The office door closed again, and everyone withdrew. One of the two bank representatives remained inside, while the other stood guard outside, apparently preventing anyone from approaching to eavesdrop.
Baron Fidoron frowned. This was plainly a sign of distrust, but given his current predicament, he had no choice but to restrain his temper.
"Speak. What could be so secretive? Let me make this clear first: if you have your eyes on my machinery factory, don't waste your time here.
"The machinery factory is my child. No matter how badly I fall, I will never hand it over. Your Paris Bank is not qualified to snatch it from me!"
Baron Fidoron spoke with ample confidence. Though the power of the aristocratic bloc had declined, it still held the reins of the French Government.
The capitalists might have money, but their political voice was still no match for that of the aristocrats.
As one of the few successful businessmen among the nobility, Baron Fidoron possessed formidable connections. Once mobilized, they would give even the great financial groups a headache.
Against this backdrop, many coveted the machinery factory, but very few truly dared to act.
The middle-aged man smiled awkwardly. "Your Lordship, you worry too much. How would we dare set our sights on you?
"Over the past week, the stock market has fallen continuously, and the market is already on the brink of collapse. I have come on behalf of Paris Bank to discuss how we might weather the economic crisis that is about to erupt."
Without question, Paris Bank had also considered the machinery factory. It had merely discovered that this was a hard bone—the meat was wedged in the cracks, and biting down would chip its teeth.
Baron Fidoron rolled his eyes. "Enough. This old man knows his own limits.