Chapter 175: Your Enemy Always Knows You Best
"Oh, of course, please go ahead," Fouché said, stepping aside.
After all, he was only a minor police officer by name; his ability to guard Necker here depended on a permit issued by Comte de Robert of the Secret Police.
The tall officer nodded and smiled at him, then approached the prisoner. He carefully examined the dishevelled, bearded man, confirmed it was Necker, and then made a show of searching him.
"We've already searched him, rest assured, there are no dangerous items or valuables," Fouché added from the side.
The officer moved to Necker's side, as if checking the pockets of his breeches, but leaned close to his ear and whispered rapidly, "Just don't say anything, and we'll get you out in three days, then off to Britain."
Necker's heart skipped a beat. When he turned to look at the officer, the latter was already putting on his gloves and heading for the door. "No problems here, I'll leave the rest to you."
As soon as he left, Fouché immediately closed the door and gestured to his subordinates. "Come on, hurry it up!"
Necker's interrogation began that very evening.
The lead interrogators were two Secret Police commissioners, with Fouché and others listening in – for a high-profile case that had alarmed the Queen, it was only natural for the Royal family's "claws," the Secret Police, to be officially in charge.
Even when confronted with undeniable evidence, he merely watched the chief interrogator rant, neither admitting nor denying anything, as if he weren't involved at all.
The two chief interrogators yawned wearily, deciding to take a short break.
Fouché instructed Prosper to keep a close eye on Necker, ensuring even the Secret Police remained on guard. He then took an assistant and returned to the cell on the third floor of the Bastille.
The Police Intelligence Bureau officer guarding outside the cell saluted him. "Everything is normal, sir."
Fouché nodded, glanced into the room through the small window on the door, then pulled up a chair and dozed off beside the main door.
He was roused at noon by the clatter of dishes.
He squinted and saw an officer and two soldiers approaching with food.
Fouché's subordinates immediately stepped forward and spoke a few words to the officer, who then smiled and nodded, picked up a spare set of cutlery, and tasted each food item.
Only then did the Police Intelligence Bureau officers open the door and gesture inside. "Please come in."
The officer entered the room and, in front of several guards, placed the lavish meal on the table. No one noticed, however, that as he picked up the dish of cream of pea soup, his thumb nail dipped into the liquid.
With the food set, the officer gestured to Necker, who sat stiffly on the sofa, and to the woman and child huddled in the corner of the room. "Please, enjoy your meal."
Nearly an hour later, shouts and a woman's screams suddenly erupted from the cell.
Fouché, who had been catching up on sleep, snapped his eyes open, sprang from his chair, and rushed into the room in a few strides.
Necker lay in agony on the sofa, his body convulsing intermittently, black blood trickling from his stubbled face onto the rug.
Fouché reached out and felt Necker's carotid artery, then turned to his subordinate. "Poisoned?"
The Police Intelligence Bureau officer pointed to the food on the table. "Most likely, sir. He complained of stomach pain shortly after eating, and then this happened."
"They acted fast enough," Fouché sneered, instructing his surrounding subordinates, "Go arrest the person who delivered the food just now.
"Oran, find some animals to test this food."
"Yes, sir!"
...
Palais-Royal.
The Duke of Orleans pushed open the door to a grand hall on the second floor, smiling as he greeted the banking magnates who had been discussing strategies there. "Don't look so glum, gentlemen, the situation isn't as dire as it seems.
"I suggest we first enjoy a delicious dinner; perhaps the matter will already be resolved by then."
"Necker also had dealings with you, so how can you be so relaxed?" the owner of Bélanger Bank asked, looking at him. "What solution have you come up with?"
"You'll know soon enough," the Duke of Orleans indicated towards the corridor. "The dining room is this way."
Comte de Isaac deduced something from his expression and exclaimed in delight, "You've really solved it?"
The others saw the Duke of Orleans smile silently and immediately rejoiced together. "Oh, my God, you've saved us all!"
"Excellent, it seems everything's fine..."
"I swear, you are the most outstanding and greatest Capetian!"
The banking magnates lavished praise, bowing to the Duke of Orleans with hands over their chests. Each secretly congratulated themselves on how wise it had been to choose him as their patron!
