Life of Being a Crown Prince in France-Chapter 614 - 524: Mr. Robespierre, You Are Right! (Seeking monthly votes at month’s end)

Chapter 614: Chapter 524: Mr. Robespierre, You Are Right! (Seeking monthly votes at month’s end)

“At that time, the road was extremely muddy, and the grain merchants couldn’t enter the town to collect grain, so the farmers had to use their wheat to pay their taxes,”

“But since the Tax Farming Bureau had moved to the suburbs, people had no choice but to rely on manpower, carrying the wheat to the Tax Farming Bureau time and again. During this period, four people died from drowning or slipping down steep slopes, while much of the wheat transported to the Tax Farming Bureau was discounted at half price because it got damp.”

Robespierre struggled to suppress his anger as he searched out files related to Stian Town for Joseph, “It was then that Leconu proposed that if the townspeople were willing to pay a ‘transportation fee,’ he could also go to the town to collect taxes.”

the people toward outright revolt, merely to line their own pockets!

He had gravely underestimated the shamelessness and cruelty of these Tax Collectors. He had thought they were merely engaging in some account fraud and overcharging a few sous in taxes, but they were completely indifferent to the life and death of the lower classes, pushing people to their deaths to seize property and enrich themselves by sucking their blood!

He looked at Robespierre standing before him, took a deep breath, and said with a heavy heart, “I finally understand why you did what you did before. You were right.”

...

Robespierre was startled, asking with surprise, “Your Highness, what are you referring to that I did before?”

Joseph waved his hand, “It’s nothing.”

He was naturally referring to the historical fact that Robespierre and others like Mala had signed to behead all the Tax Farmers. Although there were regrets like the wrongful execution of Lavoisier, based on what he had seen and learned today, such miscarriages of justice were certainly few.

After Robespierre finished briefly reporting the complaints of the people against the Tax Farmers in recent times, he then asked solemnly, “Your Highness, regarding these people, what do you think would be the best way to handle them?”

“Just handle it the way you used to,” Joseph replied.

“Ah? The way I used to?”

Joseph slammed his fist onto the table, saying sternly, “The Police Headquarters has guns! Take your men, and if that’s not enough, you can go to the Police Headquarters, for those guys, arrest those who should be arrested, judge those who should be judged, hang those who should be hanged.”

Never did Robespierre expect the Crown Prince to be so resolute. He immediately felt invigorated, stood at attention, and responded loudly, “Yes, Your Highness! I will make them pay the price they deserve!”

…

In the Orleans Suburb.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

Next to the beautiful apple orchard in the town of Moen, in the brick-red villa, Tax Farmer Boka swallowed a juicy pan-fried steak and nodded with satisfaction, complimenting his wife, “Anouk’s cooking skills have improved a lot.”

He picked up some bread, dipped it in pigeon soup, and placed it in his mouth, then looked at his son sitting across, “Obin, I think we better not sell the land. It took me over ten years to save that up, and with many people going to North Africa to pioneer, the land prices just aren’t rising.”

“I heard that the government’s ‘Agricultural Service Consultancy Company’ is very good. With just a little money, they can help us increase the yield in the land by twenty or thirty percent.

“With that in mind, it’s not bad to continue hiring people to farm, plus the hired hands can pay taxes…”

His son, who was about twenty years old, appeared somewhat distracted as he stared at his plate of food, suddenly looking up and saying, “Father, this audit by the Tax Office seems to be a big deal. I heard that many Tax Farmers in Paris have already been arrested.”

a few people from the Tax Office arriving, some policemen too.”

Obin immediately stood up tensely, “What, what do they want?”

Boka slightly furrowed his brow, comforted his son with a few words, then instructed the butler, “Gather all the tax collectors from the town.”

“Yes, sir.”

Boka wiped his mouth with a napkin, stood up, and headed towards the front door.

Before long, he saw more than a dozen uniformed Tax Officers, armed with flintlock guns, outside the villa. Two policemen stood beside them, whom he recognized as Security Inspectors from the Orleans Police Station.

He pretended to be enthusiastic, “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”