Chapter 126: A New Era Begins (1)
Chapter 126: A New Era Begins (1)
““Father, aren’t you eating any more?”
“…I seem to be full already today, Jeannette. I’ll get up first and go to the study. Don’t mind me and finish your meal.”
“Yes.”
Leaving the children in the dining room, Mayer Amschel Rothschild climbed the stairs toward the study on the second floor.
With each step he took upward, the portraits of the previous generations of Rothschilds hanging along the wall passed beside him.
The heroes of the family who had raised the Rothschild name—from a shabby house in the Jewish quarter of the Frankfurt ghetto—to a mansion on the street beside Frankfurt City Hall.
Great-grandfather.
Grandfather.
Father.
And—
Mayer halted halfway up the stairs.
His father, Moses Rothschild.
His father had lived his entire life in quiet restraint, branded with the scarlet label of “despicable and cunning Jew” stamped upon Jews by Maria Theresa, a former Kaiser of the Holy Roman Empire.
Looking at every wrinkle painted into his father’s portrait, something deep in the son’s chest burned.
Mayer resumed climbing the stairs.
Click.
As always, when he opened the door to the study, the room appeared just as it always did: a chair facing a window to the right, from which the beautiful city of Frankfurt could be seen.
As always, he sat down and placed a pipe between his lips.
By now it had become almost a ritual.
As always, Mayer drew deeply from the pipe until the tobacco burned completely to ash. Then he rose from his chair and slowly approached the window.
Frankfurt am Main.
The great city built along the Main River, one of the five largest cities in the Holy Roman Empire, filled Mayer’s dark eyes.
Officials leaving government offices and lighting oil lamps before hanging them at the entrance of the city hall.
Because it was now October, many people wore thicker clothing. Some houses already had smoke rising from their chimneys even though evening had long passed, as families began burning firewood.
A coachman who had finished his business for the day tethered his horse and carriage in the stable.
For forty-seven years Mayer had been born in Frankfurt, raised in Frankfurt, and lived in Frankfurt.
He slowly took in every sight.
Then he lifted his head and gazed at the darkening night sky.
High.
So very high.
The autumn sky was truly high.
He had looked out this study window countless times over the years, yet tonight the autumn night sky over Frankfurt felt boundlessly vast.
Mayer thought he now understood why, when his children were young, they had all once dreamed of flying through the sky.
Yes.
Who would not wish to fly beneath such a high and clear sky?
Mayer turned his head toward the desk in front of the chair where he had just been sitting.
The desk was cluttered with bank ledgers, accounting books, and seven candlesticks illuminating the darkness.
Proof that he had succeeded in multiplying the funds entrusted to him by the Landgrave of Hesse many times over.
Proof of Mayer’s own labor.
And at the same time, proof that Mayer touched money rather than engaging in the sacred labor assigned by God—proof that he was a lowly Jew.
Mayer Amschel Rothschild had run without rest for forty-seven years.
Yet no matter how much he ran—no matter how far he ran until he could run no more—the shackles of being a Jew always caught his ankle and sent him crashing back to the ground.
“I have never seen a greater calamity than the Jews. Deceit, usury, and greed—disgusting people who drive my subjects into poverty. Jews must be kept away and expelled whenever possible.”
From the Kaiser himself.
“Sir Rothschild has once again accomplished great things. Since the Rothschild family became vassals of our landgraviate, not a single coin has been wasted. Such service deserves recognition—”
“Your Excellency, but Sir Rothschild is a Jew. Surely he should strive to atone for the sins of his people who killed Jesus! I beg you, withdraw the request, Your Excellency!”
“Hmm… is that so…?”
Even from the lesser vassals of the landgraviate.
Whenever he tried to run a little faster, whenever he tried to leap toward the sky—
The shackles would catch him and drag him back to the ground.
Mayer slowly approached the desk.
Carefully gripping the lower part of a candlestick so the heat would not burn him, he lifted it.
The warm glow of the yellow flame touched his face.
Seven candlesticks illuminating the darkness.
The Menorah, symbol of the Jewish people.
For a moment Mayer stared at the flame. Then he carried the candlestick to the window, where the high sky still stretched beyond.
If he thought about it honestly, the candlestick had probably made life darker rather than brighter.
But once, long ago in Jerusalem, it had illuminated the Jews.
Perhaps someday it might illuminate their path again.
And yet—
There was that strange Frenchman who seemed suspiciously obsessed with Mayer.
“Sir, would you like to work with me? Mr. Mayer, would you consider forming a permanent partnership with me and my company, Ears of the Nation?”
“Pff—! What? Wh-what did you say? You refuse? Why, why?”
“If you follow me, I will make the Rothschild family into a second Baring family—one that no one can oppress and no one can ignore.”
The Baring family.
The powerful banking family trusted by the King of Britain, active in Amsterdam’s finance and even the wool trade.
To say he would make the Rothschild family into something like that.
What an enormous dream.
No—
Not merely enormous.
It was impossibly enormous.
It was like saying he would let someone fly in the sky.
Yet even though the words were impossible…
Why was Mayer’s heart beating so fast?
“One that no one can oppress and no one can ignore—the Rothschild family. Would you like to pursue your dreams in France?”
