The reason Comte de Ducasse despised the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court was simple: André had forcibly demoted Chateau Cheval Blanc to the fourth rank in the Bordeaux wine classification. The conflict began when Ducasse had partnered with Ouvrard’s elder brother to defraud the United Industries Company, permanently souring his relationship with the prosecutor. Moreover, the Comte owned thirty hectares of vineyard adjoining Chateau Lafite, yet had refused André’s offer to purchase it. Enraged, the Paris prosecutor placed him on his list of priority targets.

  Inside Chateau Cheval Blanc, the Comte poured a glass of fine red wine for his visitor. But Savigny had no mood to drink; he gulped it down only after the host raised his glass, then seized the bottle itself and drank straight from it.

  “I’ve received confidential news from a reliable source,” said Ducasse casually. “André has ordered that the convoy carrying gold to the Paris Treasury will depart Bordeaux in early September. It holds 7 million livres—packed into ten specially reinforced iron chests, each requiring six to eight draft horses to pull its carriage.”

  Savigny waved his hand dismissively, his eyes narrowed in contempt.

  “So what? A full infantry company guards the convoy. Do you mean to rob it yourself?”

  The Comte showed no sign of offense. “Alone? Of course not. But imagine—just imagine—if there were insiders among the escort, and a band of brigands from the Dordogne mountains struck at the right moment. The plan isn’t impossible. Think about it: André won Parisian favor by squeezing Bordeaux dry. If that 7 million suddenly vanished, what would the Assembly and the Ministry of Finance think then?”

  “They’d tell that bastard to get the hell out of our city!” Savigny roared, hurling his empty bottle to the floor, where it shattered with a sharp crash.

  Better to die fighting than wait for destruction. Savigny’s eyes gleamed.

  “Fine. Tell me—how do we do it?”

  The Comte replied smoothly, “I’ve bribed a Second Lieutenant in the Fifth Light Infantry Battalion. He’s agreed to assist us from the inside, for a share of 1 million livres afterward. As for the brigands in the Dordogne—oh, and by the way, the convoy’s infantry company isn’t even at full strength. Barely half.”

  “No problem,” Savigny answered at once. “My anti-smuggling patrol already works with them. A hundred highwaymen plus your insider will be enough to wipe out half a company. The only issue is… the aftermath.”

  “Kill every witness,” Ducasse said with a sly smile.

  He was tempted to draw Prosecutor Luchon into their plot as well, but Savigny shook his head.

  “That man only cares about winning his judgeship. He won’t get his hands dirty. Still, he did mention the gold convoy once—he’s well connected with the customs brigade and could learn the departure date and route.”

  In Avignon, Ouvrard stood before the former papal palace of the fourteenth century, gazing intently at the monumental Gothic fortress designed by Simone Martini and Matteo Giovannetti. From the palace terrace, one could overlook the entire city: the encircling medieval walls, and the first-century bridge spanning the Rh?ne. Beneath this vast edifice lay a square flanked by the Petit Palais and the Notre-Dame-des-Doms Cathedral, a monumental ensemble that testified to Avignon’s central role in Christian Europe during the papal age.

  After some time, an elderly priest at his side whispered for the third time, “Monsieur Ouvrard, your visitation period has already ended.”

  If not for the recent civic riot two months earlier, the papal palace would not have fallen into such disrepair, nor would this once-noble cleric be reduced to guiding a nouveau riche merchant. The Avignon mob, backed by the city militia from Marseille, had stormed the palace with spears, sickles, and clubs—much as Parisians had done at the Bastille—and plundered it.

  Fortunately, the papal legate and the bishop had fled beforehand, leaving the palace undefended. There was no real battle, and thus the clergy escaped unharmed. But when the mob finally dispersed, the acting bishop discovered that every gold and silver ornament—and even common brassware—had been looted.

  To repair the damage and acquire new sacred furnishings, a fifth-rank cleric, rumoured to be of Jewish descent, proposed a practical solution: charge pilgrims for entry. For 3,000 to 5,000 livres, a devout visitor could spend ninety minutes within the palace.

  Though Ouvrard had already donated 5,000 livres two hours earlier, the bishop had instructed the priest to allow no more than two hours inside. The guest had already overstayed by twenty minutes.

  Ignoring the repeated hints to leave, Ouvrard’s middle-aged aide quietly slipped another gold louis into the priest’s palm—enough to silence him for another twenty minutes.

