Chapter 127: A New Era Begins (2) Is anger really the strongest force that drives people to work?
"Sir, how much property did those Prussian bastards seize by force? Hmm, five baskets of wheat and two baskets of potatoes! Understood. Our Ministry of Finance will extract—no, compensate you three times that amount."
"And tell me, sir, did your house originally have this kind of damage? Ah, you don't think so? Very well. Then we'll add the cost of an entire house to the indemnity. Why not take this chance to build a new one?"
"My goodness, to burn down a mill where people grind grain! What heartless villains! What? The mill burned down years ago in a fire? Sir, you must be mistaken. From what I can see, it's obvious those wicked Prussians burned it this time!"
The amount of grain requisitioned by the enemy tripled in the ledgers. Houses supposedly suffered "irreparable structural damage" in droves. Infrastructure that had "never existed before suddenly existed" appeared on the claims list, swelling the bill that would be delivered to Prussia.
Ah, this was all thanks to my loyal friends in the Ministry of Finance.
The ministry officials, who had been enjoying the leisurely life of bureaucrats in the glittering capital of Paris, had been forcibly dragged to the rural foreign backwater of Trier. Overnight they had become the Ministry of Agriculture in practice. When they were finally given the chance to release their pent-up stress, they began dancing a merciless sword dance.
"Boss—no, Your Excellency. We've completed the civil audits in the Meuse and Argonne regions. We estimate we can extract—no, receive compensation of about twenty million livres. Now… now we can go home, right?"
"No. Metz and Nancy still remain. You'll have to finish those as well."
"Couldn't we just assign that work to the local officials…? Is there really a reason we must do it ourselves?"
"Local officials? They're all leftovers from the Ancien Régime. Until they're completely replaced, who knows how much they'll embezzle. How could we possibly trust them?"
This was the eighteenth-century feudal world—a time when buying government positions or officer commissions with money was considered perfectly normal.
Even Joseon had sold official titles through honorary certificates, but those were ceremonial. In Europe, the offices even carried real authority. That part honestly shocked me.
The revolution had succeeded and deputies had been elected, but only two years had passed.
Even if the capital Paris had changed, the provinces were still full of feudal thinking. If we left a census and compensation assessment to the locals?
Corruption would flourish immediately, and Deputy Robespierre and the radical deputies of the Mountain faction would inevitably go mad and start shouting about sending the army in.
"So you must bear the burden yourselves. Don't worry. The people of France and I will never forget your hard work."
I placed a military-supply cigarette produced by Ears of the Nation between my lips and smiled brightly at the hollow-eyed Ministry of Finance officials staring at me.
No matter how much they screamed and rolled on the floor, I wasn't sending them back to Paris.
They could quietly mount their horses and go conduct land surveys or cadastral measurements.
December 3, 1791.Revolutionary Kingdom of France, capital Paris.
"We're finally back in Paris!"
"Honey! Kids! Daddy's home!"
"Ah, I'm going home, drinking a glass of wine, and sleeping for a week."
About two months after the war ended, the Ministry of Finance finally closed its long and exhausting Trier branch and returned to Paris.
Everyone looked happy.
Everyone except me.
"Sigh. Thinking about it again, I should've refused when they asked me to become a deputy—whether it was the National Assembly or the Third Estate or whatever."
I muttered gloomily while climbing the stairs to the Ears of the Nation office.
Someone poked his head out from the second floor and shouted.
"Why are you grumbling to yourself, Controller Guillaume? Hurry up and come up!"
That wicked Mirabeau.
First he controlled my holidays, now he was controlling my muttering too. This was tyranny.
Was I a public resource of the French government?
Was Guillaume de Toulon public property?
"Hurry up and come up, man!"
"Yes, yes."
Under President Mirabeau's nagging, I had no choice but to quicken my pace.
"It's been a while. You've become quite the expensive man, haven't you, Controller?"
"If you're calling such an expensive man, you must have quite a lot of money, President Mirabeau."
"Haha! What a joke! Let's talk business!"
"…Damn it."
I hung my coat on the rack and dropped heavily into a chair in the reception room.
"You called me here for that reason, didn't you?"
"Of course. The indemnity—where should we spend it?"
A joint product of the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
The enormous indemnity Prussia had tearfully coughed up: 120 million livres.
They shouldn't have started the fight if they couldn't win.
Now that we had extracted this mouth-watering sum, we needed to divide it wisely to patch together the tattered state of France.
First, about twenty million livres had to be spent on compensation for wounded soldiers, requisitioned civilian goods, and citizens who had been plundered.
