The Happiness of the One Franc
February 1, 1779, France, the king's office.
It had been half a year since the franc was unleashed upon the world. Europe's tangible currency now came in two forms. One was commodities like salt and grain. The other was the franc. The gold-plated brass coin known as the 1 franc held the value of one livre. And one livre could buy a third of a poing.
How much was a third of a poing, exactly?
A third of a poing.
Yes. The units of measurement were a complete mess.
"So, how much is a third of a poing, exactly?"
"A third of a poing, sire."
Terray didn't know how many grams that amounted to, either. Part of me wanted to introduce the yard-pound system just to slap some rough weight on it... but no matter how thirsty you are, you don't drink seawater. The devil's system of units needed to vanish from the earth. I didn't know when the metric system would emerge, but the moment it did, I'd ship the meter prototype and the kilogram standard to America as an "independence congratulations gift."
"Sire. Lavoisier has requested personnel from the Royal Academy."
"Approve it. Any issues?"
"It's related to this week's condemned prisoners."
Of course. In an era where even becoming an intellectual required money, intellectuals were either bourgeois or the second or third sons of nobles.
"Threaten them moderately to cut labor costs. Like with Lavoisier."
"It's not that the scientists are prisoners. Their mentor is the prisoner."
"Overstepping. Execute the prisoner as scheduled, and summon the scientist. I'll persuade him personally."
"Understood."
Being pro-commoner didn't mean being a pushover. Lines had to be drawn clearly on matters like this.
*
February 2, 1779, the king's office.
"Please spare Comte de Borde. He is the mentor who first recognized my talent."
I hadn't expected him to show up so soon, in just one day.
"Jean Baptiste Delambre. From a worker's family in Amiens. Eight years ago, you were hired as a tutor for the Comte Dagsejo de Borde's household. Correct?"
"Yes. My mentor gave me the chance both to teach and to learn."
Since he wasn't in my memories, he probably wasn't a great scientist.
"Regrettably, Comte de Borde must die. All noble magistrates of the Parlement bear deep guilt for state disruption, and we've decided to execute them all."
I had no intention of sparing the Parlement's noble magistrates. From the start, only those with clear guilt had been arrested under martial law. "State disruption" was a catch-all, but their crimes numbered far more than one or two: overlooking friends' crimes, issuing favorable rulings for cronies, altering judgments for bribes. Textbook corruption.
Digging deeper, the Parlement was practically a crime syndicate. Louis XV had abolished it late in his reign, but it had been quietly revived after my ascension. I hadn't learned this until martial law. How many vested interests were tangled up for it to surface only then? Proof that Versailles's nobles were all in cahoots.
Part of me wanted to flip the whole table... but that would take out my loyalists too, forcing a constitutional monarchy. Constitutional monarchy for 18th-century Frenchmen? Straight to the French Revolution bad end. Napoleon was still a 10-year-old rascal with no one to block him yet.
"As a scientist, you may not grasp the politics. This is decided. Once set, it cannot be undone."
Scientists in this era must be famous and great men. But that didn't mean they could shake my political momentum. No take-backs. The basic rule of politics.
"If I commute a death sentence on someone's plea, what will the French people think of me?"
Term-limited politicians could afford such flexibility. At worst, they'd just fall from power. But in this era, where you politicked for life, it was different. Lose your momentum, and you'd be a puppet forever. Like Emperor Gojong.
"If you want to delay the execution, change the hearts of Paris's citizens. At least eight in ten. You'll need to persuade human rights lawyer Robespierre first."
Robespierre was currently making a name as a human rights lawyer. When prisoners were charged with rebellion, exploitation, or state disruption— all capital crimes—he'd nobly get one dropped. It never canceled the execution, of course.
"Underst... stood."
"Go."
Delambre bowed and left the office. As he did, Terray raised the next item.
"The mint workers are protesting en masse. They welcome the mandatory gloves, but they're calling the order to cover nose and mouth with cloth armchair theorizing."
Mercury vapor kills quickly. This was the 18th-century mindset. Hardworking but inefficient. They thought they were busting their asses, but the results were inefficient. Self-flagellation yielded nothing good.
"We explained it was due to the mercury in amalgam, right?"
