Chapter 68: A Strange World (7)
Chapter 68: A Strange World (7)
“Doctor Guillotin, you worked very hard today. You must be tired, so go lie down and rest.”
“Haha, no, Finance Minister. I’m just glad this half-old man was of some help. I’ll come back at this time tomorrow and we can discuss the machine in detail then.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
After seeing Doctor Guillotin off, I returned to the office, printed out a copy of a résumé form at the desk, handed it to Mister Saint-Just, and said,
“All right. For now, write your name, age, other background details, notable points, and so on here, then give it back. For the pen, just grab any one from the desk over there.”
“…Sir? Background details?”
“It’s nothing complicated—just things like where you worked and what kind of duties you’re confident in. That sort of level is fine.”
“I-I see.”
Saint-Just took the blank form I handed him, glanced over it briefly, then hurriedly started filling in the blanks.
Man, watching this reminds me of back when the college entrance exam ended and I tutored the kid next door. He never once did his homework properly.
After scribbling for a long while, Saint-Just put down the pen, held out the densely filled résumé, and said,
“Here it is, Guillaume, sir.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, Mister Saint-Just.”
All right, let’s see.
[Name: Louis Antoine Léon Florelle Saint-Just.]
[Age: Born 1767, 23 years old.]
[Background 1: Bachelor’s degree, Faculty of Law, University of Reims]
Ohhh, a law student?
[Background 2: Assistant clerk to the prosecutor, High Court of Soissons]
Wait—so not just a law student?
[Notable points: Offenses of producing and distributing obscene pornography; blasphemy offense]
“…?”
Hold on—what did I just read?
“Why did you write this in…?”
“…I’m not the type who can lie, so I thought I should write it down…”
I looked back and forth between the line written in the “Notable points” section and Saint-Just’s face.
At my reaction, Saint-Just fidgeted and waved his hands anxiously.
“I-I… I can explain everything! Sir!”
“…All right. I’ll at least hear it.”
“…Actually, I wrote something…”
“And?”
“I-I was accused… of insulting the king and insulting the Catholic Church…”
…Wow. This is a mess.
“What on earth did you write that they’d grind their teeth and sue you over it?”
“Priests and royals hold secret trysts every night… that kind of thing…”
Tsk. No—just that wouldn’t usually get you a lawsuit that serious.
“…All right. Fine—blasphemy, sure. But producing and distributing pornography—what is that supposed to be?”
“…T-That is… when I was in university, I was short on money…”
Don’t tell me it’s what I think it is.
“I wrote dirty novels… and sold them.”
“…Where?”
“Just… here and there…”
This is driving me insane. Why is it that my bad premonitions are never wrong?
“Then are you currently a criminal?”
“N-No! After the revolutionary government came in, it was all pardoned, so I’m clean now! Really!”
“…All right. Understood for now. Please wait here a moment, Mister Saint-Just.”
“Y-Yes!”
I left Saint-Just seated in the office, went down to the first-floor kitchen, and opened the door.
The moment I opened it, hot air rushed out, and Florian—wrapped in a blanket, slumped in a chair—was wandering through dreamland.
“Florian. Wake up. Florian.”
“Ugh… B-Boss? What time is it? I must’ve dozed off.”
For someone who “dozed off,” you were even under a blanket.
“It’s 1 p.m.”
Florian shoved the blanket aside and stretched long.
“Florian, go to the police office for a moment and check this person’s records.”
“Making me work the moment I wake up… you’ve really become a tyrant boss, Boss.”
The old Boss wasn’t like this. Florian added with a gloomy face.
“Hey. I pay you a lot. Stop grumbling and go.”
“Yes, Boss. As you command.”
Yawning widely, Florian took Saint-Just’s résumé from my hand and went outside.
[Louis Antoine Léon Florelle Saint-Just. Wrote and distributed an obscene seditious book {The Vatican’s Organ}, but is currently pardoned. Whereabouts unclear.]
“…Paris Police Office Inspector Patrick notarized this.”
“What will you do, Boss?”
“Yeah. This one’s a bit ambiguous.”
He did commit a crime, but it’s not exactly a major one.
Selling dirty novels is still a crime, sure, but it’s not some grave felony.
“I also obtained part of {The Vatican’s Organ} that Saint-Just wrote. Would you like to take a look?”
“…When it comes to finding the rotary press inventor too—where do you even get information like that?”
“Haha. When you live as a laborer at the bottom of Paris, you always end up seeing all sorts of dark routes. So—want to see it?”
“Yeah. It can’t hurt.”
Florian handed me a crudely made book.
I opened it somewhere around the middle and started reading.
[…The archbishop was vividly licking the countess’s body.]
What the f—
Saint-Just—didn’t he tell me he only wrote it up to something like “they enjoyed a simple tryst”? This is not that level.
“How is it, Boss?”
“It’s fucking awful.”
I shook my head hard left and right.
“Huh? That bad?”
“…Look for yourself.”
“Let’s see… What the hell is this, fuck?”
Florian, reading the book I handed over, frowned and spat out a thick curse.
