I'm the Dauphin in France

Chapter 1108 Rights? Death!
Montes frowned, then smiled again: "It's a pleasure to meet you. If you're interested in stocks, we can find a place to discuss it in detail."

Porter closed the car door behind him, his voice suddenly turning cold: "I have no interest in your little tricks of stirring up market panic."

"Listen, your actions have had a serious impact on the country, which has made the higher-ups very unhappy."

Montes frowned again and leaned back in his chair: "You've got it wrong, Mr. Porter. We're in the business of legitimate companies, bringing funding to good companies and helping investors stay away from bad ones."

“Stop with your empty rhetoric,” Potter interrupted him, holding up two fingers. “You have two days to get Chatham Shipbuilding’s share price back above £15.”

Montes chuckled, opened the car door, and gestured towards the outside: "Heh, stock prices are determined by the market. If you have nothing else to do, may you leave?"

Potter leaned forward, staring intently at him, and said, "Do as I say, or you'll regret it."

Thank you for your advice. Goodbye.

The carriage sped away. Montes glanced out the window at his secretary standing by the roadside and sneered, "That guy probably got paid by Chatham Shipyard."

Upon arriving at the London Stock Exchange, he immediately retrieved Curry Porter's authorization letter and instructed the exchange staff to list 500 shares of Chatham stock in four batches, gradually lowering the price from £8 to £7.20.

That afternoon, Montes chatted smugly with Grabby about how he had repelled the mysterious funds that were trying to go long on Chatham stock that day, and then returned home.

He said goodbye to his old friend, raised his hand and knocked on the door, but heard no response from the maid.

"Anne? Maria?"

He shook his head and muttered, "These lazybones, we have to deduct their wages." He then took out his keys and opened the door.

Before he could even see what was inside, a thick arm pulled him inside and slammed the door shut.

"who……"

Montes uttered only one syllable before he saw a sharp dagger pressed against his neck, and then out of the corner of his eye, he saw his lover Isabella bound hand and foot and lying on the ground to the side.

"Please don't do this. The key to the safe is in a drawer upstairs. You can take all the money..."

Before he could finish speaking, another figure suddenly appeared behind him and put a rope around his neck.

The figure then pulled hard, and poor Montes' body was lifted onto the roof.

Meanwhile, Grabi's carriage was stopped as it passed through an alley. Just as his coachman was about to unleash a torrent of curses, a stick struck him on the back of the head.

Meanwhile, in a café next to St. James's Park, McCracken, the secretary-general of the United Irish Association, watched the figures climbing the walls of St. James's Palace in the distance and complained incessantly to Portyer:
"Look how successful the protests have been! Those lawmakers are no longer able to manage government affairs properly; they will soon give in."

He suddenly pointed at a man standing in the palace guardhouse holding a sign that read "Equality and Human Rights" and exclaimed, "God, that's Idris! Oh, everyone will praise him as a hero from now on, and we should have been there too..."

Porter took a sip of his coffee and said unhurriedly, "You should know that those British aren't so easily defeated. Why don't you wait a while and see?"

The massive protests in London have entered their fifth day, but he followed orders from Paris and threatened to cut off all funding to force the Irish to withdraw from the protests.

However, a few staunch Irish Association mid-level officials were unwilling to miss this opportunity and insisted on participating in the march in their personal capacities.

McCracken was still muttering, "In the end, it will be the London workers who enjoy the fruits of victory..." Porter interrupted him, asking, "By the way, how are the books and pamphlets being distributed?"

McCracken sighed and turned his gaze back: "We basically finished distributing them yesterday afternoon, but people don't seem to care much about them. You know, those who can understand Rousseau's works have already read them. The others are pretty much the same anyway."

Porter nodded: "The second batch will arrive tomorrow night, it should be 10,000 copies."

"Oh, you must remind your speakers to be extra careful, and it would be best to hold secret meetings..."

His words were interrupted by a piercing whistle.

The people in the café turned their heads at the same time, looking in the direction from which the sound came. They saw a group of guards walking out of St. James's Palace, with an official at the head shouting something, but no one paid any attention to him.

The official waited a few minutes and saw that the protesters were still pouring into St. James's Palace, and the fences were almost being pushed down. He suddenly said a few words to the officer next to him, then turned and went into the palace gate.

The next moment, hundreds of riders emerged from the north side of St. James's Palace and lined up in the park's open space under the command of officers.

McCracken, looking at the flag held by the standard-bearer, exclaimed, "It's the Volunteer Cavalry! What are they up to?"

Generally speaking, such standing militia units are only deployed to deal with riots or to suppress powerful bandit gangs.

Porter simply watched silently, for the British militia had already answered the Irish with their actions.

As the bugle sounded, the volunteer cavalry drew their sabers—slightly shorter than ordinary cavalry sabers but better suited for use in narrow, crowded streets—and then slowly approached the protesters in orderly ranks.

In the guardhouse in front of St. James's Palace, Idris loudly encouraged the people:

"Don't be afraid, everyone! Don't retreat! We have tens of thousands of people; these guys won't dare to do anything to us! Victory will ultimately be ours..."

"boom--"

The sudden gunshot interrupted the rest of his sentence. Although the bullet did not hit him, it startled him so much that he fell off the roof.

The protesters cheered each other on, linked arms, and prepared to block the cavalry in front of them.

However, the volunteer cavalry began to accelerate, then leveled their swords and continued to speed up.

Like a row of giant boulders rolling into a pond, red spray splashed into the air. People immediately let out terrified screams and began to flee to both sides.

Freedom, human rights, and the courage to resist—all crumble instantly before the sharp blade.

The cavalry did not stop at all, their sharp blades slashing wildly, and in the blink of an eye they had crossed most of the street.

The protesters who were attacked turned and ran in terror, while many others behind them, still not understanding what was happening, remained standing and chanting slogans.

When the crowd in front of them was blocked from escaping, they immediately pushed down the people blocking their way and stepped over them.

(End of this chapter)