The Pope is a Heretic
Early April 1779. The king's office.
Europe's misery dragged on. Things had gotten so bad that people were joking the countries adopting the franc the fastest were recovering the quickest. And it wasn't entirely wrong. With a shortage of currency stifling value creation and prolonging stagnation, the moment money flowed in, all the hoarded goods would flood the market, sparking an economic boom. It was obvious.
But falling prices weren't all good. Stockpiling too much merchandise meant that dumping it all at once would demand more currency in circulation. In other words, hyperinflation could strike again. And if prices dropped too low, the common people's disposable income shrank, and real asset values plummeted. Economic revival had an expiration date.
In their desperation, nations were dipping their hands into ventures they shouldn't. Britain was a prime example. To secure francs and sols, they'd flooded the Mediterranean with pirates. Despite all the chaos, Britain ultimately succeeded in obtaining francs from France. True to their British Empire pride, they didn't abandon the pound. They circulated francs among the public while issuing high-denomination guineas—gold coins—positioning francs below the pound. Classic Britain.
Regardless, the franc had become Britain's main currency.
"A reply has arrived from the Holy See."
The Holy See, witnessing Britain's miraculous recovery, had demanded 100 million livres in francs. That was the full story behind last month's incident. Thank goodness. I'd thought the pope had lost his mind. No, he still had it—he just lacked a conscience.
"What does the pope say?"
"He thanks us for the supplies but bluntly states they need currency. It seems evasion is no longer possible."
The pope had unleashed his last ounce of political capital on me. For 10 million livres' worth of goods, it was a bargain.
"And the price?"
"They left the word blank. It's essentially an open declaration that they'll grant whatever we demand."
A real blank slate. In my life, I'd never received a blank check like this.
"What would benefit France the most..."
Taking gold or silver would be amateur hour. Trading in gold and money meant getting value equal only to the currency's worth. In political events like this, the national rule was to roll the snowball—demand something that snowballs into more power. When handed a blank check, you didn't ask for material goods; you went for intangibles. Demanding cash outright just made you look like a pirate.
"Terray. What would the French people want us to take from the Holy See?"
The 18th century had its own values. Even if a 21st-century guy like me saw something as crucial, it might be useless here. Uranium or oil might be worth armies defending in my time, but in the 18th century, they were just flammable liquids and glowy rocks.
"As director of the National Intelligence Agency and chief financial overseer, I believe the Holy See's greatest offering to us would be the imperial throne."
The throne? Wasn't that the Holy Roman Empire's thing? Right—Holy Roman Empire was a misnomer anyway.
"The coronation? Is that important?"
But France didn't need an imperial throne. Why become emperor? I was already a dictator. Not just any dictatorship—an absolute monarchy. Devotees of the royal family lurked even among police arrest lists; public support was so overwhelming it was problematic. Issue martial law, and cops and soldiers obeyed first, then rationalized it as "there must be profound wisdom behind it." Last year's martial law lift had triggered a flood of inquiries from police and garrison commanders, proof of my immense power.
"Why need an imperial throne? I already wield more power than any emperor."
The conclusion was clear: ascending as emperor would dilute my power. The French masses credited me for successes and themselves for failures; they adored me. The military brimmed with battle-hardened loyalists. Enlightenment thinkers were still devouring my four-year-old speech at the Three Estates—my critiques of communism and élan. Farmers turned self-sufficient yeomen clawed their way to middle-class status. The middle class were my steadfast supporters. The old middle class had snapped up bankrupt nobles' and clerics' assets cheap with their pocket change, rising to the elite. The top tier? Already packed with my loyalists. Opposition elites? Martial forces had rounded them up. Urban beggars and vagrants bowed toward the Tuileries Palace every time they collected public works wages. From street urchins to factory owners, all of France was mine.
Why invite papal checks on such perfect absolutism?
"What gain comes from becoming emperor?"
"None for us. It's simply the Holy See's most valuable offering."
I'd misunderstood.
"Fair enough. Then, what do I gain from the throne?"
"The French people's spirits lift."
Uh...
"That's it?"
"Yes. In exchange, the Habsburgs will rage and declare war on France."
Why on earth? I wanted to ask but held back. It'd expose my ignorance of international affairs.
"I suppose so."
"Precisely."
What the hell was "precisely"?
"Then maybe demand gold..."
"Your Majesty already holds the right to appoint bishops. French territory dwarfs the Papal States, and our political influence is far greater. The Holy See has no position to demand anything from France. At best, they could pressure minor Mediterranean states. Responding to Pius VI's plea is charity on our part."
"How much gold or silver should we demand from the Papal States?"
"Even that's unlikely. I'm certain their treasury holds not a single zecchino."
Zecchino? Reminded me of that opera. The singer had encored right in front of me. Professor said after some old Italian master encored an aria, it became tradition...
Miss those days.
"Why... Don't tell me, the bills of exchange?"
"Yes."
My fault, then.
"Your Majesty. As chief financial overseer, I advise rejecting this demand. We've already provided humanitarian aid to the Papal States. No one would fault a refusal."
"We can't just send back a blank letter."
Even as a fourth-year resident of the 18th century, I knew a blank reply was tantamount to a declaration of war. "No point talking—fight" or "No point talking—get lost."
"Then perhaps going all-out isn't a bad idea."
"Like demanding perpetual hereditary imperial rights?"
"That seems fitting."
Why? Even I could see their conscience was AWOL... Ah, but the Holy See struck first without one.
Early May 1779. Papal States, Rome marketplace.
In Christianity's holiest land, the most tumultuous rumors swirled.
Louis XVI's de facto rejection of the pope's demands had ballooned into wild rumors through endless embellishments.
An outcome Louis XVI hadn't wanted.
Trace all these rumors to their source, and you'd find Mont Blanc—Sardinian separatists, Terray's private army, the National Intelligence Agency.
No one would ever know the full truth. It stemmed from overzealous loyalty and rivalry among National Intelligence Agency hardliners—operations neither Terray nor Louis XVI had ordered.
'Our lives are so harsh because of worldly-power-hungry corrupt priests.'
Unintended events often sparked bigger problems than intended ones.
"If France sent supplies, currency must have come too."
"Then why are we still paid in salt?"
It didn't take long for the swelling rumors to reach Swiss mercenaries' ears.
Colonel Altishofen of the Swiss Guard—Swiss mercenaries—calmed his men and requested talks with the Holy See. But the Holy See ignored him.
Snubbed at the gates, the Swiss Guard's fury boiled over. Altishofen himself was owed about 21 months' pay. Yet he endured silently, preserving the brand of Swiss mercenaries employed across Europe—stoically, without complaint.
"Frankly, I no longer have confidence in defending the Holy See."
Altishofen's lament rode the wind back to Rome.
'The pope right now is a fake!'
Because the pope is a heretic, we're suffering this humiliation!
The Swiss Guard will help us!
Lies pile upon truth like snow, slowly melting it away. In the end, truth soaks in falsehood until truth becomes lie, and lie remains lie. Then, one must believe nothing—or everything.