Just then, the butler Donadière rushed in and respectfully handed a small, wax-sealed scroll to the Duke of Orleans.
The Duke, rather smugly, held up the scroll to show those in the room, then peeled away the wax seal and slowly unfolded it.
However, when he saw the two small lines of text on the paper, his expression immediately darkened. He turned to the butler and demanded, "Didn't Lavallière say it was already done?!"
"Yes, the message he sent at noon said as much," the butler replied, trembling.
The Duke of Orleans furiously tore the note into a dozen pieces and threw them at his feet. "How is this possible?"
The note had come from his inside contact within the Secret Police, containing only two sentences: 'Necker interrogated this afternoon, did not reveal other banks.'
Yet Lavallière had told him Necker was poisoned during lunch!
The Duke suddenly remembered something and quickly grabbed the butler. "Was Lavallière discovered?"
The butler, somewhat confused, quickly bowed. "I'll send someone to inquire at once."
The Duke of Orleans turned and slammed the hall door shut. He paced back and forth restlessly, muttering curses under his breath. "That fool Lavallière, why didn't he prepare better!"
He suddenly stopped, realizing that no matter how Necker had escaped the poisoning, he would likely no longer believe the lie of 'saving him and sending him to Britain.'
This meant that the illicit dealings between Necker and the banks would likely soon become known to the Royal family.
He pulled over a chair and sat down wearily, feeling utterly agitated. 'What now? What should I do next?'
He had already lost control of public opinion and the High Court, and his infiltration of the military had been for naught due to a baffling assassination attempt. If he were to lose control of finance as well, then the Orléans family's centuries-long challenge for the throne would surely end with his generation!
'No, there must be a way.' The Duke of Orleans wiped the sweat from his palms on his coat. 'What other forces can I bring to bear...'
Comte de Kaunitz, seeing the atmosphere suddenly turn heavy, couldn't help but ask cautiously, "So, are we still going to lunch now?"
...
Bastille.
In the cell on the third floor, Necker, now in a clean white coat, clean-shaven, and wearing a wig, stared wide-eyed at his doppelgänger lying on the floor, his heart filled with terror.
If the police hadn't taken him to the small building across from the Bastille for interrogation, the person spewing dark blood and turning into a corpse would have been himself.
Indeed, last night, Fouché had placed a condemned prisoner here to impersonate Necker, and thanks to Necker's previously messy hair and beard, it was difficult to spot the deception at a glance.
Joseph had long known the Bastille was as porous as a sieve; Jeanne, who orchestrated the historical "Necklace Affair," could escape from there, let alone an important target like Necker. So, he had ordered Fouché to set up a decoy to draw fire, while the real Necker was kept safely in a private house by the roadside.
Necker suddenly remembered something and turned to Fouché, urgently asking, "What about Suzanne and the children?!"
Suzanne was the name of his wife. These police officers, to lure the assassin into showing their hand, had actually used his wife and children to cooperate with the impostor.
Fouché gestured towards the inner room. "They're fine. Their food was personally delivered by my people."
Necker sighed in relief, looked at the corpse on the floor, and then said coldly, "This was just a trick you used to entrap me, wasn't it?"
The door was pushed open, and Prosper entered, saluting Fouché. "Sir, the person who delivered the food was named Carlas, a Lieutenant."
"Was he caught?"
"He's dead."
Fouché, infuriated, kicked the sofa. "Damn it! How could he be dead? Who killed him?!"
"He was poisoned," Prosper said. "He's still alive, but he can't speak."
Fouché glanced at Necker, his tone filled with sarcasm. "Would you care to see? How we poisoned an officer to ensnare you.
"His Majesty the King has already pardoned you. Who do you think wants you dead most now?"
Necker slumped his head, the last flicker of hope in his heart completely extinguished.
Before long, Crown Prince Joseph also arrived at the Bastille after hearing the news.
After Fouché briefly recounted the events since yesterday, he first asked, "Is the assassin still alive?"
"I apologize, Your Highness, he passed away two hours ago."
"So fast?" Joseph frowned. "Didn't you stomach pump him?"
"Uh, what is a stomach pump?"
