Chapter 50: Provisional Government (3)
Chapter 50: Provisional Government (3)
In the Hall of Mirrors—the most splendid room in Versailles Palace, where seventeen enormous mirrors came together to form a spectacle—a man stood alone.
He was nearly two meters tall, draped in a dazzling mantle embroidered in gold with three fleur-de-lis, the symbol of the House of Bourbon.
In the very place where, a dozen-odd years ago, he had held a glorious wedding to thunderous applause, he walked slowly, taking in those large, magnificent mirrors one by one.
After he had taken them all in, he lifted his head and began to slowly absorb the grand fresco painted across the ceiling.
From the scene of his great-great-grandfather, the Sun King Louis XIV, bravely conquering Maastricht—land of the Germans—
to the sacred image of him surrounded by the gods of Olympus.
He let every image settle, slowly, into his eyes.
“…Truly astonishing, great-grandfather. I mean…”
Then why didn’t you pass even half of that astonishing ability down to me?
Unable to bring the rest of the words out, Louis XVI forced his throat to move and shoved them back down deep inside himself.
Unlike his great-great-grandfather, who had accomplished feats against vast Europe, the grandson was now facing the risk of having all his power stripped away by mere commoners.
The crude tricolor cockade the so-called “revolutionary army” had pinned to his chest by force showed, without mercy, exactly what situation he had fallen into.
“Trying to take everything from me, yet wanting me to join them.
“There’s no comedy like this comedy.”
Louis XVI briefly removed the tricolor cockade from his chest, held it in his hand, and let out a short, humorless laugh.
He pinned it back onto his chest, then slowly approached the window and stared beyond it.
The vast gardens—Versailles’s pride—filled his view.
But Louis wanted to see beyond those gardens.
His cousin Orléans in Paris, dozens of kilometers away.
“…Why? Now that the throne is shimmering right in front of your eyes, does it bother you that the throne’s authority has fallen to the ground? You greedy bastard.”
Louis XVI spoke as he retraced the contents of the letter Orléans had sent at dawn, when everyone had been asleep.
Paris, the Palais-Royal residence of the Duke of Orléans.
The Duke of Orléans sat in a chair with his arms crossed, one leg jittering rapidly.
It was worry and impatience—he desperately wanted his cousin, King Louis, to respond positively to the secret letter he had sent.
Louis, you know it too. This is the last chance!
Those traitors calling themselves the National Assembly had seized power and were running wild.
Abolishing feudal rights—good heavens! What lunatic would do something so contrary to the age? It was impossible to understand unless their true aim was to turn this country into that band of beggars and vagrants called America.
If there were no lords and no nobles, who would govern the provinces, and who would drive development?
If the ignorant masses were so capable and outstanding, then why had the Americans been pushed around by the British so badly?
Those feeble Americans had done nothing but get chased by a mere handful of British troops—until France, with proper roots, extended a helping hand and barely saved them.
So the Americans’ stupid democracy and whatever else would only make America poorer than a single province of France, even after hundreds, even thousands of years.
“…Still, I can’t go around saying that out loud.”
Orléans sighed.
He was the one who had supported the commoners, helped them bring down the Bastille, and funded the Enlightenment thinkers. If anyone saw him now, they’d ask why he spoke out of both sides of his mouth.
“What I wanted to change was the owner of the throne—not the lives of those commoner nobodies.”
Orléans’s thinking was simple.
Use the commoners and the clueless Enlightenment fools to shake Louis, then clean up the chaos himself and become king.
The plan had been going well.
The Bastille had fallen. Louis’s authority had been dragged down. At this rate, being raised as the next king was not unreasonable.
But—
What was the point of becoming king if he had no real power?
So now, whether he liked it or not, he had to help Louis push back that pack of madmen called the National Assembly.
And now was the perfect moment.
“In the provinces, the lords have risen up against the abolition of feudal rights, and in the army, noble officers are deserting with their units in droves. If Louis makes a decision now, he can imprison those traitors in Versailles and wipe them out to the last.”
Of course, Louis would shoulder all the infamy, while Orléans would watch from behind the scenes and shed a single tear.
“So, Louis, make your decision quickly. That way I can think of other options too, can’t I?”
After the declaration abolishing feudal rights, the National Assembly recommended me as Finance Minister again.
• But there is one condition.