“France…”
Mayer murmured softly.
Under the sky of France—
Could he fly there?
Mayer picked up the pen from the desk, took out a sheet of paper from the drawer, and began to write.
Let’s try flying.
“To His Excellency Guillaume de Toulon, Controller-General of Finance.”
Just once.
Let’s try flying just once.
“Greetings, Your Excellency. This is Mayer Amschel Rothschild.”
Just once.
“Regarding the proposal Your Excellency offered, I gladly accept.”
October 10, 1791.
Holy Roman Empire, Electorate of Cologne, 26 km south of Bonn.
It had already been a week since news arrived from Paris that the Prussian army had fled toward Kleve and that negotiations to end the war were underway.
“General.”
“Grr… snore…”
“General.”
“Snrrk…”
“General!”
“Eh? Ah… Nicolas Davout, is that you?”
“Yes, it is, General Dumouriez.”
At the insistence of his adjutant, the commander of the French First Expeditionary Army, Charles-François Dumouriez, rose groggily from his seat.
Perhaps it was grief over losing property to the enemy.
Or perhaps it was sorrow over seeing French territory ravaged by invasion.
Whatever the reason—and with no further need to move the army for the moment—Dumouriez had drunk wine the previous night as if it were water.
Now he was suffering terribly from a hangover.
“Did the enemy appear? Did the peace negotiations collapse? Why wake me?”
Dumouriez drank from a cup of water as he spoke.
“The Controller-General of Finance has arrived.”
“Pff—! Cough! Cough! Chief of Staff Davout! Shouldn’t you tell me something like that earlier?!”
“My apologies for failing to consider that, General.”
Nicolas Davout, chief of staff of the First Army, replied calmly while Dumouriez coughed violently.
“…Damn it.”
Dumouriez found this rule-bound adjutant extremely irritating.
Of course he knew that Commander Lafayette was watching him with suspicion.
But assigning such a rigid officer as both chief of staff and watchdog seemed excessive.
Perhaps he should have stayed loyal to Orléans to the end.
But Dumouriez’s faint rebellious thoughts melted away like snow under sunlight when a certain man appeared.
“Well, even in the field you seem to be living quite comfortably.”
“Your Excellency, Controller-General! What brings you to such a humble place!”
“What is that smell… General Dumouriez, how much have you been drinking?”
This bald military uncle—why is he trying to cling to me? Go away. Shoo.
“H-haha, my apologies, Your Excellency!”
“You paid the proper rent to the owner of this mansion you’re occupying, right?”
“…Pardon? Requisitioning civilian property during war is perfectly normal, is it not, Your Excellency?”
“Sigh. Find the owner of this house and bring him here immediately.”
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
Requisitioning a foreign civilian’s house and still acting proud about it.
No—wait.
This isn’t the twenty-first century.
This is the eighteenth century.
The kind of era where phrenology, the idea that skull size determined superiority or inferiority, is accepted as legitimate scholarship.
Still, if we acted like this, it would damage the reputation of Ears of the Nation when we expanded into Germany later.
Boycotts were unacceptable.
I spoke to the homeowner brought in by a soldier.
“Your name?”
“Franz. My name is Franz.”
“How many days have you lent your house?”
“Sorry… I do not understand French well.”
“Ah, I see. Mr. Mayer, could you translate?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Ah, I must say I’m quite satisfied with the performance of my newly acquired Pokémon.
“So you lent it for ten days.”
“That is correct.”
“I will pay one livre per day in rent—one gulden. Ten gulden total. Ja?”
“Ah! Ja! Ja! Danke schön!”
Receiving the gold coins Mayer handed over, the homeowner bowed repeatedly in delight.
“Did you come all the way from Trier just for this, Your Excellency?”
“No. I came because of General Dumouriez.”
Dumouriez’s face immediately darkened.
Don’t worry. I’m not here to harm you.
“How much personal money did you spend fortifying Nancy?”
“…Pardon?”
“I’m asking how much of your private wealth you spent, General.”
“Y-Your Excellency… what do you mean?”
“Yes. We’ll include it in the indemnity Prussia must pay. So please tell me.”
“Your Excellency!! I, Charles-François Dumouriez, pledge my loyalty to you again and again!”
Please stop clinging to me.
“But Your Excellency, why did you personally come instead of sending someone?”
“Why? Surely you know the answer best, General. If someone from the Ministry came instead of me, wouldn’t you be tempted to lie?”
“H-haha… such insight from the Controller-General!”
Deputy Foreign Minister Talleyrand slid a paper across the table.
“Th-this amount is rather excessive…”
“Excessive? You declared war on France, took the lives and property of our people, and now you speak of excessive amounts?”
“N-no, that isn’t what I meant… I was merely asking whether the amount could be reduced somewhat…”
“Enough. Just sign it.”
“…Understood.”
After the scratching of a pen ended, the Prussian representative handed the signed document back to Talleyrand.
“Good. Let us hope such a tragedy never happens again.”
“…Of course, Deputy Minister Talleyrand.”
“Foreign Minister, wasn’t that amount a little too large?”
“Well, whatever we lose to France can simply be recovered from Poland, can it not?”
That day, King Stanisław II of Poland received a demand to add three more cities to the list of territories he must cede.