Chapter 129: A New Era Begins (4)
Chapter 129: A New Era Begins (4)
“A gas lamp? I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life. I honestly have no idea what it is.”
“Haha, it’s still in the testing stage, so it’s nothing worth boasting about yet.”
At Antoine Lavoisier’s words, William Murdoch laughed awkwardly and scratched the back of his head.
“Monsieur Lavoisier, do you know this gentleman?”
“Yes, I do, Deputy Robespierre. He is an English engineer working with me at Ears of the Nation—Mr. William Murdoch.”
“Oh? So he also works under Controller-General Guillaume de Toulon?”
Robespierre spoke with clear surprise.
Was Guillaume planning to build an entire engineering academy?
A chemist, a mechanical engineer, a steam-engine specialist—the roster was remarkably impressive.
In fact, Robespierre wondered whether the research and development department of Ears of the Nation might already surpass the Royal School of Military Engineering, the most prestigious technical academy in France.
“In any case, I understand. We will forward Mr. Murdoch’s invention to the Controller-General.”
“Thank you, Deputy!”
The English engineer smiled brightly and shook hands with the judges.
“Damn, look at this filthy mess. And this is supposed to be the capital of our country.”
A twenty-four-year-old young inventor, Philippe Le Bon, quickly lifted the hem of his coat so it would not fall into the foul wastewater running along the gutter.
When he first arrived in Paris from his tiny hometown of Brachay, his heart had been full of excitement.
That excitement had long since cooled.
His father and grandfather had described Paris as a city glittering like gold.
Gold? My foot.
Filthy slums filled with unbearable stench.
Sewer rats the size of a grown man’s hand.
Street vendors selling hats made of dubious animal furs.
Is this a city or Sodom and Gomorrah?
“Well, no wonder they’re making such a fuss about redevelopment.”
Le Bon blew his nose loudly.
Yes.
Redevelopment.
That was precisely why he had come all the way to Paris.
Imagine filling the greatest city in the world with his inventions.
Honor alone would be immense.
And the money from the patents would be even greater.
“No, not just patents. What if some royal court invites me to serve as their royal engineer? Hmm… Prussia might be awkward after the war. The Habsburgs are even worse. Russia is too cold though… what a difficult choice.”
Despite the freezing cold of December reddening his cheeks, Le Bon barely noticed.
He was already imagining his sweet future—living grandly as a royal engineer somewhere.
“Now then… where exactly is the exhibition hall?”
Le Bon pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket: the back page of the second December issue of Forbes.
On the page was an image of Guillaume de Toulon and Marianne, symbol of France, both posing provocatively with raised index fingers and thumbs as if firing pistols at the reader.
Beneath the image were the following words:
[You can do it too! Paris Redevelopment! Realize your dreams in Paris! Make Paris and France great again!]
[Those wishing to participate in the Paris Redevelopment Invention Competition should visit the administrative consultation office at the Champ de Mars.]
“The administrative office at the Champ de Mars… I can walk there.”
Le Bon stuffed the wrinkled paper back into his pocket and started walking.
In cities and towns across France, offices had begun appearing under the administration labeled “Ask Anything.”
Originally they were meant to protect people from malicious rumors and false information.
But these days…
More people came simply to chat idly with the staff than to ask real questions.
“Are you here for a consultation?”
“Yes. My name is Philippe Le Bon.”
“The office is currently full. Please wait a moment.”
“Yes, of course.”
After some waiting, Le Bon’s turn finally arrived.
He stood up and entered the consultation room.
“…Welcome. I am François-Noël Babeuf, a public consultation officer from Ears of the Nation and the administration. How may I help you…?”
The consultant spoke with hollow eyes and a cracked voice.
Beside the glass wall—pierced with small holes so conversation could pass through—hung several signs:
[Consultants are someone’s sons too.]
[No street vendors.]
[Please speak only what is necessary! Consultants also need rest!]
And several others.
Feeling sympathy for the exhausted man, Le Bon spoke politely.
“Sir, I’d like to participate in the redevelopment invention competition. Where should I go?”
“Oh God, thank you! It’s been so long since I’ve heard a proper question!”
The consultant immediately brightened and drew a small map on a sheet of paper.
“Follow this route and you’ll find it.”
“Thank you very much.”
“…But could you stay just a little longer? My shift ends soon…”
“…I’m rather busy. Thank you again.”
Le Bon accepted the map and stood up.
Behind him he heard a loud thump against the glass and someone shouting, but he hardened his heart and followed the map out.
The longer he lingered here, the longer it would take for his revolutionary steam-powered heating system to see the light of day.
Ah, this wonderful feeling of being satisfied without even eating.
