Chapter 222: Money, Money, Money (6)
“…In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen. …With this, the baptism is complete. Now the Lord and the Holy Mother in Heaven will gladly bless the future of this object.”
Pius VI moved his lips as though he had something to say to me, but after letting out a light sigh, he held the bundle of cards out toward me.
“Here. Take it, Chancellor.”
“Oh my, Your Holiness. Thank you kindly.”
The cards were damp from the holy water and holy oil used during the baptism, but what did that matter? With this, the purpose of this trip to Italy was as good as fully accomplished.
“My, my precious…”
“…Oh, Lord.”
See? Even our Pope was so overjoyed that he was personally offering his thanks straight to God.
And if the Lord in Heaven later saw snot-nosed little brats trying on their own to learn letters because of the effects written on the cards officially certified by the Holy See, He might seat our Pope right beside His throne. Good, very good.
Now it was time to move on to the final stage.
After hearing that the boss had returned to France for the first time in nearly three years, Florian had rushed overnight from Paris to Le Havre by carriage. As he pressed both hands against his brow and rubbed it hard, he muttered,
“I honestly don’t understand this at all.”
“Hm?”
What do you mean, hm? Damned boss. For Florian, an ordinary man whose brain had followed the proper French higher education track since childhood, it was impossible to understand this man no matter how hard he tried.
“Fine, let’s say we’re going to sell cards. Great. But why in the world do we need Saint-Just and Sade?”
“What do you mean, why? If we just slap them down and put them on sale, who’s going to buy those cards?”
“People all buy playing cards, don’t they?”
“Ah, but that’s because playing cards are a traditional game people’s grandparents and great-grandparents already played when they were young. As things stand now, people have no reason to buy ours. No reason at all.”
“No reason to buy them?”
The boss lifted one shoulder and, as calm as ever, stuck a cigarette between his lips before speaking again.
“On one hand, you’ve got playing cards people have seen countless times since they were squirming babies. On the other, you’ve got bizarre cards covered in pictures and writing they’ve never seen in their lives. The answer to what they’ll buy is already obvious.”
“Boss, in that case, shouldn’t we pull out of the business even now?”
From everything he had heard so far, it sounded like nothing more than a job that would chew through the manpower they were already short on, while offering no guaranteed return.
But the boss only shook his head a couple of times, took out a match, lit his cigarette, and answered,
“It’s a different story if we make people feel familiar with our cards.”
“How?”
“Old legends parents tell their children at bedtime. Stories from the Bible people have heard so often their ears have gone numb. Things like that.”
Cards filled with familiar content—things people had seen somewhere before, heard somewhere before. The boss exhaled a stream of smoke and added:
When color, performance, and price were all the same, people tended to prefer familiar products over unfamiliar ones.
And if there was already an existing product they were using, then unless the new one was vastly superior, they tended to avoid switching to it.
There was a reason companies poured money into their products when they first launched them. Carmakers offered free test drives, food companies held free tasting events, and electronics companies piled on subsidies by the handful.
That was the problem. If I put my cards on store counters right now, would they actually sell? Would people really toss down a silver coin for a strange toy they had never seen before in their lives?
The profit model itself was excellent. Unlike ordinary playing cards, which people had no reason to buy again unless they lost them, this was a twenty-first-century profit model where people would keep buying every time a new card was released. There was no way that model could be bad.
And I would stake my twenty-three years of life as a duelist on the fact that the cards I had made were not unfun. I had already stuffed them with all the objects of childhood obsession—White Magician, Blue-Eyes Black Dragon, and the like—so how could they possibly not be fun? Wow! King-awesome dragon! Wow! Magician!
So eventually, word of mouth would spread, and the profits would start coming in little by little. The only problem was that it would be slow.
I flicked the finished cigarette out the carriage window and said,
“So let’s work the writers a bit, Mr. Florian. I’ve already sketched out the rough stories, so all we need is someone with writing talent.”
In the eighteenth century, the celebrities of the age were writers. Even that man Mirabeau had made his name through writing and, riding that popularity, gone all the way to becoming President of the National Assembly. If you could put your own name on a magazine and make a living from it, that was basically the equivalent of being an Instagram celebrity in the twenty-first century.
So if we already had writers, and we already had a magazine, then how effective would it be to add a few extra pages to Forbes and lay out the stories contained in the card game?
And on top of that, all the priests spread across France had likely each received at least one letter from the Holy See by now. Wouldn’t our priests personally become living signboards carrying Forbes and the cards around? Ah, at this rate I could fill a bathtub with banknotes.
“I understand what you mean now, but right away… it’ll be difficult.”
However, Mr. Florian shook his head from side to side as though there was just no way.
“The two magazines we already run, the reporting work, and then writing your… story on top of that—won’t they collapse from overwork?”
“Hmm.”
That would be a problem.
“We’ll need to hire some new people.”
“If you want capable writers, labor costs will run pretty high. Are you sure that’s alright? The magazine market is already fiercely competitive these days. There are nearly a hundred magazines now.”
Thaaaat would be a real problem. Had I been away from France too long? Florian’s words made my vision swim.
Well, if you wanted to bring in precious, proven talent from an already cutthroat market, then of course it would cost that much money. To overcome this, maybe I had no choice but to do what Samsung did and start supporting university or high school students, training talent to suit my own tastes.
At this point, should I just gather up clever young students and create something like a school? Every time I solved one thing, another popped right out.
