acknowledged. "But perhaps that's just because the added taxes couldn't go directly into his own pockets."
"During the same period, multiple banks were offering loans at rates far lower than that. I even saw in the documents that in that very same month, the Brittany city hall secured a loan from a bank at 19 percent interest."
"Necker's stated reason was that 'the Swiss bank's credit was more reliable.' Hah, a bank handing its gold over to the government, yet *it* needs to worry about *its* own credit."
Marat looked out the window at a cleaner tidying up Fashion Week posters. "While you were enjoying the Fashion Week festivities, I took a trip to Switzerland and discovered that the bank that provided that 5 million Livre loan was owned by Necker's friends. Oh, and they'd previously partnered to traffic grain from England."
"Of course, this is just the first problematic loan I've investigated."
"In his more than seven years as Director-General of the Royal Treasury, the French government borrowed over 1 billion Livres in total from various banks and major aristocrats. I suspect a significant portion of those loans are fraudulent."
Valls frowned. "Are you saying Monsieur Necker used unreasonable loans to profit from the banks?"
"That's likely the case. If he gained even just 1 percent from these loans, that would exceed 10 million Livres!"
"No, impossible!" Valls murmured, shaking his head. "Monsieur Necker wouldn't..."
Marat was prepared. He took several papers from his jacket pocket and spread them on the table. "These are documents related to that 5 million Livre loan, which I copied. Take a look. If you still don't believe me, I can take you to see the originals."
Valls used two fingers to straighten the documents, tilting his head to examine them for a moment. Then, as if stung by a snake, he recoiled his hand, his voice somber. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"You were once the most formidable journalist in finance and trade, and you have many friends within the financial system. Perhaps you could provide me with some information about Necker."
Valls pressed his lips together, pondering for a few seconds, then shook his head. "I apologize, but I'm afraid I'll disappoint you. In those years, I only focused on positive news about Necker. I genuinely don't have anything valuable to offer you."
"Anything at all."
"There truly isn't..."
Valls paused abruptly mid-sentence, looking at Marat. "Wait, there's one person who might have what you're looking for!"
"Who is it?"
"Calonne, the previous Minister of Finance," Valls stated. "He had significant disagreements with Necker. It's said that his dismissal was even related to Necker."
"He once publicly declared, after Necker attacked his tax policies, 'Don't think I don't know what you've been doing.' You know, often your enemies are the ones who understand you best."
"Calonne." Marat nodded thoughtfully. "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, picked up his hat, and turned to leave the room.
...
In the Royal Armory office on the southeast side of Versailles Palace, Joseph, having just finished his "production management lesson," wearily rubbed his temples as he looked at several documents before him.
Beside him, a middle-aged man with a pointed chin gestured towards the documents. "Your Royal Highness, this is the routine work report. This is the special investigation report concerning Fashion Week officials. This is the Police Intelligence Bureau's special investigation report. And this is Monsieur Marat's request for additional personnel..."
Joseph flipped through each one, signing them, and casually remarked, "Thank you for the briefing, Monsieur Clouse. Oh, by the way, why isn't Monsieur Marat here today?"
Marat usually handled the task of submitting these documents; he had never been replaced, as these later Jacobins harbored some antipathy towards the royal family.
Clouse replied, "Monsieur Marat had an urgent matter and left for Lorraine last night."
"Lorraine?" Joseph paused his writing. "Did he say what it was about?"
"It seems to be related to the official he's investigating."
'Necker?' Joseph frowned. 'Marat didn't even tell me about something this significant.'
"How many men did he take?"
"As you know, the Office of Fair Investigation is short-staffed. It was just him and Monsieur Evans."
Joseph immediately felt a sense of unease. 'Marat is underestimating the ruthlessness of those capitalists.' Perhaps Necker had maintained his facade too well, making people unconsciously perceive him as a gentle and benevolent man, thus lowering their guard.
He quickly turned to Eman, who was standing nearby. "Count Eman, please inform Fouché immediately. Tell him to dispatch men to find and protect Monsieur Marat as quickly as possible."
"Yes, Your Royal Highness."
...
In America, Philadelphia.
On the west bank of the Delaware River.
Outside Benjamin Franklin's estate, Thomas Jefferson watched the French special envoy limp out of a carriage, a slight frown creasing his brow. It seemed a slight to America that France had sent such an unknown and somewhat infirm envoy.
As a diplomat for a young nation, however, he knew precisely how to act. He immediately suppressed his displeasure and, smiling, stepped forward to greet him, bowing with a hand to his chest. "Welcome to Philadelphia, esteemed Archbishop Talleyrand."
He had served as Ambassador to France for a considerable time and spoke fluent French.
The elderly man beside him, seated in a wheelchair, seemed too old. He raised his hand and managed a weak wave. "Monsieur Special Envoy, welcome. When I was in Paris..."
Talleyrand simply nodded to Jefferson, then smiled as he looked at the elderly man in the wheelchair.
"You look remarkably well, Monsieur Franklin, may the Lord bless you. Oh, I often heard people speak of you in Paris. You were quite a renowned figure back then; a good friend of mine even keeps your portrait in his home."
Talleyrand knew very well that this octogenarian was currently the most influential figure in American politics. Had it not been for his tireless efforts at last year's Constitutional Convention, it would likely have been difficult for it to even proceed smoothly.
Before long, in the brick-red, three-story villa on the east side of Franklin's estate, Jefferson, beaming with delight, looked at Talleyrand. "Are you saying the French government intends to eradicate the Barbary Pirates?"
Talleyrand straightened his back, radiating confidence. "Indeed. His Majesty our King has profound sympathy for America's plight in the Mediterranean. To spare your merchant ships further depredation, he has decided, despite the objections of several cabinet ministers, to completely eliminate those scoundrels!"
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