Chapter 224: First Impressions (2)
– Rattle, clatter.
“So how far are we going just to welcome them?”
Inside the carriage rattling through the heart of Paris, Napoleon spoke while resting his chin on one hand and looking at his old friend beside him.
Perhaps because Napoleon disliked the smell of tobacco, his friend did not light the cigarette in his mouth and merely chewed on it instead. At the question, he answered naively,
“I rented a decent hall out on the outskirts of Paris.”
“A hall? You even rented a hall? You’re so broke you’re selling cards for money, so how’d you happily pay the rental fee?”
“Only an idiot would pass up the chance to buy people’s goodwill cheaply over a few coins.”
“…Buy goodwill cheaply?”
The bastard smiled as he looked at Napoleon.
“I took a quick look at the list, and most of them are teenage girls. Or ladies in their early twenties. You know it too, brother. We went through that age ourselves. Their heads are still soft. So if the first place they see is a glittering, luxurious hall, and the owner comes out personally to welcome them, how deeply do you think that’ll stick in those soft heads?”
“Hmm.”
When Napoleon let out a short hum and rubbed his chin, his friend added,
“Brother.”
“Hm? What?”
“What do you think is the ideal employee for a company?”
“…I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’m asking what kind of employees you think bring the greatest benefit to a company.”
Well, that was obvious, wasn’t it? Napoleon spoke in a tone that said, Why are you even asking that?
“What’s so hard about that? Diligent workers who obey orders and don’t talk back. And on top of that, they should be capable enough to handle whatever work gets assigned to them easily.”
“That’s a soldier, you old fool.”
“Then what kind of person is it?”
“If you’re curious, pay the carriage fare.”
“What? Hey. You make thousands of times more money than I do, so why are you trying to squeeze the liver out of a flea?”
“Ah, then I won’t tell you.”
Wow. Wow. To think such a petty bastard had once been the head of the administration. Napoleon suddenly felt sorry for the Ministry of Finance officials who had been ground to dust under that lunatic for years.
“Hah, fine, I’ll pay. So what is it?”
Only then did the bastard grin and raise his index finger.
“Diligent, obedient, and quiet employees. Sure, that’s good. But.”
“But?”
“The best employee is the kind who thinks, ‘Ah, I’m part of this company. So if the company does well, that means I do well too!’ You know, something like a sense of ownership.”
“…A sense of ownership. That doesn’t sound like the kind of thing that just pops into existence because you want it to.”
“Of course not. Do you think I spend a filthy amount on labor costs for no reason?”
He flicked the cigarette, now soft and limp from chewing it for so long, out the carriage window and went on.
“I am the company. If the company prospers, that means I prosper too. To make people naturally think like that, the employees have to get a sweet little cut whenever the company grows. Huh? The more I get done, the better the company does, and the fatter my pay envelope gets? Even if you told them not to have a sense of ownership, they’d develop one anyway.
“The second thing is image. No matter how good the pay is, people avoid places with a shady reputation. Just look at the profession of executioner. The pay is good, but nobody applies, so it gets passed down generation after generation.
“So if you want your employees to work of their own accord, just pay them handsomely and build a solid, positive image from the outside.”
“…Other businessmen and factory owners don’t seem to think that way.”
“Well, let them. It’s not like they ever did before. They used to work people to the bone for ten sous a day, and when I passed a law forcing them to pay at least one livre minimum, just imagine how that must have twisted their guts. And now I’m saying they should pay even more on top of that? Their guts must be bursting by now.”
He pulled another cigarette from inside his coat, stuck it in his mouth again, and said,
“But do you know something? The more they act like that, the happier I am.”
“Why?”
“Why else? Are our smart and capable job seekers going to choose those shit-holes, or are they going to come to our Ears of the Nation with its generous benefits?”
“…They’ll go to your company.”
“Exactly. I don’t even have to do anything special, and highly educated talent just keeps pouring in. Ah, speaking of which.”
“?”
He looked at Napoleon and casually asked,
“Brother, want to try a part-time job?”
“A part-time job? What’s that?”
“You know, some pocket money. I’ll pay you well.”
Napoleon thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.
“I do like money, but I’ve been too stressed lately to have the energy for something like that.”
“No, no. Hear me out. It’s nothing grand. You just read a few pieces of writing.”
“Writing?”
“Yeah. Writing. You like books, don’t you? This time, I’ll bring you some of the writing from the aspiring authors, and all you have to do is leave simple comments like, ‘Ah, this one writes quite well,’ or ‘Ah, this one could use a bit more polishing.’ That’s it.”
“…Couldn’t you hire someone else instead of me?”
“Come on. With our Napoleon Bonaparte right here beside me, a man who loves books and has such rich literary sensibilities, why should I stuff money into someone else’s pocket? If I’m going to spend money anyway, I’d rather fill a friend’s pocket. Right?”
You seem angry because of work these days, so it’d do you some good to lift your spirits by reading things you enjoy. Guillaume added that as he tossed yet another chewed-up cigarette out the window.
As expected, whatever else might be true, Napoleon seemed to have chosen his friend well.
When they got down from the carriage and entered the hall Guillaume had prepared, a few formally dressed men approached and extended their hands to Napoleon and Guillaume.
“Your Excellency! It has been a long time! Have you been well?”
“Representative Monroe—or should I now call you Ambassador Monroe?”
“Haha, you may call me whichever you like! Ah, and who might this gentleman be…?”
