Chapter 220: Money, Money, Money (4)
Coffee.
Do you know how coffee, the friend of office workers living in the exhausting society of the twenty-first century and also the friend of present-day eighteenth-century Europeans, was treated when it first set foot on European soil?
“What is this?”
“That thing the Turks drink. I tried it and the aroma was really nice. Would you like to try some too?”
“You mean the thing those Turk infidels drink?! Good heavens, are you in your right mind?!”
“No, why?”
“Why do you think they drink it! Black water consumed by infidels! Isn’t that a complete product of corruption?!”
“Uh… is it? Now that you mention it, maybe it is…?”
“Father! Bishop! Please hurry and save this witless friend of mine!”
“Oh, Lord! Here, hurry and apply this holy water all over yourself. It will drive out the foul energy of those infidels.”
“Th-thank you.”
“For reference, it’s ten gold coins per bottle of holy water.”
“…Pardon?”
“I said ten gold coins.”
“…Pardon?”
That was how it was.
When coffee first arrived in Europe, it was not treated as the friend that woke up weary office workers in the morning, but as foul black water drunk by infidel Turks who believed in Islam, the drink of Satan, the black rotten water of an evil tree.
Even Enlightenment thinkers who valued reason and rationality still attended Sunday service and gave offerings faithfully, so just imagine how strong the religious frenzy had been two hundred years earlier than now.
“Drinking coffee is no different from sinning against God! Therefore, from this day forth, I forbid the drinking of coffee, so let all subjects obey well.”
“You drink coffee? Are you even a European?”
“Let us all drink black tea! Black tea is the true gift God has given us! Oh, amen!”
“B-but Father! Black tea is too expensive! Commoners like us can’t afford it!”
“You Satan.”
“…Pardon?”
It was the sort of era when, barely a hundred years earlier, they had sent an army of one hundred thousand men into the middle of the desert eight times just to seize a single city there, so the frenzy turned into a storm and swept across all of Europe.
Of course, it wasn’t only for religious reasons.
“These days, the lowborn have been taking too much interest in us.”
“Indeed. Luther and Calvin, those two unbelievers who babbled about reforming the Church, have been dead for a long time, but insolent wretches claiming to inherit their spirit still roam the streets. How can we not be troubled?”
“Hmmm. Does any brother have an idea?”
“Lately all public attention has turned to this thing called coffee. How would it be if we used that to redirect interest, Bishop?”
“Oh, Brother! That is an excellent thought!”
Ha, wasn’t that exactly like branding card games as the temptation of Satan and beating them down with clubs?
But that storm was instantly subdued by the words of a single man.
“My brothers.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“This thing called coffee that has been making so much noise lately.”
“F-forgive us. We shall enforce control more strictly and ensure it no longer troubles Your Holiness’s ears.”
“I’ve tried it, you see.”
“…Pardon?”
“It was quite a delicious tea.”
“Y-Your Holiness! That is a bastard thing made by the Turks in collusion with Satan to tempt us!”
“Is that so? Then I myself shall baptize this tea called coffee on God’s behalf.”
“…Pardon?”
“Did not God teach that all things may repent? Even if it is something foul brought from the infidel Turks, one must not deny it the chance to repent. Therefore, I shall personally make this tea called coffee repent. That will do, will it not?”
Pope Clement VIII, who was Pope at the time, coolly ended the entire controversy by baptizing coffee, and coffee, now with even its suppressor gone, spread throughout Europe in less than ten years.
“So… you are saying you intend to recreate that?”
“Yep.”
“So now… whew, this is driving me mad.”
“Why? Won’t it work?”
“No, it’s not that it won’t work… but it’s not really a matter of whether it works or not, is it?”
Talleyrand, whom I met again after the last digit of the year had changed once, covered his face with both hands and sighed.
No, why was he acting like that instead of praising my perfect strategy?
Think about it. What was blocking my product? Those denture-clacking Catholic Talibans, wasn’t it?
Then who was the boss of those denture-clacking Catholic Talibans? Why, His Holiness the Pope in the Holy See, wasn’t it?
So the plan was simple: strike a deal with the Pope and get it baptized! See that, you rural Catholic priests? The concerned party and I have reached an amicable agreement, so please don’t say anything more.
Mm, even I had to admit it was a flawless plan with not a single point to criticize.
I nodded to myself with a pleased expression, feeling proud of my own cleverness, and Talleyrand stared at me as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“…Controller-General, are you not afraid of the sin of blasphemy after you die?”
“Blasphemy?”
“When people die, do they not go where the Lord’s judgment sends them? The Lord, our shepherd, weighs the sins and good deeds His flock committed in life and sends them either to Heaven or to Hell.”
“I’ve already died once, and there was nothing like that.”
“Ah, I see. Very good, then.”
No, but that’s true. Why do you keep looking at me like I’m absurd?
“Then I suppose you came to see me because of my connection to the Holy See.”
“That’s right.”
“Hmmm.”
Talleyrand stroked his chin, thought for a moment, then slowly spoke.
“You do realize the Roman Holy See does not look favorably on me, don’t you?”
“Pardon? Wasn’t Deputy Talleyrand originally the Bishop of Autun?”
If you were a bishop, wasn’t that a very high position in Catholicism? How could you not be close with the Holy See and still become a bishop?
