Chapter 81: The Betrayer
At nine in the morning, the cabinet meeting that would decide the fate of France reconvened in the East Wing conference hall of the Palace of Versailles.
"Now then, let the cabinet resolution begin," Queen Marie announced, surveying the assembled members on both sides of the spacious conference table. "Gentlemen, those who agree with Count Soumial's proposal, that Archbishop Brienne should resign immediately, please indicate your assent."
The Duke of Orleans immediately revealed a triumphant smile, slowly raising his right hand. He was absolutely certain he could bring down Brienne; yesterday, he had promised Nicolet a staggering three hundred thousand livres, a fortune that would undoubtedly sway the "transparent minister."
Soumial and Vergennes then raised their hands as well.
A brief silence fell over the hall.
The Duke of Orleans glanced at Nicolet, signaling with his eyes that it was time for him to act.
Yet, there was no response.
The Duke of Orleans frowned, cleared his throat, and murmured, "Ahem, Count Nicolet."
Nicolet, however, remained focused on the Queen, who was seated at the head of the conference table, as if he hadn't heard a thing.
Seeing Nicolet still seated like a statue, the Duke of Orleans finally realized something was amiss. He immediately glared fiercely at the latter, as if his gaze could pierce through his chest.
Queen Marie braced her hands on the table and rose to her feet, declaring, "According to the cabinet's resolution, Archbishop Brienne will continue to serve as Minister of Finance for the next two months."
She then turned to Brienne, nodding. "May you bring us good news in two months. If not, please remember your promise."
The Queen turned and departed.
Flustered and exasperated, the Duke of Orleans rounded the conference table, intending to confront the Census Minister seated on the opposite side. However, the latter had already exited through the golden doors without a backward glance, as if the two had never met the previous night.
He stormed out of the conference hall in a few strides, but instead of pursuing Nicolet, he swiftly left the Palace of Versailles and climbed into his carriage, gnashing his teeth in furious rage. "Nicolet, that damned betrayer!
"As for you, Brienne, you're merely wasting two more months. That bill will never pass!"
...
The Palais-Royal.
Several enormous crystal chandeliers illuminated the hall, which stretched over 50 meters long.
In the oil painting on the wall, the elder Duke of Orleans gazed proudly at the middle-aged man on the wooden platform, as if listening to him report matters to the Prince Regent.
"We must do something!" the middle-aged man with a curly white wig and a face marred by acne scars shouted, vigorously waving his hands. "Everyone, write to His Majesty the King, demanding Brienne's immediate resignation..."
Dozens of nobles, standing or seated in the hall, echoed loudly in agreement:
"Yes! Brienne has betrayed everyone here; he must be punished!"
"To make us pay the same taxes as those commoners? It's an outrage!"
Had anyone attended the Assembly of Notables earlier that year, they would have recognized all those present as its members—the most influential nobles.
By the arched window on the west side, a man nearing forty, with a broad face and a double chin, murmured to the person beside him, "A gathering like this just happened a little over ten days ago. Why again?"
The noble next to him replied, "Count Mirabeau, aren't you aware of what happened at the cabinet meeting two days ago?"
"I heard that Count Soumial moved to impeach Archbishop Brienne, but failed."
The noble chuckled, "Though they couldn't remove him, the Queen demanded that he get the Tax Bill registered within two months, or else he'd be exiled to Corsica."
Mirabeau nodded slightly. The former Minister of Finance, Calonne, had already been exiled for failing to advance the Tax Bill. If Brienne also failed, it would effectively declare to all nobles that the High Court had the power to restrain the royal family's authority.
He, too, smiled. "This gathering will unite us further. In two months, we will ultimately prevail."
Meanwhile, in a room on the second floor, the Duke of Orleans glanced down at the bustling hall, then turned, raised his wine glass, and smiled. "Look, gentlemen, everyone is on our side."
The few men before him also raised their glasses. One remarked, "Correcting the Crown's mistakes is the High Court's solemn duty."
"I've reviewed that bill; it's utterly absurd. I believe no judge would permit its registration."
"Indeed. But even if Archbishop Brienne significantly amends its clauses, we cannot allow the bill to pass."
"Exactly. This is nothing short of a provocation against the High Court!"
Orleans smiled and nodded, clinking glasses with the men enthusiastically.
These were the most powerful judges of the High Court; any bill seeking registration required their approval.
With the judges' commitment, and the support of the high nobles in the hall, even if Brienne possessed extraordinary capability, he would still have to meekly depart for Corsica in two months.
"Oh, right, I've also prepared a few surprises for you," the Duke of Orleans said, gesturing towards several closed small doors nearby with a knowing expression. "I hope you enjoy them."
The judges exchanged glances, returning his smile with knowing grins of their own.
They knew these were projects the Duke of Orleans used to entertain esteemed guests. The women in those rooms were not ordinary courtesans but carefully selected gems, rumored to be of questionable origin, yet absolutely peerless.
The men nodded their thanks to the Duke of Orleans, then picked up the Mummy Powder already prepared on a nearby table, each choosing a room and pushing open a door with a lecherous chuckle.
The pharaohs of ancient Egypt would likely never have dreamed that their bodies, meticulously prepared for resurrection, would thousands of years later be ground into powder and consumed as an aphrodisiac.
...
The Paris Business Journal Office.
The storage room, over ten meters wide, was filled with the scent of ink and a faint mustiness. More than a dozen workers, clad in coarse grayish-yellow clothes, their faces and hands covered in cracks, busily tied stacks of books with ropes, then neatly arranged them on wooden planks.
Stacks of books, taller than two men, filled nearly half of the storage room.
Suddenly, the door was pushed open. A handsome young man entered, clad in a luxurious dark blue coat and a tricorn hat made of otter fur.
The workers, recognizing his obviously noble status, promptly stopped their work, nervously bowing their heads and stepping back a few paces.
The young man smiled and gestured, "Please continue with your work, don't mind me..."
As he spoke, a foreman wearing a felt hat, a black leather jerkin, and black trousers, carrying a wooden stick, suddenly approached from the other side. He raised his stick to strike the nearest worker. "Lazybones! It's not break time yet! Do you all want a beating?"
The foreman walked a few steps, about to hit another worker, when he looked up and saw the noble young man, as well as Denico, the manager who had just entered the storage room behind him. He immediately understood the situation.
He hastily bowed. "My lord, I hope I haven't offended you?"
"Mr. Denico, you've arrived."
The young man was Joseph. He snatched the foreman's stick, threw it to the ground, and declared coldly, "If you hit people without asking for reasons again, you'll be out of a job! For now, you're fined three days' wages."
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