Chapter 30: How to Live (3)
Chapter 30: How to Live (3)
A residence beside the armory of the Bastille prison in Paris.
“Ahem, ahem~. Good~ With this, all the preparations are done!”
A middle-aged man, around forty, who had been whistling for a while, spoke with a satisfied expression for the first time in ages.
Lately, there had not been a single thing that pleased him.
First, his grand plan—“a scientific agriculture plan,” which he had agreed upon with Charles Alexandre de Calonne—had fizzled out when Calonne was forced to step down for some reason.
Second, and the biggest reason, was that the new finance chief, Brienne, who replaced Calonne—who had pursued fairly liberal economic policies—pushed outdated economic policies that belonged in some musty old book. As the economy shrank, people paid less tax, and his income as a tax collector plunged.
“Hah, seriously. It’s not like they sat some low-level tax collector in that seat—and yet they put some idiot who spent his whole life looking for God into the Controller-General’s chair. Tsk, tsk.”
The man, who had been acting like a happy child just moments ago, felt irritation surge up as soon as he pictured the current finance chief’s face.
“Ah, no. I can’t do that. Today’s a good day. Hoo…”
As if trying to shake off stray thoughts, he vigorously shook his head, then focused on the experimental tools he had just painstakingly assembled.
At last, he had the chance to run an experiment he had postponed again and again because of practical problems.
To almost ruin such a good moment with useless thoughts—
He could not sour his mood over a long-awaited hobby.
How much hardship had he endured for the sake of these experiments?
In his youth, for the sake of intellectual curiosity, he had literally “burned” away even those expensive diamonds.
Whether in the heat of summer or the cold of winter, the reason he endured the work of a tax collector—a job that was never meant for him—while getting cursed out everywhere he went, was his desire and curiosity for experiments.
“Each flask is so damn expensive.”
As he spoke, the man stared at the lab apparatus.
The corners of his mouth lifted toward his ears without him realizing, and though he had not eaten bread, he felt full. They were nothing more than simple glass bottles and cast metal, yet to him they looked like treasures of gold and silver.
No—“gold and silver treasures” might actually be accurate. Since each piece had been custom-made by artisans one by one, some of the instruments cost nearly as much as the same weight of precious metals.
“Alright, then—shall we finally begin? Heehehehe!”
But just before the man’s hand could touch the flask, someone opened the laboratory door and rushed in.
“M-Master Lavoisier! Marquis de Condorcet is looking for you…”
Of all times—he finally carved out time to experiment, and now he was being interrupted?
Lavoisier felt his irritation climb up his spine again as he turned to look at the young man who delivered the message.
The young man was Éleuthère DuPont—the son of his friend Pierre DuPont, a youth who had studied science at the University of Paris, and now served as Lavoisier’s assistant.
“…The Director of Taxation… why would he suddenly be looking for me?”
Marquis de Condorcet, Director of Taxation.
A smart man, smooth-tongued, and well-liked by others—but to Lavoisier, one of the people he least wanted to deal with.
Because for Lavoisier, who treated tax collection as his primary sideline, Condorcet, standing in the position of Director of Taxation, was unambiguously his superior.
Even if your superior favored you, was there anyone in this world who looked at their superior without discomfort?
In that sense, Lavoisier’s avoidance of Condorcet was simply because of that—and it was understandable.
“He said there is someone who needs Master Lavoisier’s help.”
Tsk.
Lavoisier clicked his tongue once and stood up.
“DuPont, bring out a carriage. If I have to go anyway, I may as well go quickly.”
He could not waste this golden time. Yes. Exactly. Of course.
As he left, Lavoisier cast one last regretful glance at the experimental instruments he cherished, then hurried on his way.
I had gone to borrow Marquis de Condorcet’s help with the motion-sickness medicine project, and the moment I saw the “scientist” Condorcet had called for, my face stiffened.
Why the hell is that bastard here?
I glared at the middle-aged man sitting in the chair across from me with eyes full of hostility.
Of course, he did the same.
Lavoisier also stared at me like he wanted to devour me.
That money-crazed bastard is a scientist? What a joke.
I would sooner believe that Grouchy was perfectly fine and only pretending to be a horse-obsessed lunatic.
In truth, Lavoisier was thinking something similar.
‘Hmph. That greedy little tax-dodging bastard is the one footing the bill? Hah. Nonsense. Condorcet—no matter that it’s your request, I can’t agree to this. I’d sooner believe the iron fortress Bastille will fall than believe that bastard is the sponsor.’
Of course, in Guillaume’s case it was because of Lavoisier’s real rampage, while in Lavoisier’s case it was only suspicion—but still.
The two of them continued their wordless fight until Marquis de Condorcet entered the reception room.
