Chapter 150: William in English, Guillaume in French (4)
"Your Excellency the Controller-General has personally come to hear the words of a humble man like me—this Boehmer is overwhelmed with gratitude for such grace!"
Charles Auguste Boehmer, who looked old enough to have a grandson my age, had one knee pressed to the floor and bowed his head toward me like a courtier greeting a king.
"Ah… yes. It's nice to meet you as well."
Receiving a bow from an elderly man who must have been forty years older than me made my internal Confucian instincts twitch. I forced them down and extended my hand toward Boehmer.
"Your Excellency, I am deeply honored!"
"…This is driving me crazy."
Stop. Please stop.
Why are you doing this to me, old man?
If you keep this up, the other half of my personality—the one trained in the rigid vertical hierarchy of Korean-style Confucian society—will start feeling extremely uncomfortable.
"Please… just call me Monsieur Guillaume. I'm no longer the Controller-General. I'm just a businessman now."
"Call you Guillaume? How could I commit such rudeness toward Your Excellency! Please withdraw that request!"
Boehmer shook his head vigorously, then dropped back to one knee.
"Your Excellency, I beg you to withdraw that request!"
"…Fine. Call me whatever you like."
All right. I lost.
"Thank you, Your Excellency!"
Boehmer kept his knee firmly planted on the ground until the very last moment.
Honestly, it would be nice if he would at least lift his knee or raise his head when speaking.
"Please stand up and sit in the chair. Let's talk while seated. Please."
"I am deeply grateful!"
"..."
For God's sake. Please stop.
"So truly Your Excellency's grace is as vast as the heavens, and all the people of France revere—"
"…Yes."
I leaned my head against the back of the chair and rubbed my face with both hands.
This was terrible.
Was Boehmer actually a poet or a journalist rather than a businessman?
How could someone sit there for nearly an hour and do nothing but recite praise for me?
Even Huang Hao—the infamous flatterer beside Liu Shan—might not have been capable of composing this many hymns of praise.
"Let's… stop there. Please tell me why you came to see me, Monsieur Boehmer."
"Ah—yes, Your Excellency."
The man who had been praising me moments earlier suddenly turned pale.
"I heard that Your Excellency will soon travel to Britain."
"Yes, the rumor has already spread through the city. But what does my trip to Britain have to do with you visiting me?"
"I hoped… that I might accompany Your Excellency on the journey."
"Pardon?"
When I tilted my head in confusion, Boehmer hurriedly spoke again.
"I assure you I harbor no ill intentions! Please forgive me if my request offended you!"
"I'm not some royal envoy. Why do you keep trying to kneel? I'm simply curious what business you have in Britain."
"Well… that is…"
"Monsieur Boehmer, I prefer honest people."
He hesitated briefly before speaking.
He told me about his glorious past as a royal jeweler, his once-prosperous shop that catered to aristocrats, how the French Revolution had suddenly driven away all his customers, and how his warehouse was now filled with unsold jewels.
"I thought… that perhaps if I went to Britain, I might at least sell off my remaining stock."
"I see. It would have been easier if you had said that from the beginning."
"Then… will you take me to Britain?"
"I can't give an immediate answer. I'll need to think about it."
"I understand…"
His expression darkened again.
I didn't enjoy watching someone's face collapse like that, but business decisions couldn't be made lightly.
And besides, the chance to acquire someone who had once been a royal jeweler was a rare card indeed.
"Monsieur Boehmer, have you eaten dinner?"
"No, Your Excellency."
"Then let's dine together shortly. It will give me time to think. Please wait in the next room until the meal is ready."
"That would truly be acceptable?"
"Of course."
I stood up and walked over to Babeuf, who had been dozing in a chair in the corner of the reception room.
"Babeuf? Monsieur Babeuf."
"Huh? My parents are both alive!"
"Monsieur Babeuf, wake up!"
"Ah—my apologies, boss. I must have been talking in my sleep."
"In your sleep?"
What on earth had he been through at the consultation office to start shouting things like that in his sleep?
Perhaps service work had always been a brutal profession, no matter the century.
"…Monsieur Babeuf, could you show Monsieur Boehmer to the next room?"
"Yes, boss."
"Good. I'll see you shortly, Monsieur Boehmer."
