Enlightened Despot
1778 5 16, , .
I traveled all the way to Brest under the pretext of welcoming the troops dispatched to the American War of Independence. There were no surprises. As soon as Captain Pierre set foot on French soil, he was promoted to general. I removed the captain's epaulets from his shoulders and fastened on the general's in their place. The painters witnessing the scene went wild with their brushes. That painting would probably become a relic in about two hundred years.
"General Pierre, your brilliant achievements will be remembered by France. Thanks to you, this nation swells with pride."
"It is my honor, Your Majesty."
Once the military band withdrew and the commendations were complete, dockworkers swarmed the piers. They unloaded millet, iron, soap, and other daily necessities and raw materials from the privateers and ships of the line as if pouring them out. The port warehouses were bursting at the seams.
Whoa, hey! It's collapsing!
A few of the older warehouses actually gave way under the weight of the flour sacks and crumbled outright. I patted Pierre's shoulder a few times as he directed the unloading, then returned to the hotel.
"Good day, Your Majesty. We shall provide the finest hospitality."
The hotel staff were all impeccably polite. It made me think of the saying "the customer is king."
"You've done well."
Ah, right—I am the king. I recalled that the hotel's guests were actual royalty, which was why they had that slogan.
I entered my room and immediately tapped the walls to check the soundproofing.
"Soundproofing solid?"
"Just to be safe, we've rented out the entire building."
"No need to go that far... actually, yes, there is."
"I'll pay the day-use fee. In an eighteenth-century absolute monarchy, if the king gets assassinated, the country might as well die too."
That aside, because I'd swept up all the hard currency across Europe with my promissory notes, there were no gold or silver coins circulating in France anymore. So whenever I traveled, I had to splash real cash around to stimulate the local economy. Paper money? Probably stacked in the firewood shed.
"By the way, Your Highness, these gold coins feel too light."
Terray, having returned after paying the hotel bill and the staff's annual salaries as tips, fiddled with a new coin and posed the question to me.
"Pure gold coins are too precious to waste. So I made light, cheap ones instead."
"Brass?"
"Exactly. Brass coins plated with gold."
"Considering the mercury cost for the amalgam, pure gold coins or plated ones come out about the same."
Mercury. That damn mercury. I'd agonized over it plenty. Pure gold was too extravagant, but plating required mercury amalgam given the era's limitations. I knew mercury was bad for you, but... I wasn't a science major. How was I supposed to know mercury-free plating methods?
"Mass-produced them. Dumped thousands of brass coins into giant jars with amalgam made from half a gold ingot. Their intrinsic value's a bit higher than silver coins."
So I'd gone with the standard eighteenth-century plating method. Long-term, I planned to completely eliminate dangerous substances like mercury, asbestos, and arsenic from France. In about thirty years?
"Smart approach. True, even I hated wasting ducats or thalers—pure gold or silver."
"Silver coins are plated silver too. Copper coins are plated copper. Essentially iron money. When war breaks out, melt them down for war materials."
Bad money drives out good, right? But didn't low-quality currency have its own uses that could defend its value? More importantly, with foreign coins practically extinct for comparison, issuing junk coins was pure profit. If French junk set the European standard, even if pure gold or silver coins were minted later, they'd vanish into gold or silver bars overnight. Any stragglers would be swept away by the flood of French livres. Of course, I'd lowered the face value to match the reduced intrinsic worth. Gold coins dropped from 24 livres each to 1 livre. Silver from 6 livres to 1 sou. While at it, I'd renamed the livre to the more familiar franc. It was still unfamiliar to most outside intellectuals, but in a generation or two, the terminology would shift naturally.
"Anyway, Terray. How's the martial law prep going?"
"On track, Your Majesty. Set to begin simultaneously on June 1, 1778. Everything's ready; we could start now without issue."
"Stick to June 1 as planned. No one's caught on yet."
That said, I hadn't exactly idled the past six months. Even playing puppet king, I wasn't really a puppet. Roughly, I'd auctioned off the wealth of the First and Second Estates, absorbed private armies and knightly orders disbanded for lack of pay into the central forces. Even the mercenaries nobles had gathered for rebellion got commissioned as lieutenants or sergeants on recommendation. Mercenaries followed the money, so no complaints. My cousin Louis Philippe I still had his private guard... but Lafayette's artillery would handle it. Private armies in this era were just musketeers-for-hire anyway.