"Yes. Principal Lavoisier demonstrated mercury's dangers to the workers with rat experiments."
Even if I explained, they wouldn't get it. Honestly, I lacked confidence in persuading them.
"Tell them if they don't want to wear it, don't."
"Withdraw the decree?"
"Change it to a recommendation."
"Yes, understood."
Mercury poisoning wasn't identified until Minamata disease, so fair enough. In the 18th century, with arsenic, asbestos, bloodletting, and more, people dropped dead anyway even without mercury. If they protested to die, let them...
...What was I thinking?
"Send a warning notice on mercury dangers along with the recommendation."
"The side effects Principal Lavoisier discovered?"
"No. They won't listen to that. It needs to leave a strong impression."
"According to Lavoisier's research, mercury experiments are complete except for vivisection. Without human trials, no further side effects can be found."
"Terray. Sometimes a white lie is necessary."
I wrote three words on a paper: sexual dysfunction.
"Will this do?"
"Should I have written erectile dysfunction?"
"We'll go with sexual dysfunction."
Well, it wasn't entirely false. For men, losing virility scared more than death, right?
* Same day, Paris market.
Near the Seine, countless people had set up stalls, hawking wares. All unlicensed street vendors. But the police didn't crack down. Mounted patrols occasionally circled, mediating disputes, but no heavy-handed suppression.
"Potatoes, one sack for 6 sols! Sturdy potatoes grown on Lorraine steel!"
They were all petty farmers turned self-sufficient after last year's land redistribution.
"I'll beat that price! One sack for 5 sols 15 deniers!"
"You trying to kill us all?!"
Mostly petty farmers, so squabbles were common.
"Heh heh. Uncles, no fighting..."
Patrol cops mediated both sides. The sight of a policeman missing his left ring and pinky fingers dismounting to calm potato sellers had become commonplace among Seine vendors.
"That bastard's undercutting to hog the sales, and you just watch?"
"Then undercut back!"
"You crazy fuck. Who drops price twice without counting to three?"
"At it again. Everyone, calm down."
Thus, Louis XVI's free market policy creaked along, somehow functioning.
"Hee hee hee... Why isn't wheat rising in winter, why..."
Normally, this policy should've collapsed.
"Joseph. What's with that guy?"
"Oh, him? Last time he hoarded hundreds of setiers expecting wheat prices to soar... Don't know him? He's famous."
Noble and bourgeois hoarding should've sent prices skyrocketing. But that was old France. Louis XVI's overhauled new France was different. No landlords, no serfs—agricultural output was on another level.
"I work every day. Skimping on labor means I work nonstop, body aches like hell."
"Do what you want."
"Hee hee hee..."
The mindset "reap what you sow" had just spread. Farmers and laborers worked unprecedentedly hard. Weeds had no chance to grow; if no rain, they'd haul from nearby rivers. Should've been famine year, but peasant grit turned it bountiful.
"So why's he like that?"
"Nothing big. Moneylender hoarded wheat expecting rises right when martial law hit. Busted."
Martial law troops had stripped nobles and shady capitalists bare. Three to five years' grain flooded the market at once; food prices plummeted endlessly.
"Whoa, hoarded back then? Wheat hit 3 livres a sack, right?"
"Joe. Ears everywhere. Don't stir shit. Got bread."
"Ahem. Got it. Ooh, wheat's so cheap, this campagnard looks solid. Maybe 10 livres each? How much?"
Joseph brought five loaves, each about 5 kilograms.
"All together, 1 sol. Should last a couple months?"
Five loaves for 1 sol. A luxury only France could enjoy.
"Cheap, but... waste. Better buy potatoes..."
Main reason: potatoes. With cheap spuds, farmers sold wheat to save on food, eating potatoes instead.
"Potatoes? These steel potatoes grown on Lorraine iron water! Manly spuds fed on steelworkers' grit! Now just 4 sols 8 deniers!"
And potatoes grew even in winter. Fist-sized ones still fed. Tempting for penny-pinching farmers.
"You madman! Price drop again?!"
Many targeted those thrifty farmers with potatoes.
"Hey now. Uncles, calm down..."
"Hee hee hee..."