Chapter 21: Amazing France
Chapter 21: Amazing France
“Cadets! Present arms!”
The moment the honor guard cadet with gold braid on his shoulder barked the command, hundreds of firearms clicked in perfect unison and settled onto the cadets’ shoulders.
Hundreds of cadets in dazzling eighteenth-century uniforms, gathered by class year and lined up shoulder to shoulder, made for a spectacular sight.
Of course, it’s only spectacular for the spectators. For the people standing there, it’s pure misery.
“I don’t like having to stand here because of Napoleon-hyung and Grouchy-hyung.”
When I spoke in a low voice with my lips barely moving so no one else could hear, Mathieu-hyung replied.
“You’ll stand in that spot later too and hear the exact same thing from your juniors.”
“Hmph. I’m not going to be a soldier.”
“Sure, sure. Of course you aren’t, little friend.”
Mathieu-hyung said that, then chuckled under his breath.
“Lastly, we will have the pinning ceremony for this year’s graduating cadets.”
While we were whispering, the final act of the 1785 Paris Central Military School graduation ceremony was already beginning.
The climax, starring the graduates who would soon become second lieutenants.
The headmaster came down from the platform with an adjutant holding the insignia and began calling names, pinning each cadet one by one.
“…Cadet —, infantry second lieutenant. Cadet —, infantry second lieutenant…”
“When is it Napoleon-hyung and Grouchy-hyung’s turn?”
“Well, Napoleon is artillery, and Grouchy-hyung is artillery too, so it should be soon.”
Just as we hoped, the branch being called shifted to artillery.
“Cadet… Napoleon Bonaparte, artillery second lieutenant.”
When it was Napoleon-hyung’s turn, the headmaster met his eyes for a moment, murmured something quietly, then moved on to the next.
“Judging by how Napoleon doesn’t look like his face is rotting off, it probably wasn’t an insult, at least.”
“Hm. That’s a reasonable point, Guillaume.”
Napoleon-hyung—the ultimate genius who’d bargained with the headmaster and even trampled over the very concept of ‘year level’—got through without incident, so I could finally breathe.
But the incident didn’t happen with Napoleon-hyung.
It happened right after him.
“Cadet… Emmanuel de Grouchy, ‘cavalry’ second lieutenant. My warmest congratulations. I would appreciate it if you conveyed my regards to your father, the Marquis de Grouchy, and told him I hope he is doing well.”
Crrrk.
Uh, I think I just heard something crack.
“…Mathieu-hyung, did you hear that just now?”
“Dhgh tzgh. Dhghy. Hh.”
At Mathieu-hyung’s reply, I had no choice but to shut my mouth.
No, but why is Grouchy-hyung a ‘cavalry’ second lieutenant? Up until the other day, he was artillery.
…
No way.
It can’t be, right?
As if he didn’t know what was going on in my head, Grouchy-hyung answered the headmaster with a pure, innocent face.
“Yes! I’ll tell my father properly! Hahaha!”
It’s not a secret that the headmaster’s face turned tomato-red.
“Waaaaaah! Every last one of those bastards is definitely treating me like complete fucking shit!”
After the ceremony, the headmaster reached his office and screamed as he flung off his coat in irritation.
He thought he’d seen every kind of bizarre cadet in his time as headmaster.
Starting a business, finishing a three-year curriculum in a single year—he had still understood them all generously and warmly as an educator.
Granted, those cadets were exceptionally intelligent, too.
But what?
“That lunatic bastard Grouchy! He asked to change his assignment two days before graduation?! And when that didn’t work, he dragged his father in and threatened us into it?! What the hell have the instructors been teaching them? If this were the days we were fighting Prussia, he’d be shot! Shot! Gyaaahhh!”
That day, the office of the self-proclaimed generous and warm headmaster became a bit warmer than usual because someone was working himself into such a rage.
“Alright! It’s a little early, but to honor the end of 1785—cheers!”
“Waaaaa!!!”
At the boarding house where we always gathered, our Equality Club held a modest after-party. We shared a drink that absolutely wasn’t alcohol, but anyway tasted like alcohol, and enjoyed an early year-end mood.
Ah, excluding me, Napoleon-hyung, Mathieu-hyung, and that madman Grouchy.
“…So. You’re saying you asked the headmaster to change your assignment. And so it changed. That’s right?”
“Mmm! That’s right! Hahaha!”
“Are you fucking kidding me—now is when you laugh, you crazy bastard?!”
“Hahaha?”
“He’s definitely lost it. Mm-hm.”
At Grouchy’s innocent answer, the three of us completely short-circuited.
“Hold on—so you busted down the headmaster’s office door, went in, and asked him one-on-one to change your assignment two days before graduation, and he actually changed it?”
“No. At first, the headmaster opposed it. However! I, Grouchy! With passion unmatched by any other, and with the help of those who recognize me, succeeded in turning the headmaster’s heart in the end! Hahaha!”
“…Help?”
“What help are you talking about?”
“Yeah. Passion, fine, but help?”
“Ah, my father politely informed the headmaster of my potential!”
“…Motherfucker.”
“…Grouchy-ham. Are you insane?”
“…God.”
Grouchy-hyung is a high-born noble from a powerful family. And not just ‘powerful’ in the ordinary sense.
I heard his father jokes around with the king. That’s not an ordinary ‘powerful family.’
While everyone sat there dumbstruck, I was the first to open my mouth.
“Get ready.”
“Hm? Guillaume, what preparation do you mean? Hahaha!”
“Because from here on out, hyung, all you’ve got left is getting worked like a dog—so prepare in advance!”