"If they'd just paid their taxes, it wouldn't have come to this."
"Quite right, Your Majesty."
Terray was calling me "Your Majesty" now too. Good. I was the enlightened monarch. Enlightened despotism. Exactly the throne I wanted. Enlightened dictator.
*
1778 5 24, .
From the crack of dawn, the town crier shook his bell to draw the villagers' attention.
"Hear ye! Hear ye! This land is now under the king's direct rule!"
The crier halted in the village square and read the proclamation to the surrounding farmers.
"All former lords are bankrupt! This land is now the king's personal demesne."
"Sounds like the fifth time I've heard that."
The quip drew laughter from the onlookers. Ignoring it, the crier dropped his bombshell on the farmers.
"The king has enacted land reforms. You are now freeholders."
"What?"
"Freeholders? What's that mean?"
The word "freeholder" left the farmers' minds blank for a moment.
"So, what's a freeholder?"
Some even asked outright. They'd been tenant farmers for generations.
"And serfdom is completely abolished! Thanks be to His Majesty! You now have freedom of movement and the right to own private property!"
Hooray!!
"You've also been granted the right to purchase village farmland divided equally by household count! Up to thirty-year installments, no interest! Price based on public auction! Take as much as you can handle!"
Hooray!!!
Cheers erupted with every line the crier read. Each reform was revolutionary.
"Uh, couldn't you just give us the money instead?"
Fools were eternal. Some, blinded by immediate cash, wanted to sell their land rights.
"What's your name?"
"Jean. Just Jean."
"Land purchase rights in the Paris Basin are up to seventeen acres per household. Tough to farm alone, sure. But freedom of movement hasn't been revoked, has it? Hire incoming farmers as laborers, and you'll be a landowner."
The crier persuaded him kindly.
"Forget it! I don't need land. Just wanna drink myself silly."
Jean ignored him and shouted. Emboldened, a few agreeing farmers said they wanted to sell too. With no choice, the crier prepared to let Jean trade his rights for cash.
"Such blasphemy!!!!"
Clang!
"Ow! Why'd you hit me?!"
Instead, the crier bashed Jean with his bell, forcing him to accept the land.
"His generous Majesty abolishes feudalism, divides the land, frees the serfs—does everything—and you reject his grace?!"
"Ow! The crier's gone mad! Villagers! The crier's killing people!"
"You lot need a beating!"
The farmers cleared space for the crier to pummel him freely. They saw no fault in his logic. Seventeen acres could support five laborers and make Jean a proper landlord.
"Fine! I'll take it! Please spare me!"
"Sigh... Should've accepted His Majesty's benevolence from the start."
The crier straightened his clothes and read the final clause.
"All this takes effect June 1. Central officials will arrive then—no rent payments until."
*
After the crier left, the farmers dispersed to their fields. The foolish Jean, beaten senseless, lay sprawled in the square until he came to. His friend Joseph looked down pityingly.
Jean rolled about without rising, until Joseph hauled him up.
"Thanks, Joseph. Ow, feels like my shoulder's broken."
"Even if it is, no big deal. You won't be farming anyway."
Jean couldn't grasp Joseph's words. In his experience, "gifts" from the highborn were always meager. He figured the seventeen acres were just a vegetable patch—better sold off for booze.
"Seventeen acres? Gonna get rich off that?"
Joseph stared in shock. Jean blinked innocently back.
"Jean, do you even know how big seventeen acres is?"
Unable to hold back, Joseph asked.
"Eh, about that size? Kinda big?"
Jean pointed to a field roughly two hundred meters square.
"No, no—way bigger."
"Bigger than that? Like our backyard veggie plot?"
"Even bigger."
Joseph pointed ahead. "A bit larger than this estate."
The horizon shimmered golden with wheat to a distant hill—thirteen acres.
"Factoring fallow land, it'll need four or five workers."
Jean gazed at the rippling wheat. After staring blankly, he bolted into the field without a word. Joseph called after him, but Jean ignored it, running on. After cresting a few hills, Joseph bellowed.
"Jean! That's one acre! Come back—lunchtime!"