Hello everyone, sorry for the wait! Here's a new chapter that I hope you'll enjoy!
Thank you Mium, Porthos10, AlexZero12, lizeer, Ranger_Red, pffnytij, First_Time_****, Galan05, Shingle_Top, Daoistjhhlup, and Mai_Spartacus for your support!
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François cast a quick glance toward Mademoiselle de Lespinasse.
She had discreetly withdrawn to rejoin a small group of guests, but kept an eye on the others present—especially on him, the newcomer.
François was deeply relieved that she had not tried to introduce him to the whole assembly. Had she drawn everyone's attention to him at once, he would have been mortified.
Naturally, she was not ignoring him; rather, she had left him in Martin's reassuring hands, so that he might be introduced more naturally to all these people—interesting people, each and every one of them.
She gave him a charming smile, full of encouragement.
They walked toward three men and a woman, standing by a tall window overlooking Rue Saint-Dominique, glasses in hand.
Outside, the sky grew steadily darker, and the first drops of rain began to fall, striking silently against the windowpanes.
The three men and the lady broke off their conversation when they saw the young Martin Morrel de Lusernes approaching with an unfamiliar gentleman who looked slightly ill at ease in his coat.
"Gentlemen, madam, what a pleasure to see you this evening," Martin began, bowing with grace.
"Monsieur de Lusernes," replied a man in his forties, tall and slender, "the pleasure is mutual."
François immediately noticed in this man a kind of silent charisma. Perhaps it was his upright posture, his piercing eyes, and the faint smile that suggested everything was unfolding according to his design.
He wore a coat seemingly simple, yet impeccably tailored. A fine gray wig, falling onto his shoulders in soft curls like real hair, completed the impression.
"Anne Robert Jacques Turgot, at your service," the man said with a slight bow.
"François Boucher de Montrouge. An honor, sir."
He returned the courtesy, even more deeply, though inwardly he wondered what this man's principal occupation could be.
He does not look like a philosopher—nor a soldier either. He looks simply… noble.
A second man, a head shorter than the first, with eyes so dark they seemed almost hollow, inclined his head.
"François Boucher… de Montrouge? Might you be a painter, by chance?"
This time it was François's turn to bow his head, surprised by the question.
"A painter? Not at all, monsieur. I serve in the army, in the New World. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, forgive me. I mistook you for another. More than once I have heard of a painter named François Boucher. Might you be related to him, perhaps?"
François shook his head.
"Not that I know of, no. Is he from Picardy?"
"I cannot say. Hmm, I suppose it is a very common name, like Dupont, or Dubois."
François and the man exchanged a smile and bowed politely to one another.
"Nicolas de Caritat, Marquis de Condorcet. Delighted to make your acquaintance, monsieur."
"The pleasure is mine."
He then turned toward the third man, who stood beside the only woman in the group.
"Jean Baptiste Suard, journalist," he said, his eyes alight with interest. "And this is my wife, Amélie."
The young woman, elegant though far less beautiful than Julie de Lespinasse, Ryckje—Rose Morrel de Lusernes—or Onatah, gave François a polite nod.
François bowed again, this time with a steadier voice, reassured by this "normal" couple.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, madam."
Martin smiled, and with a discreet gesture behind François's back—one not lost on the others—made it clear that this gentleman was under his protection.
"Pray, take good care of him, gentlemen, madam. It is his first evening in such fine company. The poor man is accustomed to the stiffness of camps and the harshness of the New World. Should he make a few blunders, have mercy on him."
Turgot laughed lightly, with the kind of benevolent warmth that softened his seriousness.
"Come now, Monsieur de Lusernes, he who risks nothing learns nothing. No one ever died from a misplaced word."
Condorcet, the young mathematician not yet thirty, gave François a gentle smile, as if to assure him he would find only friends here.
The journalist Suard, his eyes gleaming, allowed no awkward silence to take root, and at once resumed the conversation.
"We were discussing economics—since it happens to be the battlefield of these two gentlemen," he said, gesturing toward Turgot and Condorcet.