Talleyrand nodded.
“That was before the Revolution. To the Holy See now, I am merely a person whose name is distasteful to utter.”
Well, yes. He had cooperated with me to confiscate Church property in France and even strip clergy of their salaries, so if the Holy See ground its teeth at him, that was only natural.
“Well… even so, since I still technically retain my clerical office, I can at least send a letter for you. But if you expect a luxurious reception from the Holy See, you shouldn’t.”
“Come on, have you ever seen me fuss about things like that?”
“…For a Frenchman, Controller-General, you really are too unpretentious sometimes. In any case, I’ll write the letter and send it off to Italy immediately, so you’ll have to wait a few months.”
After saying that, Talleyrand let out an “Ah!” and spoke to me again.
“But what sort of toy is it that you’re making, if it’s enough to make you go all the way to the Holy See?”
“Are you interested, perhaps?”
“Who in this world dislikes playing?”
Ehehehe. So that’s how it was.
I called in a page and spilled the deck of cards I had brought as luggage onto the table between us.
“W-what in the world is all this?”
“Now then, these are called monster cards.”
“…Monster cards?”
That night, the lights in Talleyrand’s bedroom in the Governor’s Office of Louisiana did not go out until dawn.
Late 1797.
Italian Peninsula, the Holy See.
—Click, click.
The sound of shoes traveled upward, struck the towering dome, and echoed.
“Hm. Hmmm.”
“Y-Your Holiness, are you all right?”
The man with red velvet draped over his shoulders, dressed in luxurious robes embroidered with gold and white thread—Pope Pius VI—halted at the voice calling to him and answered with a gentle smile.
“Ah, I am well, Brother. I was merely… distracted by idle thoughts for a moment. There is no need to worry.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
When the Pope, stout not to the point of ugliness but with the warm heaviness of a kind uncle next door, said that, the priest who had been worrying about him prostrated himself and withdrew. Then another priest came closer and spoke.
“Your Holiness, that man has arrived before the Holy See.”
“…I see.”
For a moment the Pope silently gazed up at The Creation of the World, the work of the genius Michelangelo painted on the ceiling, then made the sign of the cross.
When the Pope crossed himself, the priests beside him did the same.
Pius VI watched them for a moment, then laughed bitterly inwardly.
What a difficult age this is. How did the Church, which once claimed to be the light of the world, end up like this?
Since the Revolution had broken out in France, the Roman Holy See and Catholicism had been reeling.
Ultramontanism—the belief that all Catholics in the world must gather under the Pope in Rome, inherited from Otto I, first Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire—had already lost its force and fallen after the fierce criticisms of a German priest and a Swiss priest several centuries earlier.
France, which had until then been the greatest strength of the Holy See as a devoutly Catholic kingdom, had gradually become filled with the movement called Gallicanism, which said that while France would nominally remain under the Pope, detailed matters occurring within France would be handled entirely by France itself without papal approval.
If France, which still barely defended papal authority, were to break away entirely, the Holy See would be not merely bewildered but driven to cries of despair.
On top of that, hadn’t some political leader in France named Maximilien Robespierre once tried to pass a mad law through the Assembly to have priests treated by the state like civil servants, only for it to be canceled because war broke out?
Good heavens, treating clergy like civil servants? They said they made a revolution because the dictatorship of absolute monarchy was rotten to the core, and yet what was this Robespierre fellow supposed to be? Did he plan to become a princeps instead of a king? Was he going to rename himself Augustus Robespierre?
Is the world going mad, or am I the mad one?
The answer was simple. The man he was about to meet would tell him.
—Clack.
“His Excellency Guillaume de Toulon, former Controller-General of Finance of France, requests an audience with His Holiness the Pope!”
The guard opened the door, and through it a young man strode forward.
Tall, handsome-faced, and dressed in the plain black suit worn by commoners.
The young man walked forward, knelt, and said,
“A pleasure to meet you, Your Holiness. I am Guillaume de Toulon.”
“The pleasure is mine, Chancellor Guillaume. The Lord welcomes your visit.”
Even as he said that, Pius VI inwardly let out a sigh of relief. Was this not the unparalleled devotee of Gallicanism who had stripped away all Church property overnight? The fact that his first words had not been hostile to the Pope was already a decent start.
“So, Chancellor Guillaume. I received the letter from former Bishop Talleyrand-Périgord. It said that you had something important you wished to discuss with me.”
“That’s correct, Your Holiness.”
“…Very well, Chancellor. What is it?”
Pius VI swallowed dryly as he spoke.
How far would this man’s demands go? The return of papal Avignon to France? Or, like that Robespierre, would he demand that French clergy be made into civil servants? He had already steeled himself for the cession of Avignon, but he could not yield the latter. If papal authority were damaged any further, Catholicism itself would collapse.
The young Chancellor rose, looked straight at him, and slowly moved his lips. Pius VI, too, felt his lower abdomen tense on its own.
“Your Holiness.”
“I am listening, Chancellor Guillaume.”
“I’ve made a card game, you see.”
“…Would you mind saying that once more?”
“I’ve made a card game, and I was wondering whether you might baptize it for me.”
The Pope’s eyes wandered aimlessly for quite some time, unable to find their focus.