“It can’t be helped. Instead of a formal contract, let’s use them part-time for a while and pay extra. But Mr. Florian, do you know anyone with outstanding ability who can’t make use of it because of their background?”
“Even if you say that… these days, women can submit work to magazines if they put their minds to it. Why, someone has even come out this time proposing that cohabitation be encouraged instead of marriage.”
Right, true enough. Was it Olympe de Gouges? That woman was even serving in the National Assembly this time, after all.
…But then again, were foreign countries the same as ours?
“Is Mr. Mayer Rothschild still in England?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Good. We’ve already subdued the land of those chattering-denture Catholic old fogeys, so now let’s go sweet-talk the land of those cane-walking Anglican old fogeys too.”
Early 1798.
France. Paris.
“…Pharaoh? A Knights of Light expedition departing to defend the Holy Land?”
“Ah, you mean the novel that came out in Forbes this time? The craze is intense these days. Even the little brats are playing Knights of Light instead of King Philip.”
“Oh, really?”
“I heard they’re releasing cards with that story on them before long. Like playing cards, more or less. Judging by the popularity, they’ll probably sell pretty well.”
“Hm. Still, won’t it just be a short-lived fad?”
Were there only one or two magazines carrying entertaining novels? It would be hot for a little while, then disappear again.
But a few weeks later—
“Mister! One pack here!”
“What if opening a pack in the front is trash, but opening it in the back gives good pulls?”
“Oh! Oh! It’s Sky Dragon of Jerusalem! Waaaah!!”
“Damn it! That bastard got something like that, so why the hell can’t I get Blue-Eyes Black Dragon?! Hey! Give me the next pack! The next pack!”
“W-we’re sorry, but we’re already sold out…!! Please come again next—ugh!!”
“Aaaaargh!!”
[Friend of the People, concentrated coverage of violent unrest in the 11th Arrondissement. “The person in front of me stole my card.”]
[Ears of the Nation Vice Chairman, Florian Armand. Says production lines will be expanded as quickly as possible.]
[Former Controller-General of Finance Nicolas de Condorcet sweeps through a card shop one block away early at dawn… The early bird gets the worm.]
A frenzy began to sweep across all of France.
And in some rural village—
“…The wicked Pharaoh Ramses II drove his insolent host forward and in a single rush arrived before the servant of God. But Moses, who led the Hebrews, wore a calm expression as he slowly stepped forward before the Red Sea.”
—Gulp.
The people had already heard that content from the mouths of priests many times before, but today was different. Rather than the dry words of the Bible itself, it was closer to a novel, and everyone’s eyes shone brightly.
“And then a fireball fell from the heavens! Just like this Fire Ball card, which deals 500 damage to the opponent! And just like this Miracle of the Red Sea card, which prevents all damage from the opponent for one turn, the sea parted!”
“Ooooh!”
The many priests living across the land of France swung both arms around wildly as they busied themselves with sales once again today.
England, Hampshire.
—Knock, knock, knock.
“Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming.”
A middle-aged man dressed in the robes of a Church of England priest hurriedly opened the front door.
“Post. Let’s see, one copy of Times and Forbes, and here—a letter from some place in London called John Murray & Sons.”
“Oh! It’s finally here! Many thanks indeed.”
“Then I’ll be off.”
The man took the newspaper and envelope from the postman. He set the newspaper down roughly on the table, then quickly broke the wax seal on the letter.
“Let’s see… ‘Greetings, this is John Murray & Sons Publishing. We have read the manuscript you sent to our company with great care. However, it seems that the style of books our company pursues differs somewhat from your writing style. Although we are unable to publish your book this time…’ Damn it all.”
Letting out a long sigh without realizing it, the man picked up the newspaper he had tossed onto the table and slowly climbed the stairs.
When he stopped in front of the first room on the second-floor hallway, the one with his beloved seventh daughter’s name on the door, his eyes squeezed shut on their own.
The man sighed once more, then raised his hand and knocked.
“Jane?”
—Father?
“A newspaper and a letter… came for you.”
—Oh my! It must be from the publisher! Thank you for bringing them! I’ll come out right away!
Click.
The door opened, and his daughter peered out of the room. When she saw the bundle of papers in the man’s hand, she smiled.
“Hm? This is already opened. Did you read it first, Father?”
“Hm? Ah, well…”
Before he could answer, his squirrel-quick daughter snatched the letters away.
Then one minute passed, then two. Heavy time drifted by.
“…That’s disappointing.”
“Jane…?”
“It’s alright! That can happen!”
Seeing his daughter act as though it were nothing, even though her heart had to be aching badly, the man felt a sharp pain in one corner of his chest.
“Jane, those people at the publishing house are the ones with poor judgment. It certainly doesn’t mean you lack talent.”
“Hehe. I know, I know. But… I’d like to be alone for a while.”
“…Alright. Come downstairs when you’ve sorted out your feelings.”
Click.
The door closed, and as silence fell, the man let out yet another sigh.
The seventh child seemed deeply hurt. Tonight, I should make beef stew—the dish she likes.
Just as he had gone down the stairs with heavy steps, about two steps or so—
“Daddy! Daddy!!”
“W-what?? Jane, are you alright?”
“I-I want to try this! This!”
[Ears of the Nation, recruiting apprentices for its magazine company. No restriction on gender, no restriction on experience. Successful applicants will be dispatched to the Faculty of Literature at the University of Paris.]
His daughter, Jane Austen, spread the newspaper wide so her father could see it and spoke.