Autumn 1828, on the Hungarian border, at the Széchenyi estate.
Franz woke up and stared out the window at the desolate estate. One date flashed through his mind in blood-red numbers: July 1830.
—That's when Charles X would be forced to abdicate.
He knew he had to act before then. He needed money. He needed people. He needed to return to France and raise the imperial banner once more.
As a banker from 21st-century New York trapped in the past, he had knowledge no one else did.
And right now, he needed his first pot of gold.
Silver and cotton would be his starting point.
He anticipated coming market chaos: a hurricane in America would drive up cotton prices, and the war between Russia and Austria would push silver prices down. If he played it right, he could profit from the price gap between Geneva and London and build his first bridge toward empire.
To avoid the eyes of Charles X and Metternich, Franz would travel under false identities—a Swiss trader, an art patron, a political exile. He'd start forming contacts with Bonaparte loyalists, liberal nobles, and bankers, and secretly launch a "Restoration Bond" project. Officially, it would be framed as funding African colonies. In reality, it would raise money for the empire's return.
Meanwhile, he'd run weapons through the Ottoman-Russian border, using black market muskets and ammo to train a loyal private army. He would place former Napoleonic veterans—those still dreaming of the empire's glory—on the front lines.
"This isn't gambling," he muttered, "it's arbitrage—of time and information."
He turned to Greta. "To Geneva."
She nodded. The route was already marked on the map.
Franz then summoned Count Benedek Széchenyi and Lajos Kossuth to the study for a serious talk.
"I'm heading to Geneva. I'll arbitrage cotton and silver to make our first fortune." He spread the map open. "But I need capital. You fund it—I'll operate it. I'll double your money in three weeks."
Széchenyi frowned. "What guarantees do you offer?"
Franz laid out pages filled with predictions, shipping routes, and trading data.
"This isn't gambling. It's information-based timing."
Kossuth leaned forward. "And me?"
"You head south. Scout the arms black market near the Ottoman border. I want details—old guns, smuggler routes, sellers, everything."
Franz's eyes turned sharp. "Find out who among the Balkan rebels is worth backing. We're not just after profits. We're building a force."
He paused, voice low and firm.
"You want Hungarian independence. But farming and vineyards won't get you there. You need railways, steam engines, industry—a real transformation."
He looked at Széchenyi. "You were a Habsburg noble. But you've seen how slow and decayed they've become. If we industrialize Hungary, we can win independence—and a seat at Europe's table."
Then to Kossuth: "You want freedom and a republic. I can give you factories, weapons, trained troops. But you help me take back France."
Széchenyi hesitated, eyes full of doubt. A prince talking about trading and profits? It didn't sound real.
"You really know how to make money?" he asked.
Franz smiled slightly. "This isn't about trust in business. It's about belief in a new order."
After a long pause, Széchenyi nodded.
"I'll put up 15,000 francs. But if you lose it all—then let's say I've made a donation to the Bonaparte cause."
Franz grinned.
"Then prepare the ballroom, Count. When I return, I'll host a Polish waltz for everyone."
But deep down, he knew he needed more than money and mercenaries.
He needed true allies.
One name came to mind.
In the autumn of 1828, Louis Bonaparte—future Napoleon III—was just twenty years old, living in exile with his mother, Queen Hortense, at Arenenberg Castle in Switzerland.
Franz thought, If I can bring him to my side now, he could become my first true wingman.
"When I return from Geneva," Franz said to himself, "I'm heading to Arenenberg. Personally."