Chapter 527: Death Penalty, Starting Point with No Upper Limit
Reims Province, near Paris.
Reims District Court.
Judge Fersen listened to the prosecutor demand the death penalty for the defendant. His face was heavy with exhaustion.
In his 20 years as a judge, most of his cases involved petty theft or vandalism. A case involving hundreds of thousands of francs and a potential death sentence was unprecedented.
Frankly, if not for two nights of cramming legal statutes before the trial, he wouldn't even have been sure which laws applied.
The overwhelming volume of cases involving tax farmers recently had filled the High Court's docket, forcing even local courts to handle high-profile cases like this one.
The defendant's lawyer, Corentin, strode confidently to the podium and loudly objected:
"Your Honor, my client, Monsieur Pocque, merely failed to strictly follow tax collection procedures and made errors in calculation. These are purely economic issues and do not warrant such severe punishment!
"In fact, I contend this case belongs in a commercial court, not in a criminal court."
The prosecutor furrowed his brow and almost shoved the lawyer off the podium. Raising a thick stack of documents, he responded coldly:
"Corentin, you excel at distorting the facts!
"In 1785, Pocque illegally advanced the tax collection period and imposed exorbitant fines on 41 farmers in Méthion village, bankrupting 18 of them. Among these, nine individuals later died of hunger or illness—deaths that would not have occurred had they remained in their homes!
"In 1786, Pocque forged government tax documents to levy a 'legacy tax' of 300 francs each on individuals like Monsieur Blanche. This led to Blanche's workshop going bankrupt, after which he committed suicide.
"That same year, Pocque had his men violently assault Monsieur Neige over unpaid taxes. Five days later, Neige succumbed to his injuries…"
Corentin sharply interjected:
"Objection! Your Honor, villagers in Méthion frequently died of starvation or illness each year. Those nine would likely not have survived that year regardless of any fines.
"As for Blanche, who's to say his suicide wasn't due to personal disputes or mental instability?
"And the circumstances surrounding Neige's death are full of uncertainties…"
For half an hour, Corentin rambled on, deftly misdirecting the discussion and sowing doubt. Given that these events occurred years ago and much evidence had long since disappeared, Corentin knew he could drag the case out indefinitely.
His strategy was clear: stall until public outrage over the tax farmer scandal subsided. With enough time, he could seek a reduced sentence or even acquittal through bribes or procedural loopholes.
After all, he had been paid a handsome fee of 7,000 francs by Pocque's family and intended to earn every sou.
The prosecutor turned red with anger, but with four tax farming cases to handle this week alone, he had little time to gather more detailed evidence. His arguments were largely based on records provided by the tax bureau.
Corentin abruptly shifted tactics:
"Furthermore, Your Honor, these incidents should be pursued by the victims or their families in individual lawsuits. I believe the prosecutor's decision to file public charges is procedurally improper, as stipulated by…"
These legal vultures always seemed to find creative ways to manipulate the system.
"The victims' families lack the means to file lawsuits or even the knowledge of how to do so!" the prosecutor shouted.
"If they had, Pocque would've been in prison years ago!"
"Your Honor, the prosecutor is clearly attempting to intimidate my client…"
For the next two hours, the courtroom became a battlefield of endless back-and-forth arguments. Judge Fersen, thoroughly drained, finally struck his gavel to declare a recess.
He had a sinking feeling this trial could drag on for months, given Corentin's expertise in legal obfuscation.
Returning to his chambers for a brief reprieve, Fersen had just reached for his coffee when a court clerk entered, accompanied by a distinguished-looking middle-aged man with immaculate attire and a meticulously styled wig.
The man dismissed the clerk with a gesture and introduced himself:
"Good afternoon, Judge Fersen. I am Cyprien, a special envoy from the Royal Supreme Court. I need to discuss certain case matters with you…"
One hour later, Pocque's trial resumed.
Corentin resumed his strategy of deflecting and dragging out the proceedings, but this time, he was barely a few sentences in when Judge Fersen struck his gavel forcefully.
"Defense counsel, stick to relevant facts."
"Yes, Your Honor," Corentin replied, though visibly flustered.
He attempted a different approach, only to be interrupted again.
