Chapter 525: "Robespierre, You Were Right!"
"At the time, the roads were extremely muddy, and grain merchants couldn't reach the town to buy wheat. So, the farmers had no choice but to use their wheat to pay taxes.
"But because the tax office had moved to the distant suburbs, people had to carry the wheat there by hand, making multiple trips. During this period, four people either drowned or slipped down steep slopes and died. Additionally, much of the wheat brought to the tax office became damp and was only valued at half its price."
Robespierre suppressed his anger as he handed Joseph the documents related to Saintienne:
"At that point, Lecornu proposed that if the townspeople paid a 'transportation fee,' he could collect the taxes in town.
"Helpless, the farmers agreed. But the so-called 'transportation fee' amounted to almost 70% of the wheat's value.
"From then on, Lecornu incorporated the 'transportation fee' into the annual taxes, charging it every year. Over the past four years, he has extorted 120,000 francs in 'transportation fees' from Saintienne alone.
"According to the townspeople who filed complaints, nearly half of the women in Saintienne now have to travel to nearby cities like Angers to work the streets to keep their families from going bankrupt..."
Joseph's chest rose and fell violently. The morning's reports from Robespierre had unveiled far too many despicable acts by these tax farmers.
For instance:
They issued fraudulent tax certificates to illiterate farmers, later accusing them of tax evasion and confiscating their property. Even if the farmers went to court, it was futile.They used "special measuring tools" to inflate the size of farmers' land, artificially increasing their taxes or including communal land in the taxable area.Before the abolition of noble privileges, they even imposed a "pigeon tax" on farmers whose fields were visited by noble-owned pigeons—despite this tax being intended for pigeon owners.
The list went on, including unapproved tax creations, brutal beatings of tax defaulters, and the assault of their wives and daughters.
Joseph stared at the stacks of documents spread across the table, his anger boiling over.
He worked tirelessly to grow France's economy and improve people's livelihoods, fearing that poverty might drive them to storm the Bastille. Yet these tax farmers were deliberately pushing the populace toward revolution—all to fill their pockets!
He had grossly underestimated the depths of their depravity and cruelty. He initially thought their crimes amounted to bookkeeping fraud or overcharging a few sous. He hadn't imagined they would drive people to death, seize property, and enrich themselves by drinking the blood of the poor!
They deserved to be wiped out.
Turning to Robespierre, Joseph took a deep breath and said gravely, "Now I understand why you did what you did in the past. You were right."
Robespierre blinked, startled. "Your Highness, what past actions are you referring to?"
Joseph waved his hand. "Nothing."
He was, of course, referring to the historical record where Robespierre, Marat, and others signed orders to execute all tax farmers. While it tragically included cases like Lavoisier's, today's revelations suggested that unjust incidents were likely rare.
After Robespierre finished summarizing the grievances against the tax farmers, he solemnly asked:
"Your Highness, what do you propose we do about them?"
"Handle them the way you handled them before."
"Before?" Robespierre repeated in confusion.
Joseph slammed his fist on the table. "The tax bureau is armed, isn't it? Take your men, and if they're not enough, call in the police. Arrest those who deserve arrest, prosecute those who deserve prosecution, and hang those who deserve to hang—from the streetlamps!"
Robespierre hadn't expected the Crown Prince to be so decisive. Blood rushed to his head as he stood at attention, shouting:
"Yes, Your Highness! I will make sure they pay the price they deserve!"
Outside Reims, Meun Town
In a red-brick villa near a beautiful apple orchard, tax farmer Pocque swallowed a mouthful of juicy pan-seared beef and nodded in satisfaction.
"Anouk's cooking keeps getting better," he remarked to his wife.
He dipped a piece of bread into pigeon soup and turned to his son across the table.
"Aubin, I think we shouldn't sell the land after all. It took me over a decade to accumulate it, and with so many people heading to North Africa to farm, land prices just aren't rising.
"I heard that government-run Agricultural Advisory Services are quite effective. For a small fee, they can increase yields by 20–30%.
"With better yields, hiring workers to farm the land makes sense. Plus, the workers will pay taxes…"
Aubin, a young man in his twenties, appeared distracted as he stared at his plate. Finally, he looked up nervously.
"Father, the tax bureau's investigations seem to be intensifying. I heard many tax farmers in Paris have already been arrested."
Pocque scoffed dismissively.
"What's there to be afraid of? Those arrested must be the ones without connections.
"We, on the other hand, look after business for Viscount Borollay. Besides, the General Assembly of Tax Farmers won't sit idly by."
Leaning closer, he added conspiratorially, "Word has it that trade across the country will be disrupted, and trouble is brewing in Marseille.
"Don't worry. This storm will pass soon. The government isn't a match for the General Assembly."
Aubin still appeared uneasy. "But Father, shouldn't we prioritize safety? Maybe we should sell the land and move to England. I've heard there are plenty of opportunities there."
Pocque shook his head firmly.
"You're young and don't understand. Sticking with Viscount Borollay is how we'll make real money."
While Pocque managed 300,000 francs in taxes, much of it was under Borollay's oversight. He employed over 40 tax collectors and was responsible for tax revenue across Reims and its surrounding villages. Although most of the revenue went to Borollay, Pocque earned a 5% cut—and more through various "methods."
Their conversation was interrupted when the butler rushed in, panic-stricken.
"Sir… sir, there are many tax officials outside… and police."
Aubin leaped to his feet.
"W-what do they want?"
Pocque frowned but reassured his son. He ordered the butler, "Summon the local tax collectors immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Calmly wiping his mouth, Pocque walked toward the front door.
Outside, he found seven uniformed tax officials armed with flintlock rifles. Two local police officers he recognized stood nearby.
Putting on a warm smile, Pocque greeted them:
"Good afternoon! May God be with you. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
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