Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

Chapter 1202: Chapter 1107: Rights? Death!

Montes frowned slightly, then quickly smiled: “I’m pleased to meet you. If you’re interested in stock matters, we can find a place to talk in detail.”

Porter closed the car door casually, his voice suddenly turning cold: “I’m not interested in your little tricks to incite market panic.

“Listen, your actions have already had severe consequences for the country, and the folks above are very displeased.”

Montes frowned again, leaning back in his chair: “You must be mistaken, Mr. Porter. Everything we do is legitimate business, bringing funds to excellent companies and helping investors distance themselves from poor ones.”

“Save your misleading rhetoric.” Porter interrupted him, extending two fingers, “You have two days to push the Chat Han Shipyard’s stock price back above 15 British Pounds.”

Montes laughed and gestured outside by pushing open the car door: “The stock price is determined by the market. If you have no other business, could you please leave?”

Porter leaned forward, staring him down: “Do as I say, or you’ll regret it.”

“Thanks for your advice. Goodbye.”

The carriage departed, and Montes glanced out the window at the secretary standing by the roadside, sneering: “This fellow must have taken money from the Chat Han Shipyard.”

When he arrived at the London Stock Exchange, he promptly took out Curry Potter’s authorization and instructed the exchange staff to list 500 shares of Chat Han in four batches, with prices gradually declining from 8 British Pounds to 7 British Pounds and 2 shillings.

That afternoon, Montes triumphantly chatted with Grabby about the day’s operations to fend off mysterious funds trying to buy Chat Han stock, and he returned home along the way.

He bid farewell to his old friend, raised his hand to knock on the door but heard no response from the maid.

“Annie? Maria?”

He shook his head, muttering: “These lazy guys, I must dock their wages,” as he fished out the key to open the door.

Before he could take in the room’s situation, a burly arm pulled him inside and shut the door forcefully.

“Who…”

Montes only uttered a syllable before he saw a sharp dagger pressed against his neck, and then his peripheral vision caught sight of his lover Isabella tied up and thrown on the floor nearby.

“Please, the key to the safe is in the upstairs drawer. You can take all the money…”

Before he could finish a sentence, a figure suddenly appeared from behind, wrapping a rope around his neck.

The figure pulled hard, and poor Montes was soon hanging in mid-air.

Elsewhere, Grabby’s carriage was stopped while passing an alley, and as his driver was about to curse, a stick struck the back of his head.

Meanwhile, in the café by St. James’s Park, United Irishmen Association’s secretary McLaren looked at the figures climbing the walls of St. James’s Palace in the distance, complaining to Porte Yer:

“See, how successful the protest is! Those parliamentarians can no longer manage affairs normally; they will soon compromise.”

He suddenly pointed to a man standing atop the palace guard post holding a banner of “Equality and Human Rights” and shouted: “God, that’s Idris! Oh, soon everyone will praise him as a hero. We should have been out there too…”

Porte Yer took a sip of coffee, speaking slowly: “You know, those British won’t give in that easily. Why not wait patiently for a while?”

The large-scale protests in London had entered their fifth day, but he threatened to withdraw all funding according to orders from Paris, making the Irish pull out from the protest teams.

However, a few stubborn middle-level officers of the Irish Association refused to miss this opportunity, insisting on continuing to march in their personal names.

McLaren was still muttering: “In the end, it’s the London workers who enjoy the fruits of victory…”

Porte Yer interrupted him, asking: “By the way, how did those books and pamphlets get distributed?”

McLaren sighed, turning back: “They were basically distributed by yesterday afternoon, but people don’t seem that interested in them. You know, those who can understand Rousseau’s writings have already read them. The others are pretty much the same.”

Porte Yer nodded: “Tomorrow night, we’ll have a second batch of about ten thousand copies.

“Oh, you need to remind your speakers to be extra cautious, best transfer to secret meetings…”

His latter words were cut off by a piercing whistle.

Several in the café simultaneously turned towards the source of the noise, seeing a group of mounted police emerge from St. James’s Palace, with a leading official shouting something, but evidently, no one paid attention.

The official waited for several minutes, seeing the protest crowd continue to rush towards St. James’s Palace, nearly toppling the fence, he said a few words to the officer beside him, then turned and entered the palace gate.

Moments later, hundreds of riders emerged from the north side of St. James’s Palace, forming ranks on the park’s open space under the officer’s command.

McLaren gasped at the flagbearer’s flag: “It’s the Volunteer Cavalry! What are they going to do?”

Usually, these standing militia units are only deployed for riots or against powerful bandit gangs.

Porte Yer simply watched silently, as the British militia had already answered the Irish with actions.

As the military bugle sounded, the volunteer cavalry drew their sabers—slightly shorter than the regular horse saber, but more suited for narrow, crowded street environments—and then approached the protest crowd in neat formation.

On the guardhouse at St. James’s Palace, Idris encouraged the people loudly:

“Don’t be afraid, don’t retreat! We have tens of thousands, these guys dare not touch us! Victory will ultimately be ours…”

“Bang—”

The sudden gunshot interrupted his words, the bullet missing him but startling him to fall off the rooftop.

The protest crowd shouted encouragement to each other, arm in arm ready to block the cavalry ahead.

However, the volunteer cavalry began to accelerate, then leveled their sabers, continuing to speed up.

Like a row of boulders rolling into a pond, the red splash reached the sky, frightening screams erupted, and people began to flee to the sides.

What freedom, what human rights, what courage to resist, all collapsed instantly before the sharp blades.

But the cavalry showed no sign of stopping, their blades swung freely, in no time, rushing down half the street.

The assaulted protesters turned and fled, while many at the back were still unsure what had happened, still standing and shouting slogans.

The crowd fleeing ahead met obstacles, at once they pushed the people in their way without hesitation, trampling over them.