Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

Chapter 55: The Real and Fake Fouche (Requesting Promotion, Seeking to Spread)

Chapter 55: The Real and Fake Fouche (Requesting Promotion, Seeking to Spread)

No one wanted to even approach Ravel Bank with those sleazy-looking cops stationed at the door, let alone undergo a check to enter the bank.

For the whole morning, the bank didn’t do a single piece of business.

Of course, the so-called robbers did not show up either.

The bank manager couldn’t take it anymore. He approached the hefty policeman, smiling profusely, “Officer, sir, I think that perhaps the robbers have already given up…”

The hefty policeman glared, “How do you know the robbers are giving up? Are you in contact with them?”

“No, no, no, absolutely not!” The manager got startled and then continued with a pained expression, “But with you standing guard here, the robbers might be afraid to come, yet you also scare away the customers.”

“That’s not my problem. If I don’t stand guard here and you get robbed, my salary would suffer.”

Realizing what was inferring. The manager went and fetched a package of silver coins, slipping it quietly into the hefty policeman’s hand, whispering, “About the salary, I can compensate you a bit.”

The hefty policeman’s heart leapt—he had been digging river silt for more than half a month after being transferred to the “Daily Affairs Squad,” and he didn’t even have a police uniform.

This time, the Police Commissioner personally gave him a task, issued him a uniform and equipment, and made it clear he could extort money freely, so of course, he was not going to be polite with the bank manager.

After taking the money, he still didn’t move. The manager became anxious, “I’ve compensated you for the salary, now you can go and rest.”

“How could that be possible?” The hefty policeman said with a look of integrity, “Since you’ve taken such good care of me, I definitely cannot let the robbers harm you!”

The manager, with no other choice, sent for General Manager Etienne.

Etienne came and tried to bribe the cops again to no avail and had to keep reporting to the board of directors…

Meanwhile, the same situation unfolded at Labod Bank; a group of cops put on a show of force “protecting” the bank so well that not even a fly could get inside.

The next day, the cops claimed they received a tip that the robbers might dig tunnels to steal from the vault, so they hired someone to dig a four-meter deep trench around the bank to look for the tunnel.

Of course, no tunnel was found, and naturally, the bank had to pay for the construction cost.

For three consecutive days, both banks were left without a single customer. The bank executives went to protest to the Director of Police Services Besancon and were told to cooperate “for their own safety.”

Approaching noon, a reporter arrived at Ravel Bank for an interview. Before he could start, the hefty policeman pulled him aside and whispered a long, mysterious tale.

He spoke of how when clearing out gangs in the Saint Antoine District, they found secret letters of correspondence with foreign gangs, and how the Osman Gang had infiltrated Paris, threatening not only to rob this bank but also to kill everyone inside…

The reporter hadn’t expected to stumble upon such explosive news and immediately got excited. He handed the hefty policeman a few silver coins and dashed back to the newspaper to rush his story.

Soon, the whole of Paris was abuzz with talk of the Osman Gang. Citizens avoided the two banks as if they were the devil, daring not to come within 30 meters, fearing they might get caught up should the gang strike.

Joseph was entirely unaware of Besancon’s people teaching the banks a lesson.

He had just left the Paris Police Academy and was back at the Palace of Versailles when a middle-aged man of medium height, wearing a somewhat worn gray coat, with thinning hair and an honest and plain face, was waiting for him.

It took Joseph a few seconds to recall his name. He smiled and said, “Captain Prosper, why are you here? Is there any news about that matter?”

This unassuming man was one of the three senior spies that the Minister of War had promised to assign to Joseph, having just arrived in Paris two days prior.

Considering the communication and transportation conditions of the time, his arrival was quite early. The spies that the Minister of War was sending were still half on the way to their destination.

Captain Prosper bowed respectfully and said in a somewhat hoarse voice, “Your Highness, I have found the man you are looking for.”

“So soon?” Joseph was somewhat surprised.

In that era, not to mention any sort of city resident database, there wasn’t even a complete register of households. Yet this man had managed to find the individual in just two days, solely by name and a few characteristics. He truly was the ace spy that even Saint Priest was loath to part with.

“It’s nothing remarkable. Your Highness, if I were familiar with Paris, a single day would have sufficed,” the spy said, frowning slightly before adding, “Only, there’s a little trouble now.”

“Oh? What trouble?”

Prosper said, “There are two people called Joseph Fouche who match the characteristics you described.”

Indeed, the person Joseph had asked him to find was the very same Fouche who would later serve as the chief of Napoleon’s intelligence system, participate in the entirety of the Coup of 18 Brumaire, and later shift his loyalties to Louis XVIII, earning the moniker “The Executioner of Lyon.”

Originally, Joseph had intended to select one of these spies, including Prosper, to oversee his future intelligence agency. But through his interactions with them, Joseph realized that while these men were adept at espionage, they were not skilled in management, strategic planning, or personnel allocation.

Therefore, he still needed to find a chief responsible for the intelligence agency to ensure its normal operation.

He immediately thought of the infamous Fouche—a man capable of propping up Napoleon’s intelligence empire.

Although this individual had enjoyed a thriving career in politics since the French Revolution, blowing hot and cold, due to his humble origins, he was currently no more than an ignored, lowly priest.

So, Joseph sent some newly reported spies to find him, also to test the abilities of the spies, not expecting them to find him so quickly.

Only now, they needed to discern which one was the Fouche he sought.

Glancing at the sky, he said to Prosper, “Please take me to meet them tomorrow.”

“Yes, Your Highness!”

The next day.

In a small monastery in the north of Paris, Prosper, dressed in plain clothes, and his men found Fouche and brought him to a secluded cottage.

Prosper looked at the nervous priest and said in a deep voice, “I am from the Royal Police. Listen, some foreign spies have infiltrated your monastery, and right now I can only be certain that you are not involved with this matter.

“These scoundrels have stolen an important piece of intelligence, and if they are alarmed, the information might be destroyed.”

The priest’s eyes widened, “You, what are you telling me all this for?”

Prosper handed him a package of paper, “I need you to poison their food, so we can ensure that they all die at the same time.”

The color drained from the priest’s face, and the poison he held dropped to the floor with a “clatter” as if it were a scorpion as he trembled, “No, there are innocent people among them, I, I can’t kill them…”

Outside the room, Joseph shook his head slightly, “It shouldn’t be him, let’s go.”

Eman entered the cottage, told the priest that there was no such thing and that it was all a joke, left him ten livres, and followed Joseph and the others out.

An hour later, in another, slightly bigger monastery, Prosper repeated his act and said to the priest with sunken cheeks, dead-fish eyes, and thin lips, “So, I need you to poison their food… ”

A gleam suddenly appeared in the priest’s eyes, “My lord, if I assist the Secret Police, will I be rewarded?”