  Suddenly, Ouvrard lifted his head, as if sensing something. He exchanged a look with his companion, and the two hurried up a spiraling stone staircase to the terrace. From the right side of the platform, he looked up—and found himself under the gaze of the immense white statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Gentle and serene, she stood with open arms, blessing and forgiving the suffering of the world.

  But for a man who worshipped gold rather than God, the sight stirred no reverence—only a feverish thrill.

  “In Avignon,” Ouvrard murmured, half to himself, “its culture is noble, its position graceful, its walls majestic, its soil fertile, its people kind, its palaces splendid, its streets wide and fair, its bridge ingenious, its trade prosperous—it is famous across the world.”

  It was a quote from Pope Benedict XIII.

  When the breathless priest finally caught up, ready to beg once more, Ouvrard said coolly, “You may go home now.” A third gold louis sealed the dismissal.

  Originally, Ouvrard’s trip to Avignon had been for practical reasons—to build connections and assess the papal estates in Provence, preparing to seize assets when the territories were annexed by France. In truth, he had little interest in the Gothic ruins—until his employer’s letter changed everything.

  Three weeks earlier, André had written him, recounting a medieval secret of the Knights Templar.

  The Templar Order had arisen during the Crusades. After the First Crusade (1096–1099), four crusader states were established. Threatened constantly by Muslim powers, the Church created several military orders: the Hospitallers, the Teutonic Knights, and the Templars.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The Templars—formally “The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon”—were founded around 1118, mainly by French knights. King Baldwin II of Jerusalem granted them quarters within the old Jewish Temple, hence the name.

  Blessed by papal privileges, enriched by royal donations, and disciplined in organization, the order soon amassed immense wealth. But power breeds envy. When the Crusader kingdoms collapsed in the late thirteenth century, the Templars retreated to France with their treasure.

  There, King Philip IV, desperate for funds, conspired with his puppet Pope Clement V to accuse the Templars of heresy. On October 13, 1307, all Templars in France were arrested. Many were tortured to death; by 1312, the order was officially dissolved.

  Historians claimed that Philip and Clement divided the treasure, totaling about 1.2 million florins—roughly four tons of gold. But according to records preserved at the University of Reims, that was only a fraction of the twelve tons the Templars possessed.

  In other words, André believed that eight tons of gold remained missing. Not, as romantic tales claimed, shipped to America by Freemasons and later dramatized in films like National Treasure, but still hidden somewhere in France—specifically within the papal palace of Avignon, concealed by Clement V himself.

  For reasons unknown, Clement neither left the gold to his royal successor nor informed the Vatican. When Gregory XI—the sixteenth French pope—returned the papal court to Rome in 1377, the treasure had still not been found.

  In his recent letter, André urged Ouvrard to search the palace carefully, convinced that the fortune was hidden somewhere within its walls. Should the theory prove true, André promised to divide the treasure with him, just as Philip IV and Clement V had done five centuries earlier.

  To finance the venture, André had ordered his accountants to deliver Ouvrard his full earnings—520,000 livres—along with the handwritten letter. In effect, their previous employer–agent relationship ended that day, replaced by a new partnership of risk and reward, with profits to be split evenly.

  Yet Ouvrard could sense his patron’s irritation between the lines. At first, he had been furious, blaming the Jewish broker Perrier and accountant Bernard for turning André against him. But as the letter continued, André revealed his awareness of the Ouvrard brothers’ secret dealings in Bordeaux—particularly his collusion with the Comte de Ducasse to seize assets belonging to the Bordeaux United Industries Company, including two estates and thirty hectares of vineyard.

  Realizing that every move had been under surveillance, Ouvrard understood the imbalance of power. André could replace him with another agent at will, whereas he could rely only on André’s protection. Without it, he and his brother would be devoured by rivals.

  Ten days earlier, customs officials at Marseille had seized goods belonging to the Ouvrard brothers. The smuggling brigade accused them of tax evasion, demanding a fine of 30,000 livres and confiscating merchandise worth 50,000. Desperate, Ouvrard presented a simple letter from André to the customs director, claiming to be the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court’s regional representative in Provence.

  Within ten minutes, everything reversed. The fine was canceled, the goods returned intact, and the customs commander publicly scolded his subordinate for overreach. Smiling, he apologized to Ouvrard, calling it a “misunderstanding” and promising to waive future duties. Since the Bordeaux affair, André Franck’s name had terrified every port in France.