"Well, let us rather say it is a subject of interest," Condorcet corrected, with a touch of irony. "I am more mathematician than financial theorist."
"And yet," added Turgot, "the two are closely bound, for there can be no economics without mathematics. The calculus of probabilities can sometimes illuminate the conduct of human affairs."
Condorcet, visibly pleased to hear his friend acknowledge his work, went on to explain the central point of the debate:
"We were saying, just before you arrived, gentlemen—or rather, that was Mr. Turgot's idea—that the economy could only truly develop if trade and industry were freed from all their shackles."
"Not only trade and industry," corrected Turgot in a firm voice. "The same must be true for the circulation of grain. The economy cannot flourish without liberty. There is no prosperity if commerce and circulation are stifled under excessive regulations."
"And I was saying," Condorcet added, "that unchecked trade or production could only open the door to abuses. That is inevitable."
"Are you not being a little too pessimistic, Monsieur de Condorcet? You seem to have a rather bleak view of mankind."
"Not pessimistic, sir. Pragmatic. There is no liberty without safeguards. Man is an animal—however well educated he may be—if you set him free, he will do as he pleases. That is why laws exist."
"I, on the other hand, believe in the virtue that can arise from well-understood self-interest."
Jean-Baptiste Suard, looking rather like a referee in this fast-paced exchange, then turned to François:
"And what do you think, Monsieur de Montrouge? You come from a world where trade is under constant constraint. Surely that gives you a unique perspective."
François felt his body tremble, his stomach knotting.
At that moment, he understood better why Martin had spoken of a battlefield.
Instead of being sent to the front line, he had the impression of entering an ancient arena, sand under his feet, every gaze fixed on him, and a massive lion already unleashed.
Shit.
He drew a breath and spoke with a disarming honesty:
"Economics is really not my field of expertise, gentlemen. I can only tell you what I have seen—what current doctrine becomes once it crosses the Atlantic."
Suard hastened to reassure him:
"That does not matter. In fact, that is the very point. These gentlemen have their books, but you are a witness."
François nodded slowly, thinking quickly.
Economics, economics, economics… What can I possibly tell them?
Though a soldier, as a major he had seen much. What he could speak of most was smuggling, for French and English goods alike often passed along the small trails of New Aquitaine.
"Well then," he began, "as you quite rightly said, the economy in the New World is tightly controlled. Each state wants to protect its economy, and so they ensure that their goods pass through their own mother country. But whether London, Paris, or Madrid, none can prevent part of the trade from taking place outside the legal framework. The distance, the lack of officials—it is a standing invitation to fraud."
"You mean smuggling?" asked Turgot, very seriously. "Is it widespread in New France?"
"Inevitable," replied François with a surprising calm, as though it were not a crime that could earn one a lifetime in the galleys. "We have two powerful neighbors: the Iroquois and the British. We trade with the Iroquois by barter, for it is necessary to our survival. Even with regular shipments from the mother country, something is always lacking."
"Has the situation not improved since the end of the war?"
"Yes, Monsieur Turgot, but conditions remain difficult."
François paused briefly to gather his thoughts.
"Most of the settlers—habitants, as they are called—live very simple lives, merely seeking to live decently and to give their children a life a little better than their own. They work the land, practice a bit of craftsmanship, they hunt, they fish, they trade a little with the natives, but that is all they can do."
The three men and the lady nodded, trying to picture people living close to nature, struggling to feed themselves.
François went on:
"Exchanges with the natives, such as the Iroquois, are not taxed—or taxable. Among them, the very concept does not exist. Reciprocity and honor serve as currency."
"Extraordinary…" murmured Madame Suard, fascinated by this testimony. "But if these exchanges are not taxed, how then do they finance their government?"
François smiled faintly.
"There is no Iroquois kingdom, madame, but a confederacy. Each people that composes it retains its autonomy, as do the villages. There are councils at every level to resolve problems according to their gravity."
As soon as he began speaking of Iroquois society, François's tone subtly shifted. His expression too.
