I am the Crown Prince of France Chapter 542: "The Demon" Joseph

After a long silence, Archbishop Brienne cautiously spoke:

"Your Highness, if this displeases you, I will inform them that they can abandon their wishful thinking. After all, these wrongdoers have no right to expect a royal pardon."

Joseph's mind stirred at Brienne's words. Indeed, he had been thinking with the logic of a modern civilized society, forgetting that this was an era of absolute monarchy.

Why bother reasoning with these n? Let them first taste the iron fist of royal authority before negotiating any terms.

If he had to play the villain—no, even Satan—for the sake of tens of millions of livres, so be it.

With a calm smile, he looked at Brienne and shook his head.

"No. Inform them to co here tomorrow afternoon."

"As you wish, Your Highness."

Brienne was surprised by Joseph's swift agreent. As he prepared to leave, Joseph added:

"Oh, and Archbishop, the million livres they gave you—allocate it entirely to the Industrial Developnt Fund. If you keep it, I fear Monsieur Marat will grow restless and take an unhealthy interest in you."

Brienne sighed internally. Parting with such a large sum was difficult, but it was indeed a hot potato. As Joseph said, if the Public Integrity Bureau got wind of it, they would relentlessly investigate him.

But Joseph's next words brightened Brienne's mood:

"However, you will receive half of the annual dividends from this sum."

Joseph believed in fair rewards and punishnts. Since Brienne chose not to pocket the money, he deserved encouragent.

Brienne bowed deeply, his tone full of gratitude.

"Thank you, Your Highness. You are most generous. May the Lord bless you."

One million livres placed in the industrial fund would yield over 100,000 livres annually in interest. Half of that—50,000 to 60,000 livres—would go to Brienne. With projected improvents in economic performance, that figure would only grow.

The following afternoon, 2:00 PM.

Baron Morel, a representative of the Tax Farrs' Guild, wore a strained smile as he spoke:

"Your Highness, as Archbishop Brienne suggested, the seven families will each invest 10 million livres in governnt bonds and pay a fine of 1 million livres.

"The other six mbers—Labouchère, Depérrego, and the rest—will each purchase 4 million livres in bonds and pay a fine of 500,000 livres.

"What do you think of this arrangent?"

Joseph's face darkened as he let out a cold snort.

"Hmph. That was then, Baron Morel. Now is entirely different.

"With the guillotine already in place and the Tax Bureau devoting so many resources to investigations, do you think this will be as easily resolved as before?"

Morel exchanged a nervous glance with Forl and quickly adjusted his offer.

"You are right, Your Highness. Perhaps we can double the fines to show our sincerity?"

Anticipating difficulty, they had prepared in advance to raise the price during negotiations. To them, this was just a business transaction. Though they would certainly lose money, every deal had a point where losses could be stopped.

Joseph, however, remained silent, gazing at his teacup.

Morel, sensing the lack of response, clenched his teeth and added:

"Your Highness, we will increase the fines once again—this ti by double. This is practically all the liquid assets we can muster.

"And, perhaps, we could halve the interest rate on the bonds? Surely this will suffice?"

Joseph suddenly smiled, setting down his teacup as he slowly turned his gaze toward the guild mbers. His tone was calm but firm:

"Here's my plan. There will be no room for negotiation.

"First, forget about the bonds. Viscount Forl, Mr. Hope, Baron Morel—you will each pay a fine of 10 million livres.

"Mr. Labouchère, Baron Depérrego, Mr. Goldmide—you will each pay 5 million livres.

"The fines for the other major tax farrs will range from 1 million to 3 million livres."

The guild mbers collectively gasped.

Bonds were essentially loans that had to be repaid with interest. Even in their worst-case scenario, they had assud they could negotiate the interest rate down to zero. But Joseph's plan turned it into outright fines—no principal, no interest, no repaynt at all!

Forl imdiately protested loudly:

"Your Highness, this is unacceptable! Such an amount will ruin us!"

"This wealth was illicitly gained, taken from countless impoverished French citizens," Joseph replied coldly. "It rightfully belongs to them!"

His gaze swept toward the door. "If you cannot accept these terms, feel free to leave."

Faces darkened, the tax farrs exchanged glances but said nothing.

After a mont, Morel hesitantly stood.

"Your Highness, if I pay the fine, will I receive a pardon?"

"A pardon?" Joseph feigned surprise. "Did I ntion such a thing?"

Morel was desperate now.

"Your Highness, after paying 10 million livres, wouldn't I at least be eligible for a royal pardon?"

"You have committed countless cris. Paying fines is rely expected," Joseph said flatly. "As for your punishnt, that will be decided by the High Court."

"This is outrageous!" Morel could no longer contain his frustration and shouted his protest.

Forl also stood abruptly, his voice rising in anger:

"Your Highness, this is too much! If that's your stance, there's no point in further negotiations.

"We might as well face imprisonnt. But I swear, neither you nor the governnt will see a single sou of our money!"

"Is that so?" Joseph replied, his smile chilling. "You are, of course, free to try. But you should know that you are already under investigation for forging tax docunts. The Tax Bureau can arrest you at any ti.

"You might choose to hide your ill-gotten wealth, but I assure you—eventually, you'll reveal its location."

Forl sneered.

"Your Highness, let's be clear. If the High Court is likely to sentence to the guillotine anyway, why would I hand over my money?"

Joseph's deanor suddenly shifted. His voice dropped to an ominous, almost serpentine tone:

"Because the guillotine is not the worst fate imaginable.

"I hear the intelligence bureau has a unique interrogation thod—

"First, they bury the prisoner up to their torso in the ground. Then, they make a small incision on the head and pour rcury into the wound, drop by drop.

"As the rcury seeps downward, the prisoner experiences unbearable itching, driving them to thrash and writhe.

"Their body strains and pushes upward, pressing against the soil…

"But the skin, fixed by the earth, doesn't move. Soon, their entire body squeezes out of its skin like a wriggling ball of flesh."

(To be continued…)

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