"Defense counsel, conjecture is not admissible as evidence. Consider this your warning."
The prosecutor, emboldened by the judge's decisive intervention, seized the opportunity to go on the offensive.
Under the judge's clear favoritism toward justice, the prosecutor's arguments left Corentin visibly sweating and stumbling.
By 4 PM, Judge Fersen symbolically consulted his judicial aides before striking his gavel with finality.
"This court hereby finds Jacques Hétoile de Pocque of Touraine guilty of illegal taxation, murder, fraud, forgery…
"Based on the Dorn Decree and Sernans Act...
"The court sentences Jacques Hétoile de Pocque to death by guillotine."
Corentin was dumbstruck. The trial wasn't even over in a single day! Despite potential loopholes to exploit, the judge had issued a ruling far sooner than expected.
Desperately, he whispered reassurances to Pocque, who sat pale and lifeless.
"Don't worry. There are plenty of grounds for appeal. Much evidence remains inconclusive. I'll file for a retrial with the appellate court tomorrow."
Judge Fersen exhaled deeply. Earlier, the Supreme Court envoy had explicitly instructed him to expedite judgments on tax farming cases, prioritizing speed over exhaustive evidence. With this approach, Fersen estimated he could clear his thick docket of tax farmer cases within two weeks—far sooner than the half-year he had initially anticipated.
Outside the courthouse, a bailiff overheard the sentencing and, in violation of protocol, eagerly dashed out to announce the news to the waiting crowd.
"Death penalty! He's been sentenced to death!"
The gathered townsfolk erupted into thunderous cheers:
"Finally, that damned Pocque is going to hell!"
"Long live Judge Fersen!"
"Praise be to God—justice has been served!"
In Reims, virtually no one harbored sympathy for tax farmers. While not every family had been driven to ruin, nearly everyone had experienced overtaxation or suffered abuse at the hands of ruthless collectors.
The news of Pocque's death sentence was met with jubilant celebration.
Meanwhile, Corentin, acutely aware of the tax farmers' infamous reputation, waited until dusk before cautiously slipping out of the courthouse.
As Corentin stepped out of the courthouse, something wet and slimy splattered across his face.
Reflexively, he reached up to wipe it away, only to find his hand covered in a sticky, foul-smelling substance. The stench hit him hard, triggering a wave of violent retching.
A group of more than ten people had been waiting for him, hurling insults along with more unidentified filth.
It wasn't until Corentin's servant managed to shield him and hustle him into a carriage that the mob finally stopped pursuing him, giving up only after chasing the vehicle down two streets.
Meanwhile, the families of those affected by the case—such as Léonau, and the relatives of Blanche and Neige—only learned about the verdict the next day. Burdened by their daily struggles, they hadn't had the luxury of attending the court proceedings. But soon, they would see the man responsible for their suffering pay for his crimes.
To Corentin's shock, the efficiency of France's judicial system had suddenly skyrocketed.
When he filed an appeal on Pocque's behalf, it was rejected by the appellate court within a single day. The reason cited was the overwhelming clarity of the evidence and the fairness of the original judgment.
He reluctantly escalated the case to the Reims Supreme Court, only to wait two more days before the court announced its decision: the original sentence was upheld, and a final ruling was issued, denying any further appeals to the Royal High Court.
To top it off, the execution date was scheduled—ten days from then.
Unbeknownst to Corentin, this newfound judicial efficiency was a direct result of the Prince's intervention. Joseph had tasked the Royal High Court with overseeing all regional courts, ensuring that the tax farmers' cases were processed swiftly. When some senior members of the High Court hesitated, advising caution, the Prince promptly dismissed the court's deputy chief justice, leaving no doubt about his determination.
Joseph wasn't seeking to undermine judicial independence—though in a monarchy, such interference was not unusual. Rather, the cases against the tax farmers were clear-cut, with little ambiguity. Spending excessive time and resources on such proceedings would be wasteful.
Moreover, the tax farmers were wealthy, and the longer their cases dragged on, the more opportunities they had to bribe officials or exploit legal loopholes to evade justice.