• Wh-what is it, Deputy Guillaume?
• Until the debt problem is somewhat settled, I would appreciate it if you would back me. I know I caused a lot of conflict, but I trust you haven’t forgotten the Bastille.
• …Understood, Deputy.
“Ohoho, niiiice!”
Ah, life feels worth living again. If you’d just let me do things my way from the start, would anything have gone wrong?
With the Assembly’s backing, I began pushing through aggressive economic policies.
• First, we will abolish the tax-in-kind and the tithe tax entirely.
• Uh… then won’t there be problems securing revenue?
• No. We’ll differentiate taxes based on income.
• But then isn’t that too disadvantageous for the bourgeois…?
• …?
• Ah, understood. Do as you see fit, Finance Minister.
• Next, among the taxes collected by the Church, we will abolish everything except the tithe.
• What?
• …?
• Ah, understood. Do as you see fit, Finance Minister.
• Wait, a pigeon tax…? What even is this?
• Uh… a tax levied according to the number of pigeons in the neighborhood…
• …Excuse me?
• Ah, understood. Do as you see fit, Finance Minister.
• A transport tax…? What’s this?
• That is…
• Don’t tell me it’s extorting money for occupying roads or something.
• …
• …Is it public roads or roads on private land.
• There are many… public roads.
• …?
• Ah, understood. Do as you see fit, Finance Minister.
Ah, sweet. Is this the taste of power?
No, seriously—there are taxes for everything. No wonder rebellions happen.
“Still, I want to just confiscate the cathedral’s land and money outright. Is there some way?”
The churches and clergy of this era were hopeless.
They produced nothing, but swallowed money like a black hole. That says it all.
The best way would be for them to offer it up themselves, but what am I supposed to do about that?
Mmm. That’s a problem.
“What evil scheme are you plotting now?”
As I kept tilting my head, thinking, Mathieu hyung had approached at some point and spoke.
“Ahem. I told you not to slander me.”
“Sure, sure. Anyway, one of the deputies came looking for you. Says he wants to meet you.”
“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”
Mathieu frowned slightly, thinking, then said,
“Maximilien… Robespierre, I think?”
“Robespierre?”
That name sounded familiar. Who was he again?
“Anyway, I’ll step out. You two talk.”
Mathieu said that, opened the door, and left my room.
Soon after, a small man around thirty knocked, then entered with a smile.
“Nice to meet you, Deputy. I’m Guillaume de Toulon.”
“Hahaha! The pleasure is mine, Finance Minister. I’m Maximilien Robespierre.”
I gestured to a chair and said,
“Deputy, would you like some tea?”
“Ah, no need, Finance Minister. Instead of tea, just a glass of milk will do.”
“Oh, you must like milk?”
“Haha, like it? Of course. Ah, thank you.”
Robespierre took the milk from me, drank a sip, then opened his mouth.
“The reason I came to see you today is because there’s a policy I’d like to propose.”
“Oh, really?”
Two heads are better than one—help is always welcome.
I smiled.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Haha, it’s nothing much. I’ve tentatively named it the ‘Maximum Price System’—why are you looking at me like that?”
Fuck. I’m screwed.
Late July 1789, Autun, south-central France.
The garrison of the La Fère Artillery Regiment.
A man wearing an NCO’s insignia snickered and said to the officer beside him,
“Wow, I never thought you’d get hit with something even the boot soldiers barely get hit with, Lieutenant. Hahaha!”
“Hey. Can’t you be quiet?”
The officer with a lieutenant’s insignia shot the NCO a sullen look.
“Ah, but didn’t you say something to me last time too, Lieutenant Napoleon?”
“Sure I did. If you dumped money into gambling, you deserve to hear a word or two. I wasn’t even the one who blew the money, so stop riding me already.”
“Yes, yes. Understood. Our lieutenant whose leave got cut. Then I’ll be going.”
After teasing him for a while, the NCO gave a short salute and disappeared into the distance.
“Wow. This is really unbelievable.”
Napoleon muttered one line at the back of the NCO’s head with a dumbfounded expression, then lay down on the grass, put a blade of grass in his mouth, chewed it for a long while, then spat it out.
“Damn it. What the hell is that Flanders regiment or whatever doing all of a sudden, and why is my leave getting cut. Haa.”
Lieutenant Napoleon let out a sigh.