Joseph shook his head with a sigh. It seemed stomach pumping hadn't been invented in this era. If the poisoned man could have been stomach pumped immediately, he might have survived the night and perhaps revealed the mastermind.
"How much has Necker confessed?"
Fouché bowed his head. "He has remained silent. He says he will only reveal more if we agree to sentence him to exile."
Joseph sneered, "Still daring to bargain? Once that person arrives, he'll confess everything obediently.
"Alright, you may go. Make sure to keep a close watch on Necker."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Once Fouché and the others had left, Joseph finally turned to the Bastille's Commander-in-Chief, Bernard-René Jourdan de Launay, who stood nearby with a grim expression.
"Marquis de Launay, do you realize how important Necker is? Do you know what kind of impact his death would have?"
"Your Highness, I am truly sorry. It was an oversight by my officers," Launay wiped a bead of cold sweat. He hadn't expected the Royal family to be alarmed so quickly. Thankfully, Necker wasn't dead, otherwise his position would likely be forfeit.
Joseph rolled his eyes at him. "An oversight by 'your subordinates'?"
"Oh, no, no," Launay bowed repeatedly. "It was my oversight!"
Joseph nodded. "Indeed, I will report the truth to Her Majesty the Queen."
"Ah?" Launay instantly panicked. "Please, Your Highness, don't do that! Please give me another chance..."
Joseph stopped and looked at him. "For this period, all guards at the Bastille gates, as well as the cooks and cleaners, will be replaced with my people. Your officers and soldiers are forbidden from approaching Necker's cell within a hundred paces."
"Yes, yes, I'll obey all your commands!"
"Furthermore, I'm giving you half a month to find the mastermind behind Necker's attempted murder."
"Yes, yes, I'll definitely drag that fellow out!"
Joseph knew that the masterminds were almost certainly from the Banking Guild; there was no way Launay could uncover them.
However, the Bastille had become a sore point in the hearts of the French people, often used to defame the Royal family. He was simply taking this opportunity to gain some leverage, which would make dealing with the Bastille much easier later on.
Night fell.
In the interrogation room on the second floor of the Bastille, Necker clenched his teeth, merely repeating phrases like 'I need the Royal family's promise' and 'I can only accept exile.'
Suddenly, the interrogation room door was pushed open, and a familiar face appeared before him.
Necker was stunned for a moment, then gasped, "Calonne? Why are you here?!"
Calonne, in a simple black coat, gave him a casual nod and a friendly smile. "Good evening, Monsieur Necker! How long has it been since we last met? Hmm, I suppose since I was exiled two years ago."
"You, why are you here?" Necker repeated mechanically.
Calonne nodded to Fouché and the others, then walked straight to the chief interrogator's seat, sat down, and skillfully picked up the interrogation records and case files to review them.
After a moment, he looked up at Necker, smiling again. "His Royal Highness the Crown Prince has appointed me as your chief interrogator. Monsieur Necker, my old friend, are you surprised?"
"Why you..."
"Heh heh, after so many years of open rivalry and secret struggles, I am likely the person in this world most familiar with all the things you've done," Calonne said, flipping through the files. "Let's not waste time; let's start with this loan agreement between you and Bélanger Bank."
"No, I need a promise of exile!"
"Hmm, let me guess, for this 4 million livres loan, you probably signed two contracts with Bélanger Bank." Calonne completely ignored him, his heart filled with the thrill of revenge, his mind racing as he pointed out every suspicious detail and made deductions based on his own years of experience with corruption. "You see, here in the government interest expenditure, although you balanced the books, the flow of funds left behind clues..."
Necker listened to him speak non-stop for over an hour, his face gradually shifting from anger to shock — Calonne's words increasingly aligned with the truth, eventually becoming almost perfectly consistent. And this was something only he and Bélanger Bank's director knew!
"Hmm, it seems you've conceded," Calonne nodded with satisfaction, then asked the scribe beside him, "Have you recorded everything?"
"Yes, Viscount Calonne."
"Excellent. Tomorrow, we'll have the Royal Police arrest people and audit accounts based on this; I'm confident there will be substantial findings."
Cold sweat immediately streamed down Necker's back...
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