The economist, the mathematician, the journalist, and his wife listened devoutly, like children hearing a marvelous tale. It was an account that might inspire a new theory, a new conception of the state.
"The chiefs are not all-powerful, like our kings. They have heavy responsibilities, but among the Iroquois they must answer for them. You will certainly be interested to know, madame, that the place of women is important. They choose the chiefs, and can, if necessary, depose them."
The small group struggled to conceive of such a society. They could hardly imagine how such an order could endure.
Madame Suard, for a brief instant, pictured a group of women with the power to appoint a king and replace him if he failed in his duties. The thought quickly crumbled, so absurd did it seem.
"Here is a social order that defies many prejudices," thought Condorcet, frowning.
"And yet it has endured for centuries," concluded François, casting a quick glance at Martin to check he had not said anything amiss.
Martin gave him a quick wink—proof that he had passed this trial.
But it was not over, for the evening was only just beginning.
"We have strayed somewhat from the main subject," said Turgot, lifting his glass of wine to his lips. "You were telling us about our two neighbors in America. What of the English colonists? We have all heard that nearly every quarter new taxes are imposed on them by London. How are these received?"
François paused a moment, aware that more guests had drawn near to listen.
"Badly. Very badly," he admitted without concealment. "The British colonists… are highly sensitive to injustice. They are proud, suspicious of distant authorities, and deeply attached to their land. They view all these acts with the darkest eye. From their perspective, the Parliament of London—where they have no representatives—seeks to place upon them the heaviest share of the debt."
Turgot and others nodded, for it was well known that Britain's debt far exceeded that of France.
While France had the good fortune of several trading posts in India and highly profitable sugar islands in the Antilles, Britain had little choice but to press her own people to make up the deficit.
"And yet I have heard," said Suard, folding his arms, "that the British themselves are not spared—that the taxes they endure are far heavier than those borne by their fellows in the New World."
François shrugged discreetly.
"Be that true or not, I believe the most damaging point in the relationship between the colonies and the Parliament of London is precisely that they are not represented—unlike the Scots, for example."
A murmur spread through the salon. That did not quite match what they had been told.
Through their contacts across the Channel—for the French and English elites corresponded and traveled—it was said that the colonists, ungrateful, simply refused to bear their fair share of the debt, much of it contracted to defend them.
François waited a moment for the whispers to subside, then continued in a strangely calm voice.
Though he did not speak loudly, now he alone was heard in the vast room.
"They feel themselves regarded as lesser subjects—as purses into which one may dip forever without so much as asking their consent. Their anger is immense. Each act, each new import duty, is one more insult."
Around him, several men exchanged glances.
Fear. Doubt. Anticipation.
At last a man in clerical garb—an abbé, judging by his dress—his face gaunt, cheeks hollow, nose as purple as the bags under his eyes, voiced the question many were already pondering:
"Do you believe this resentment will erupt?"
François did not answer at once, which made the air heavier, more ominous. The light atmosphere had utterly vanished.
"If the colonists are not heard—if their anger is ignored—then the British colonies may indeed ignite. The minority voices calling for insurrection may become the majority, and Britain could find herself at war with her own people."
Several men pressed into the widening circle, which in only minutes had greatly expanded. Two, in particular, stood out. Relatively tall, of similar age—between fifty and sixty—they wore carefully chosen garments, elegant without ostentation.
The first, younger-looking, must have laughed often, for fine lines creased his lips and the corners of his eyes. The second, with a plainer face, bore the unmistakable marks of a man of letters: ink ingrained beneath his nails, calluses hardened by the quill, and eyes with an acuity that was almost unsettling.
"If that is truly so," said the first in a deep voice, "we may witness the birth of a new world. Perhaps the one of which we dream."
His resonant tone, his lingering accent, betrayed a contained energy.
It was Denis Diderot—the philosopher of inexhaustible speech, a titan who had greatly contributed to the construction of the Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, an ambitious project not yet completed.