  That episode humbled Ouvrard. Regretting his arrogance, he wrote to André confessing his mistakes and asking to renew their contract on the same commission terms. He also sent his unreliable brother back to Paris with money to buy a country estate for their parents, removing him permanently from business.

  To operate freely, Ouvrard purchased a modest two-storey townhouse on the outskirts of Avignon. Its courtyard could fit two carriages; its rear faced directly onto the bustling Rh?ne docks—an ideal location.

  Just as he arrived, a servant rushed up and whispered something. Ouvrard’s face changed; he immediately ordered the driver to wait, and reentered the carriage with his aide Malet.

  “What’s happened?” Malet asked quietly.

  A thirty-two-year-old cousin, steadier than Ouvrard’s brother, Malet had always opposed antagonizing the prosecutor. It was he who persuaded Ouvrard to apologize and seek reconciliation.

  Ouvrard smiled. “Good news. Accountant Bernard has arrived in Marseille—by sea from Bordeaux. We’re going to meet him.”

  Malet brightened. Bernard’s arrival could only mean that André had accepted Ouvrard back into service. Bernard, the chief accountant of the United Industries Company, was André’s confidant and compatriot—closer than either Perrier in Bordeaux or Ouvrard in Avignon.

  With his patron’s shadow again above him, Ouvrard felt invigorated. His priority now was to locate the 2.4 million florins—eight tons of gold. In André’s letter, the prosecutor had specified that the treasure was hidden in the papal palace itself, in a conspicuous place. How André knew such a secret, Ouvrard dared not ask.

  Malet gestured with his hands. “I’ve made a rough estimate. The base and hollow interior of the Virgin’s statue could easily hold 2.4 million florins. Remarkable, isn’t it? Clement V hid it in plain sight for nearly five hundred years.”

  In France, Spain, or Italy, the Virgin Mary was sacred beyond question. Even the most rabid anti-clerical zealots who smashed crucifixes would not dare defile the Mother of God. The woman who sacrificed her child to redeem the world remained untouchable.

  That was the thieves’ dilemma as well. Even with all their greed and courage, Ouvrard and Malet would never dare desecrate the Virgin’s statue before the world’s eyes. The papal palace, though French soil, was still inviolate under Vatican law. To offend it was to declare war on all of Catholic Europe.

  In August—the month following André’s departure from Paris—two major political events shook France.

  The first was the long-awaited Civil Constitution of the Clergy, which sought to sever ecclesiastical authority from secular society. Though approved on July 12, its promulgation was delayed until after the Festival of the Federation, for the sake of national unity.

  The Constitution embodied Sieyès’ principle of subjugating the Church to the State, transforming clergy into public servants. As history often proved, the Church’s worst enemies were its own brilliant sons.

  Cardinal Duc de Richelieu, minister to Louis XIII, had already reduced papal influence during the Thirty Years’ War, laying the foundations for France’s continental dominance.

  Closer to the present, Sieyès had urged that the Estates-General represent the entire nation; Bishop Talleyrand of Autun had first proposed nationalizing church property; and Joseph Fouché, another former cleric, would become the first deputy to demand the king’s execution.

  The new law abolished the old dioceses, reducing their number drastically, closing monasteries except those devoted to charity or education. Each department became a single bishopric—eighty-three in total. Bishops were to be elected by departmental assemblies, parish priests by municipal councils, without papal confirmation or payment of first-fruits. Salaries, ranging from 1,200 to 50,000 livres, would be paid by the state.

  At first, the law won the support of lower clergy, while most bishops remained silent, fearing open defiance. Only the Vatican reacted harshly: Pope Pius VI urged Louis XVI to veto it, but the pious king refused.

  On August 24, with the king’s signature, the Civil Constitution became law. The Assembly erupted in celebration, its members already preparing a still more radical measure—the Decree on the Clerical Oath—to be passed within three months.

  When André received word of these developments, he sighed. He knew the Jacobin radicals’ anti-clerical frenzy would divide not only the Church, but the nation itself.

  Yet lamentation was useless. He lacked the power to alter the course of France; his task was to adapt—and to prepare for the consequences.

  That very evening, he summoned Lieutenant Moncey and authorized the formation of a new infantry battalion under the Champagne Composite Regiment. Its recruits would come from the Fifth Light Infantry and from the peasantry of Gironde. France’s army still relied on voluntary enlistment; the great conscription law of 300,000 men would not come until three years later.