“My apologies, both of you. These days I truly… haven’t had the leeway to make time for much of anything. Have you two already exchanged greetings?”
Marquis de Condorcet, whose complexion had worsened lately, sat down in a chair and spoke to both me and Lavoisier with the same gentle face as always.
“Ahem… ahem…”
“Uh-hm… hm…”
At those soft words from Condorcet, both Lavoisier and I ended up clearing our throats.
Condorcet, looking genuinely puzzled, spoke with innocent cheer.
“Hm? What is it, you two? Ah—do you already know each other? Haha, then this should go a bit more smoothly. Hahahaha!”
With Condorcet laughing so smoothly, neither Lavoisier nor I could bring ourselves to say anything. We could only listen in silence.
“Tsk.”
The moment we stepped out of Condorcet’s mansion, I heard someone clicking their tongue and shot a glare toward the source.
Seeing me, Lavoisier gave a snort of laughter.
“What is it? Something bothering you?”
“It just sounded like some rat was squeaking.”
At my words, Lavoisier started glaring at me.
So what? You bastard.
‘Hah. A tax-dodger, yet he carries himself so damn proudly.’
While we snarled at each other like that, Marquis de Condorcet—who had come out to see us off—made us both repeatedly clear our throats and look away.
Whether or not he noticed our behavior, Condorcet clasped each of our hands once and spoke.
“Guillaume. Lavoisier is a capable man like you, so you should work well together. I do hope you accomplish what you have long wished for.”
“Yes… Marquis.”
“Lavoisier. Guillaume is a bright man with an open mind, so do have a proper conversation with him at least once. Who knows? He may even help with your scientific experiments.”
“Yes… Director of Taxation.”
After speaking, Marquis de Condorcet disappeared back into his mansion.
“Tsk.”
“Ptui.”
And of course, we immediately went back to snarling again.
Lavoisier spoke in a tone of utter disgust.
“I have no desire to do anything with you.”
“Hah. For once we agree. I don’t want to do anything with you either.”
“Hmph. A tax-dodger, acting all high and mighty.”
“Hah. And which thief was it who climbed in through a window and entered an empty office without a warrant?”
“And what proof do you have that it was me?”
“And what proof do you have that I’m a tax-dodger?”
Lavoisier waved his hand as if fed up.
“So we’re the same. But I cannot defy Director of Taxation Condorcet, so I will attach one assistant to you. Handle the rest yourself.”
“Anyone would be better than your personality. I’ll accept with thanks.”
Lavoisier ignored my words and spoke to the young man—about my age—who had been waiting by the carriage.
“DuPont. For a while, help that man with his work.”
“Yes?”
“It just turned out that way. That man is a tax-dodger, so any money you use will be dirty money—so spend freely on whatever experiments you want.”
With that as his final word, Lavoisier boarded his carriage alone and left, abandoning only the young man called DuPont in front of the mansion.
DuPont stood there for a long time with an expression that said, What is going on? Then he approached me and held out his hand.
“H-hello… I’m Éleuthère DuPont.”
“Yes… I’m Guillaume de Toulon.”
It was an awkward first meeting.
François Mathieu was sad.
Having his first love shatter only five minutes after he met it again was a grief beyond words.
After spending the past few months holed up in his boarding house, whining and moping, even the friends who had first pitied him—and even the boarding house owner—finally got sick of it and drove him out.
“Stop sniveling at home and go outside and do something.”
“Waaah. Everyone’s so mean! You don’t understand how I feel—so mean!”
Wandering Paris aimlessly like that, Mathieu stopped in front of an opera theater.
“Sniff. If I just kill time watching an opera and go back, they won’t nag me.”
He flung open the theater doors and went inside.
But the theater seemed to be closed today—there wasn’t a single sign of anyone. The guard must have forgotten to lock the door.
Even so, for some reason, Mathieu sat in the opera seats as if bewitched, staring blankly into the air.
How much time passed?
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a woman singing from behind the stage.
“Huh? What is this? Is it not closed today? D-don’t tell me… a ghost?”
Forcing down his alarm, Mathieu pushed aside the purple curtain separating the backstage from the audience area and slipped inside.
When someone suddenly entered, the lady inside startled and spoke to him.
“Oh my! I-I’m sorry! I thought it was closed today!”
“N-no, it’s fine! I’m not staff either—I heard the singing and came in for a moment…”
Mathieu waved his hands quickly as he spoke.
“You came in because you heard my singing…?”
“Yes. It was good.”
The woman looked at Mathieu with surprised eyes, then broke into a wide smile.
“My name is Anne-Josèphe Théroigne! And you, sir?”
“Ah, I’m François Mathieu.”
“Would you… like to hear one more song?”