“Ha! Street lamps, heating systems—this is a gold mine!”
Look at these shining golden legendary cards in my hands.
Street lamps. Heating systems.
Every idea I remember from my previous life is turning into a hit.
And now they’re rolling straight into my hands.
If I gather all these inventors into Ears of the Nation, wouldn’t we instantly become a hit-making machine?
Maybe I should delay passing the labor laws for a bit until I’ve recruited all these talents…
If I push them around for a while, I’ll see whether their success was luck or genuine ability.
Dobby is happy now that he has many subordinate elves!
Dobby only needs to move a finger!
“What are you talking about? You’re the one who increased the workload by planning to establish a public enterprise called the National Pension.”
“Dobby… wants freedom…”
“I have no idea what ‘Dobby’ means,” said Mayer Amschel Rothschild, “but please return to work. You’ve already wasted thirteen minutes, sir.”
Damn it.
He’s like a schoolteacher obsessed with discipline.
Bringing Mayer from Germany may have been the greatest mistake of Guillaume de Toulon’s life.
I should add that to the list.
Also add a lesson for the next life.
In your next life…
Avoid Jews.
Especially Jews who handle money.
They’re workaholic maniacs.
“Ahem. Boss? I agree with Mr. Mayer. We all have plenty of work. Please begin.”
“As expected, Vice-President Florian understands me perfectly!”
“Of course! It’s necessary for the future of our company—and France! Haha!”
Mayer and Florian shook hands while laughing brightly.
These reactionaries!
Everyone here is conspiring to work me to death!
Call the vanguard!
Call the vanguard!
“I was hired as office staff, not a finance expert. Haha. I’ll go make coffee for the boss and everyone else.”
Even my vanguard—Pétion—has abandoned me.
I misjudged people.
Hey, Alexandre Pétion, class of ’88 at the academy!
You’re my junior! Save your senior from danger!
“Now, now. Someone who’s about to turn twenty shouldn’t still be avoiding work like a child.”
“Twenty is still very young.”
“But you’re different. Like Alexander the Great, ruling the world in your teens.”
Ruling the world?
Hardly.
I’m surrounded by people trying to strip me for everything I have.
People like Sieyès in the Assembly.
Or President Mirabeau.
“…Fine. Let’s talk about the National Pension. A significant amount of capital has just come in. We should develop a strategy before it leaks away like water from a cracked dam.”
“I agree, sir.”
“So do I.”
What exactly makes France weaker than Britain?
Population?
France has fifteen million more people.
Territory?
France is larger.
Food production?
France alone can feed itself and northern Italy.
So what are we lacking?
“Finance,” said Mayer. “There’s a vast difference between Britain and us in finance.”
“Exactly.”
As I’ve said before, Britain possesses so much capital that it can buy foreign government bonds and stimulate economies whenever it wishes.
Which also means they have enough financial power to strangle countries they dislike.
“The British East India Company. We must accumulate at least half as much capital as they possess. Otherwise France will be dragged along by Britain’s financial strategies.”
Britain has three separate purses: the Royal Treasury, the East India Company, and Parliament’s finances.
If war breaks out, those three purses combine into a single monstrous force.
But during peace, they operate separately.
Meanwhile, the French National Pension I envision is a pension in name only.
In reality, it is a massive private investment fund.
One purse alone may not match all three British ones combined.
But each individually?
France can compete.
Mayer Rothschild stroked his chin thoughtfully and spoke.
“Perhaps we should release counterfeit gold bullion to disrupt the currency market.”
“…What?”
Did I hear that correctly?
“Whistle! Whistle! Stop! Stop right there!”
At the Paris Police Prefecture, Inspector Patrick blew his whistle repeatedly while waving his baton in the air.
“Stop? Hey officer, do you even know who we are? We’re war veterans who smashed the Prussians!”
“We’re just asking for proper compensation for risking our lives!”
“Hey, have you ever fought Germans with a bayonet? Damn it!”
Damn it.
These idiots again.
If they’re going to wear military uniforms, they should wear them properly.
If they’re going to wear civilian clothes, then wear civilian clothes.
But no—military jackets with culottes trousers.
A complete fashion disaster.
Patrick silently recited a verse from the Gospel of Matthew.
Not seven times, but seventy times seven…
“Move along, gentlemen.”
“We’re patriots!”
“Boo! Guillaume should give us money instead of digging up the streets!”
Rich young men shouting about money.
The culottes they wore alone cost more than ordinary citizens could afford.
But they were still soldiers who had fought for the country.
Arresting them outright was impossible.
Patrick felt the wrinkles on his aging face deepen even further.