I left the two of them in the reception room and returned to my office.
"Ah… I'm dying."
Letting out the sort of groan that would fit perfectly in a human-interest documentary, I loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt before collapsing into the soft chair.
My precious. My home. My room.
I had stayed in Versailles Palace, the Hofburg Palace in Austria, and even Trier, but nothing felt as comfortable as my own room.
"A jeweler, huh. Maybe it's time to step into the luxury business."
When the body relaxed, ideas naturally began to flow.
My mind was already full of plans for a new venture.
Luxury business.
Jewelry, watches, clothing, accessories—industries that absorbed enormous demand from the upper classes regardless of the era.
In the twenty-first century, Hermès sold bags that cost fortunes, yet supply never met demand.
Louis Vuitton and Gucci were so famous they hardly needed explanation.
The only question was whether the Nations of Isaac could truly profit from entering such a market.
"For the moment, launching a luxury business in France would be difficult…"
After all, the French Revolution began because peasants had no bread to eat while nobles flaunted glittering jewels.
If we started a luxury business only three years after the revolution, even with my good reputation among the citizens, it would not end well.
Which meant targeting luxury markets outside France.
"Well, capital isn't a problem."
Every month, tens of thousands of livres were piling up as capital.
"Then the question is production."
I dipped my pen in ink and wrote a few words on a blank sheet.
Where do we obtain the raw materials? How do we manufacture them? What products do we produce? What are they used for?
If Boehmer had once been a royal jeweler, he must already have suppliers for precious stones.
And as a master craftsman, he could handle the manufacturing process himself while producing high-quality results.
Later, if we paid him well and trained apprentices under him, issues of quality and production would solve themselves.
So if we entered the jewelry business, the best option would be tying Boehmer directly to our company.
The second-best option would be collaboration.
The worst case would be failing to secure him at all.
But if we were going to enter the luxury business, would it be enough to sell only jewelry?
Think about it.
A wealthy gentleman willing to buy a ten-carat diamond ring would hardly refuse luxury suits, luxury bags, and luxury accessories.
Of course not.
That was why department stores in the twenty-first century had entire sections labeled "luxury brands."
"If we're going to sell, we should bundle everything together as a full set."
I leaned forward and wrote a few more words.
Jewelry. Clothing. Accessories. Watches.
If the French led fashion across Europe, then perhaps it was time to make something truly magnificent.
"Monsieur Boehmer."
"Yes—yes, Your Excellency."
Boehmer answered the young man seated across from him while feeling his heart tighten.
His hands trembled, and his heart pounded loudly.
"You said you wanted to accompany me to Britain. I've thought about it."
"…Yes."
His entire fate depended on the young man's next words.
But Boehmer steadied himself.
Had he not served Louis XV and Louis XVI, crafting jewels for the greatest courts of France?
God helps those who help themselves.
He repeated the familiar biblical phrase in his mind.
"Would you consider joining the Nations of Isaac?"
"Pffft!"
The food he had just swallowed burst back up and rushed into his nose.
"Cough! Cough! Forgive me, Your Excellency!"
"Are you all right?"
"I—I'm fine!"
Damn it—how did something swallowed by the mouth end up in the nose?
More importantly…
Joining the Nations of Isaac?
What did that mean?
"Your Excellency… what do you mean by joining the Nations of Isaac?"
The young man simply shrugged while holding his fork and knife.
"Well, after hearing your story, I thought about expanding into the luxury sector. If someone as capable as you helped us, it would greatly assist our entry into the British market."
Boehmer swallowed hard.
"So, would you like to join? I can't offer royal-level compensation, but I will offer the best conditions in the industry."
What a miracle.
He had only hoped to accompany the trip.
Now he might travel with the business card of the Nations of Isaac.
"I will! Absolutely!"
"There is one condition, Monsieur Boehmer."
"Yes?"
"If you know any skilled craftsmen—tailors, accessory makers—bring them all with you. Can you do that?"
Boehmer nodded vigorously, afraid the young man might change his mind.
"Yes! They're all struggling for work as well. If I call them, they will come!"
"Hahaha! Excellent! Let us celebrate Monsieur Boehmer's joining with a toast. Cheers!"
"I am deeply honored, Your Excellency!"
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