And not long after, Napoleon-hyung was assigned to the La Fère Artillery Regiment near Valence, and Grouchy-hyung was assigned to the Royal Guard.
In life, there are times you get absolutely fixated on something. A game, a variety show, a book.
And when you run a business, you get fixated on an idea that makes you think, ‘This is guaranteed to work.’
And lately, I’d gotten fixated on something.
Motion-sickness medicine.
What Bishop Serge did to me is something I can’t forgive even a single inch—but who cares.
I got my hands on a legendary hit item called motion-sickness medicine.
Honestly, I want to mass-produce it and sell it immediately.
That is, if I could shove aside the mountain of paperwork in front of me.
“Gyaaahhh! Frail Guillaume is going to dieyy!”
Our business was thriving day by day.
No—thriving was thriving, but not in any normal way.
“Holy shit, at this rate I’m really going to die from overwork. I’m dying!”
I shoved the tax ledger and pen I’d been staring at toward the edge of the desk and said.
Our business was thriving too much. Seven stores in Paris alone—what more is there to say?
“Up to the third store, I can manage somehow, but beyond that, I just can’t do this.
Whew.”
As I entered a new year, the number of subjects at school increased, but more than that, the level shot up into full-on ballistics and whatever else.
Because of that, between schoolwork, Isaac’s People’s tax work, and charity operations, I couldn’t possibly make time for a new business.
If I at least had a tonic like Bacchus or Jeonggwanjang, maybe—but trying to handle all that in a clear-headed state, my back feels like it’s going to snap.
Even if I wanted to divide up the work, Napoleon-hyung and Grouchy-hyung graduated and were assigned long ago, and Mathieu-hyung probably doesn’t even know what income tax is, so in the end, I have to shoulder everything.
Ah, I heard that in a letter Grouchy-hyung sent to Mathieu-hyung, he wrote, “Save me.” What’s it to me?
“Either way, I really need to hire someone like a secretary or an assistant. Otherwise I can’t expand, and I can’t start anything new.”
What’s the point of piling up money if I collapse from overwork? It’d all be meaningless.
I gripped the pen that had rolled off to the side and started writing on paper.
First, they absolutely had to handle documents, so they needed to be reasonably educated. Working hours would only be possible after I got back from school, so around the afternoon.
Pay… ah, Napoleon-hyung said his starting pay was around 500 livres, so a daily wage of about 3 livres should be fine for both them and me.
Mm, perfect. Soon an incredible flood of talent will pour in. Hehehehehe!
“…But no one came?”
“Sob. Mathieu-hyung, you wouldn’t understand my torn-apart heart.”
A month after posting the notice, no one had come to the Isaac’s People office.
Why? No, why aren’t they coming?
This is an era where a newly commissioned officer makes 500 livres a year. A second lieutenant makes 500 livres a year!
No, seriously—3 livres for three hours is basically an absurd wage.
At this rate, even Kim Du-han from Rustic Era would say, ‘Okay! Thanks!’ and show up immediately.
This makes no sense. This is a conspiracy! Yeah—someone is definitely conspiring to keep my business in check!
Did that money-crazed bastard Lavoisier sabotage it? Is he waiting for me to show an opening so he can pounce and kill me?
My serious thoughts got scattered at Mathieu-hyung’s words.
“Guillaume. I thought about it.”
“Huh?”
“I think… people think it’s a scam.”
“A… scam?”
“You work a little and get paid too much. I think they just assume it’s nonsense.”
Ah. This is the eighteenth century.
Worker rights are at their historical worst.
Even calling them ‘workers’ is putting it nicely—strictly speaking, they’re basically consumables.
“So… the conditions are so good that people aren’t coming?”
“Yeah.”
Just…
Amazing, France!
Meanwhile, at the same time, a luxurious mansion in Paris.
“Emmanuel, if you praise him until your lips wear out, I want to meet him at least once too.”
“Hahaha! As expected of you, Sister—I knew you would understand my heart! I swear on the name of Grouchy, you will not regret meeting that friend Guillaume.”
“Hohoho. Even after becoming a real soldier, you still haven’t fixed your swagger, have you? Yes, yes—that’s Emmanuel de Grouchy for you.”
“Ahem… Sister, honestly.”
At his older sister Sophie de Grouchy’s words, Emmanuel de Grouchy answered with a reddened face.
Sophie seemed to think for a moment, then asked her fiancé seated beside her.
“Condorcet? What do you think about Emmanuel’s little friend?”
“Uh, uh…? Ah, of course he seems like a good friend, Sophie.”
“Condorcet?”
“Huh?”
“You were sitting next to me while thinking only about your research again, weren’t you?”
“N-no! Really, really—he seems like such a good friend, Sophie!”
“Hmph, fine! The carriage has already left.”
Despite being in his forties—nearly twenty years older—her fiancé, the Marquis de Condorcet, was once again getting tossed around by Sophie, who was in her twenties.
To someone who didn’t know how deep their love was, it was nothing but an ugly sight.
Emmanuel de Grouchy cleared his throat, then spoke to Sophie.
“Then, Sister—when should we invite that friend Guillaume to the house?”
“Hm… No. Don’t invite him to the house—better to meet him at my salon. Guests are coming anyway, so wouldn’t it be a good opportunity for the boy to broaden his horizons too?”
“As expected of you, Sister! I’ll send that friend Guillaume an invitation at once! Hahaha!”
After finishing those words, Emmanuel bowed his head and left the mansion.
“He’s lively, no matter when you look at him.”
Watching him go, Sophie said, shaking her head.