“Looks like he deserves a blasphemy charge, Boss.”
“Yeah. I think so too.”
“…What will you do, Boss?”
“Mm. Well.”
“Shouldn’t we obviously kick Saint-Just out? He’s clearly been shot in the head…”
“Yeah, but…”
If I’m making a magazine company, I’ll need writers who can write.
“I’m thinking of starting a maga…zine company.”
“…I heard you wrong, right, Boss?”
Florian—why are you looking at me like you want to kill me?
“No! You throw work at me every day talking about expansion and diversification! And you only just finally hired one more person—now you’re saying you’re starting a magazine company too? Are you kidding me?!”
“B-But wouldn’t it be decent money?”
“Boss, do you even know how many jobs I’m handling right now?!”
“W-Well?”
“Ears of the Nation accounting, tax payments, distribution and sales for motion sickness medicine, even bickering with an American shipping company—and you want to add more?!”
“Uh…”
Yeah… that is a lot. He was making 70 livres, wasn’t he?
“T-Then… should I raise your salary?”
“Do you think I’m protesting because I want a raise?! No! I’m saying reduce the workload, Boss!!”
“How about 140 livres for the Vice President position.”
“Huh?”
Florian’s eyes started jerking rapidly side to side.
“And I’ll also give you authority to hire staff. But for each employee you add, I’ll deduct 20 livres from your salary. And the better the business does, I’ll pay you additional compensation. How does that sound?”
Florian, have a taste of 21st-century incentive terms.
This is deadly—try it, try it.
Florian wanted to say:
—Boss, do you think I’m someone who fusses over a few coins? Do you think you can move me with money?
But.
It was too much money to say that.
How enormous was 140 livres? It was a fortune—five times what ordinary laborers made.
If he added that to the savings he’d scraped together so far, he could finally leave the shabby house he lived in and even buy a small estate.
But Florian didn’t know yet—how sweet, and how dangerous, the thing the boss called “incentives” really was.
Not knowing that, Florian ultimately took that devil’s hand.
“R-Really?! Guillaume, sir? Y-You’re hiring me?!”
“Yes, Mister Saint-Just. Let’s do good work together.”
“Thank you! Thank you! Sir—no, Boss! I’ll never disappoint you!”
Saint-Just grabbed my hand and shook it fiercely.
“But there are conditions, Mister Saint-Just.”
“Yes! What are they, Boss?!”
“From now on, you’re not allowed to openly write about specific individuals—like the Pope, the King, or anyone like that. Understood?”
“Huh? B-But—”
If you do that, we’ll lose the business license.
“Absolutely not. No matter what. Understood?”
“Y-Yes, understood!”
“Instead, I won’t actively interfere with what you write. Even if I say, ‘This feels a bit off,’ you can ignore me if you want. Dirty novels… you can write them, but do it in a separate adult magazine. Please.”
The most poisonous thing for a creator is interfering with creativity.
Just look at Korea—when harsh censorship ruled, versus the 21st century, when it became a cultural powerhouse with K-pop and all that.
I kept going.
“Besides you, Mister Saint-Just, I’ll hire many more writers. When that happens, I’d appreciate it if you’d act as an interviewer in my place. I think I’ll be away on business trips for quite a long time.”
“I-I see.”
After finishing what I needed to say to Saint-Just, I turned to Florian standing beside me and spoke.
“And Florian.”
“Ahem… um… Boss?”
What is that face—like you want me to say something?
Ah.
“…Vice President Florian.”
“Yes, Boss!”
“Write and distribute a recruitment notice. Say Ears of the Nation is looking for full-time writers.”
“Yes! Understood. Vice President Florian will take action immediately!”
January 22, 1790.
“Ah! The world is so beautiful! Yet why is my life so miserable!”
It had been five months since he was imprisoned in the Bastille and released.
With nowhere to go, Donatien, Marquis de Sade, wandered the streets of Paris, reciting mournfully.
—We don’t need a husband who only writes dirty novels!
—This is… what Father wrote? Ugh! Disgusting!
—How can you cheat and cheat with your sister-in-law?! Son-in-law—no, you piece of trash! Get back in prison!
“Ah, what is love! Heaven—please answer me!”
The Marquis de Sade pleaded earnestly toward the sun high in the sky. But the sun said nothing, merely shining loftily in silence.
Now Sade even knelt right in the middle of the road, begging and begging.
“Mom, that man is weird.”
“Tsk! Don’t look at people like that. Dirty, dirty!”
“Oh Lord! Will You truly abandon this Sade?! If not, then please grant me a revelation!”
At that moment, a carriage ran down the street beside the Marquis de Sade, scattering papers everywhere.
One sheet fluttered through the air like spring cherry blossoms, then drifted down softly in front of Sade.
Sade picked up the paper that had fallen before him and slowly read it.
[We are recruiting writers to work at the Ears of the Nation magazine company.]
“Ah! Lord! You have not abandoned me yet! Yahweh, I love You, I love You!”
Author’s Note
Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, Marquis de Sade.
A pioneer of eroticism who first devised the concepts of sadist and masochist.