He, who could not hear mention of injustice without instantly inflaming, had pricked up his ears at the first word of the British colonies and their struggle against oppression.
"Ah! Men ready to rise against the tyranny of taxes," he exclaimed, "against a distant Parliament that legislates without consulting them! What magnificent irony!"
The great philosopher, still vigorous despite his age, naturally had an opinion on the British system.
He had never judged it perfect, but he once considered there were aspects worth admiring for France.
But since the end of the Six Years' War, his judgment had shifted.
The press had been muzzled to prevent critical discourse against the government from appearing, protests were suppressed in blood, and the common people were crushed beneath the weight of taxes.
To this were added familiar flaws: a landed elite living in opulence, shameless electoral corruption, and unblushing clientelism.
"The English—always so quick to mock our monarchy—are now tasting, in their colonies, the bitter fruit of their own arrogance!"
A few muffled laughs were heard, but opinions in truth were more nuanced.
For years, England had been seen as a first step toward an ideal: a realm where the king did not concentrate all power. They had friends there, and few wished to defend absolute monarchy as it existed in France.
Some nevertheless acknowledged the utility of a strong, centralized monarchy—provided it were enlightened, as seemed to be the case with Catherine II's Russia.
Diderot carried on his passionate monologue, and no one dared interrupt him.
"If those colonists truly find the strength to say no, it will be a lesson for all of Europe. They will remind every king, every minister, that obedience is never granted—it is founded on consent!"
At these words, François's eyes widened and he flinched. They echoed what he himself had told Martin. What he had tried to make him understand.
The power of an angry people.
Obedience… is never granted?This kind of thought… It sounds like he is speaking of the Revolution, doesn't it? Could he know? No—unlikely that he is like me. Practically impossible.
He narrowed his eyes, watching him speak with fiery conviction in the middle of that salon, holding the space like the lead actor upon a stage.
Who is this man? Could it be… that he is destined to become someone important in the Revolution?
But he had no way of being certain. He roughly estimated his age and supposed that, by the time of the Revolution, he would be nearly eighty.
Too old… But he speaks well. His thought will surely outlive him.
François focused on his words.
"By what right does a Parliament presume to decide for men it does not even know?" Diderot cried without waiting for an answer, his voice swelling like a rising tide. "Do they even know how to place their towns and rivers on a map? Do they understand their lives? Their hardships? Is it not absurd to the point of madness? Do these Parliamentarians even represent the British people?"
A shiver ran once more through the room, light as a ripple across the surface of a lake.
Though he spoke of Great Britain, everyone sensed that the meaning reached further. There was an undertone.
"The English hold the majority—should we be surprised that the whole is not truly represented? But do these men defend the interests of the people? Of course not! With such hypocrisy, is it not cruel even to hold elections? All should have a voice! All should be represented! All should be equal!"
The second man then raised his hand, as though to calm this torrent.
Jean Le Rond d'Alembert, another great name tied to the Encyclopédie, stepped forward and spoke in a tone more measured, but no less powerful.
"My friends, the indignation of the British colonists is just. But anger alone builds nothing. From raw emotion can spring a chaos more cruel still. Believe me, we should worry for these colonists—for their welfare, for their liberties."
His words sparked a new debate, to the delight of the guests, among them Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, attentive and smiling.
François, now merely a spectator, felt his palms grow damp. He watched with fascination as they exchanged arguments, wondering whether these ideas would truly bear consequences in the civil war slowly looming ahead, one that most people refused to see.
Madame la Comtesse de Boufflers spoke up, her voice gentle but assured:
"And if this conflict were to reach New France?"
Madame de Montigny slowly shook her head.
"We spend so much to develop our colonies. Unlike the British, we do not seek to exploit our settlers. But what is happening in the British colonies may well have unpredictable repercussions in Europe."
"Nothing stops the force of an idea," Diderot declared, sweeping the room with a wide gesture, his eyes blazing. "So long as man thinks, so long as he questions the world around him, ideas will continue to travel. No police can stop them."
A shiver ran down François's spine, though the room was not cold.