As Corentin replayed the court proceedings in his mind, questioning his professional capabilities, he heard news that momentarily restored his confidence:
Every case involving a tax farmer was being expedited. Compared to others, Pocque's trial had been relatively slow. Some cases were reportedly decided in the morning, with Supreme Court appeals concluded by the afternoon.
Even more shocking was the sentencing pattern: 70% of defendants were being given the death penalty.
The rest were receiving long prison sentences, with only a handful sentenced to exile or short-term imprisonment. Not a single tax farmer had been acquitted.
The tax bureau had been methodical in its arrests, targeting individuals with well-documented misconduct. Those without clear wrongdoing were never brought to court.
The Next Morning, Paris
Corentin, having finished breakfast, stepped out of his Saint-Germain district inn for a stroll. He no longer dared to stay in Reims, fearing the wrath of its angry citizens. Despite earning 7,000 francs for defending Pocque, he regretted ever taking the case.
"Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" cried a newsboy from across the street. "News and Illustrated Gazette! Details on the combined trial for the attackers of tax officers—only 1 sou and 5 deniers!"
Curious, Corentin called the boy over and purchased a copy. Opening it, he immediately spotted the headline:
"571 Convicted of Assaulting Tax Officers: Sentenced to Death!"
The article detailed how these individuals, who had participated in violent attacks against tax officials or obstructed the arrest of suspects, had all received the death penalty.
Most of those sentenced were former tax enforcers—men hired by the tax farmers to carry out their dirty work.
The report also noted that, since a small number of those convicted were nobles, the Paris Supreme Court had ruled all 571 to face execution by guillotine for consistency. Appeals had already been denied, and the executions were set to begin ten days later, alongside Pocque's.
Southern Suburbs of Paris
In Fould's luxurious villa, a group of a dozen tax-farming magnates sat in gloomy silence.
They had already heard about the mass arrests and death sentences handed down to their colleagues and their enforcers.
This grim development made one thing clear: their attempts to influence the Queen through the Comte d'Artois and Madame de Berney-Nac had failed. The government had started targeting them directly.
After a long silence, a rotund tax farmer broke the tension:
"Who would've thought Brienne would go this far? He's determined to ruin us!"
Fould shot him a disdainful glare and retorted:
"This is beyond Brienne. The entire judicial system has been mobilized!"
Hope nodded solemnly.
"It's clear this is coming from the royal family."
Bordereau, clenching his fists, growled:
"I warned you all! We should've pooled our resources to back the High Court against the Crown. But you miserly fools wouldn't listen."
"What's the point of saying that now?" scoffed Morel, the baron. "The tax bureau's eyes are on me every day. If this continues, it's only a matter of time before the flames reach us."
These magnates usually operated from behind the scenes, delegating their tax-farming operations to proxies. Even negotiations for tax contracts were handled by hired nobles. They had also spent generously to silence potential witnesses. For now, the tax bureau lacked concrete evidence to arrest them.
However, given the enormous sums involved—tax revenues worth billions of francs—tracing the money's flow would inevitably lead back to them.
Hope raised his hand, signaling for calm. His voice was steady:
"Let's not panic. Our arrangements with the trade caravans and Marseille port are in place. Soon, we'll send representatives to negotiate with the Crown.
"With so many arrests already, the government has gained enough leverage. They should know when to stop. If trade routes and Mediterranean ports are disrupted, France will face widespread chaos in no time."
Morel muttered under his breath, unconvinced:
"For your sake, I hope your plan works. But I've decided to liquidate my French assets and lie low in England for a while."
Several others, including Godemid, nodded in agreement.
Champagne Province, Eastern France
Gérard Bonat handed a contract to the owner of Marier Estate, smiling warmly.
"You won't regret today's decision.
"In addition to offering the most competitive purchase price, we're also including complimentary property insurance for transactions exceeding 5,000 francs.
"Should any mishap occur—say, your wine spoils before it's sold—the insurance company will compensate you without requiring a return."
Bonat was the second-in-command of the newly formed trade alliance in the Champagne region.
A former small-time merchant, he had decades of experience and a sharp business acumen.
When the trade alliance announced an annual salary of 1,500 francs for regional managers, Bonat jumped at the opportunity. His previous business barely earned 1,000 francs a year—and that was with significant risk.
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