That left one hundred million livres.
Roughly equal to one year of France's national budget.
Which made it a rather awkward sum.
"Controller, what about paying down the debt?"
I waved my hand dismissively at Mirabeau's suggestion.
"No. Even if we used it for debt repayment, it would barely make a dent."
"Then do you have something in mind?"
"I believe we should invest."
The best approach would be supporting industries that would become future cash cows.
You know—like semiconductors or smartphones in modern South Korea.
"Or perhaps we should just carry out a massive redevelopment."
"Where? Ah, you mean Paris?"
"Cities built in the medieval era are hardly suitable for living."
"Hmm, that's true. In many places there aren't even sewers, let alone proper water pipes."
"Shall we look at a map of Paris?"
I took a map of Paris from the corner and spread it across the table.
"If we begin redevelopment, the first priority must be the area around the ruined Bastille."
"Understandable. That place has been devastated since the fortress fell."
"Next is the water and drainage system. As you know, it's a complete disaster. Water doesn't drain properly, and the pipes aren't properly laid."
Mirabeau nodded silently.
Once strange smells start coming out of the water supply, the game is already over.
Is that a water system? It's a sewer.
Even though I had spent tremendous effort repairing the water channels since becoming Controller-General of Finance, the sections fixed so far were barely the size of a teaspoon.
"If we rebuild the water channels anyway, we might as well rebuild the entire city of Paris. After all, we'd have to tear up the ground first."
"Hmm."
I dipped my pen into ink and drew straight lines across the map of Paris.
"We should begin redevelopment in the slum districts. Those people truly have nothing. If development starts there, expanding and widening Paris will become much easier."
In my Paris, no poor person will be homeless.
December 15, 1791.Port of Toulon, Revolutionary Kingdom of France.
HMS Agamemnon, 64-gun third-rate ship of the line.
Whenever the tide around the Agamemnon dropped, the crashing of cold winter waves against her hull gradually softened.
"Prepare for docking! Prepare for docking!"
"All hands, prepare for docking!"
After roaming the Mediterranean for nearly two months since departing the British naval base at Gibraltar, the Royal Navy squadron was entering Toulon to replenish supplies.
"Well! I never thought I'd set foot on French soil again! And a constitutional kingdom of France at that—how remarkable."
The captain of HMS Agamemnon, commander of the British Mediterranean detachment, spoke with a laugh.
But the smile on the naval colonel's face gradually faded as the Agamemnon approached Toulon harbor.
Soon the smile vanished entirely.
Instead, a strange discomfort crept into his heart.
The French naval ships once used as warships seemed barely able even to maintain themselves, let alone sail. Their hulls beneath the waterline were completely covered with barnacles.
"…If they had even a little spare capacity, they could never have left their ships like that. I heard the French navy had practically collapsed. It seems that was true."
Only a few years ago he had fought fierce battles with the French Navy across the American continent and the Caribbean Sea.
To see such a formidable opponent fade away like this—not gloriously in battle but quietly rotting in harbor—felt deeply unsettling to the thirty-three-year-old naval colonel who believed in chivalry.
Clank. Clatter.
When the mooring ropes were secured and the Agamemnon finally rested her massive body against the dock, the colonel gathered his sailors.
"We'll be anchored here for a week. Take baths, rest well. And don't visit too many women. Your bones will rot."
"Yes, Captain!"
The sailors laughed as they disembarked.
The colonel himself strapped on his sword—the symbol of a knight—and stepped ashore.
Several men waiting on the dock approached him. A middle-aged man who looked about fifty stepped forward first and extended his hand.
"Greetings. You must be the commander of the British fleet this time! This old man has been standing in the cold waiting for you."
"I'm sorry, but who might you be…?"
The colonel shook his hand but tilted his head in confusion.
"Ah, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Charles de Toulon, harbor master of this port."
The middle-aged man bowed quickly.
"Ah, Harbor Master. A pleasure to meet you. On behalf of the Royal Navy and His Majesty the King, I thank you for permitting our fleet to anchor here."
"Hoho. I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Yes, Harbor Master. And this gentleman…?"
The colonel turned toward the young French officer standing beside the harbor master.
"Ah, this is the general recently promoted as commander of the Toulon region."
The harbor master smiled proudly.
The young officer stepped forward and extended his hand.
"I am Brigadier General Napoleon Bonaparte, commander of the Toulon region. A pleasure to meet you, Admiral."
The colonel grasped the French officer's hand firmly.
"I am Colonel Horatio Nelson, commander of the British Mediterranean squadron. A pleasure to meet you, General."
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