Napoleon stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Brigadier General Napoleon Bonaparte of the National Guard Army.”
“Ah! So you’re the friend His Excellency mentioned! A pleasure to meet you, General. I am James Monroe, a Democratic-Republican congressman and the United States Ambassador to France.”
The good-natured-looking American exchanged a brief greeting with Napoleon, then turned to Guillaume and said,
“Thank you, Your Excellency, for giving my daughter such a wonderful opportunity.”
“It’s nothing. Your daughter was selected because she has the ability for it.”
“Haha! If Eliza heard that, she’d leap with joy. Come, let us go inside. As gentlemen, should we not warm the seats before the young ladies arrive?”
The three men slowly entered the hall.
Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous.
Jane, who had come a long way from Hampshire, England, pressed a hand to her pounding chest and repeated the words to herself.
Inside the carriage Jane was riding in—a carriage that, at a glance, had plainly cost a great deal—young ladies who, at a glance, plainly came from wealthy families chatted and laughed as they sized up one another’s houses. It was only natural that Jane, who came from common stock, felt uncomfortable.
“They came all the way to France just to fight over their pride. Isn’t it completely ridiculous?”
“Exactly—oh my!”
Startled, Jane turned her head and found a girl at least a head shorter than herself staring right at her with a mischievous grin.
“I-I didn’t mean…”
“Don’t worry. I’m not English. And I don’t plan on running around blabbing about it.”
“I-is that so…?”
The little girl boldly extended her hand and said,
“I’m Eliza Monroe. Born in Philadelphia.”
“…I’m Jane Austen. I came from a tiny village called Hampshire.”
“Miss, may I borrow your ear for a moment?”
“Hm? My ear?”
Before Jane could answer, Eliza covered her mouth with one hand and whispered,
“It seems like everyone here except you and me is insufferable, so how about the two of us become friends? An English country girl and an American country girl seem like they’d suit each other well.”
At the American girl’s words, Jane felt her vision go faint.
“Miss, hurry up! At this rate the others are going to take all the front seats!”
Were children always this energetic? Even after getting out of the carriage, Jane had no choice but to half-run into the hall, dragged along by the hand of a fourteen-year-old girl.
“El-Eliza! Why are you insisting on taking the front row? At least tell me why.”
“My father said some truly incredible person is coming to the welcome ceremony today!”
Claiming seats in the very front row of the hall, Eliza said it while bouncing her shoulders. Was a ten-year age gap always this much? Jane said no more.
A short while later, after the rest of the young ladies arrived and took their seats, several men stepped onto the platform at the center of the hall. One of them was someone Jane had seen before.
A high-bridged nose, tall stature, and even a gentle voice. A man she had once been lucky enough to glimpse years ago at a social gathering in London.
“Welcome to France, ladies. I am Guillaume de Toulon, owner of Ears of the Nation, and the man who invited you here as writer trainees.”
As soon as he appeared, whispers broke out from the back.
“Oh my, oh my! Did the former Chancellor come out personally for our sake?”
“What should we do, what should we do!”
Whether they whispered or not, he continued speaking from the platform as his eyes swept across the audience.
“You must be tired from the long voyage, and I sincerely apologize for summoning you here like this. However, I would be grateful if you would forgive me generously, as this was not done to trouble you, but to welcome you.”
After that, he went on with the usual kind words—that he held great expectations for them, that they should learn much and cultivate their abilities so they could later meet him in a good contractual relationship, and so on.
They were simple flourishes the social world had heard many times before, but he was hardly an ordinary man. Jane, Eliza, and the others were already deeply moved simply because someone as great as he had taken time out of his day to come in person.
“…Lastly, I would like to introduce the evaluator who will be leaving comments on the writing you submit. Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte, please come up to the platf—agh!”
Some in the audience expressed confusion when, with a sudden cry from behind, Guillaume abruptly stepped down from the platform. But Jane, sitting in the very front row, saw it clearly.
“Y-you mad bastard! When did I ever say I’d do this?!”
“No, silence means yes! Ow! Why are you hitting me! So you’re not going to do it? Even though there are so many people here waiting for you? Wow, that’s really awful. Wow.”
“Y-you just wait.”
A man with a solid build, handsome features, but shorter than the former Chancellor suddenly stepped onto the platform.
“…Ah, yes. My name is Napoleon Bonaparte. Though I am a soldier and therefore somewhat far removed from literature, I will grade your work sincerely.”
His French was fluent, but there was a faint Italian accent mixed into it. Jane found herself staring fixedly at his face for no particular reason.
Two weeks later.
“Fuuuuuck.”
Napoleon, who had once again been thoroughly chewed out by his superior and come home, ground his teeth, flung his clothes carelessly onto the bed, and sat down before his desk. If he did not cool his head immediately, it felt as though it would burst from the heat.
These days, one of the things he most enjoyed was the card game that bastard Guillaume had made. Maybe because the man could never resist anything related to play, it was absurdly addictive. Just how had that bastard even come up with something like this?
The next thing was the writing produced by those aspiring authors. It did not reach the level of a great literary master like Goethe, but perhaps because Napoleon loved books so much, he found it quite entertaining.
“Let’s see. Jane Austen. The title is First Impressions.”
Napoleon flipped through the stack of papers delivered that morning and read on.
“……This is interesting.”
The lamp in his house did not go out until dawn was nearly over.