Flipping the Hourglass
November 21, 1774, Amsterdam, Stock Exchange.
A few months earlier, major tycoons had begun appearing at the Amsterdam Stock Exchange. But no one particularly suspected the origins of their capital. They could have been nouveau riche who'd struck it big in the Indian spice trade, speculators who'd profited from short-selling during the Seven Years' War, or even pirates who'd made a proper haul with privateers. Whatever the source of their wealth, the Amsterdam brokers saw only one thing from them: money.
"Linz Glassworks. Buy two thousand pounds' worth."
"Prussian Royal Armory. Four thousand ducats."
"Broker, find some decent factories for British cotton cloth. Invest two hundred thalers each in twenty of them."
"I'm looking to invest in the Dutch East India Company. What stake can I get for about two thousand livres in gold?"
Even investments on the scale of national budgets drew no suspicion. And no one questioned the source of their gold. They just assumed it came from the New World and moved on. Not putting money into France? No one batted an eye. France was a third-rate power teetering on bankruptcy, after all. Occasionally, they'd snap up French bonds on the verge of turning to scrap paper, but even that raised no eyebrows. Just speculators being speculators, people thought with a shrug. Maybe they were Menckian souls betting on France's dramatic turnaround. Whatever the case, Amsterdam's brokers couldn't care less. What mattered was the commission: seven percent on junk companies, three percent on blue chips.
"I'd like to short French stocks. What's the expiration date?"
"Sorry, French stocks aren't listed on our exchange right now. Please inquire at the Paris Grain Exchange."
"I see. Got it."
Whatever the request, no broker turned down paying customers.
"Thirty thousand ducats in the Dutch West India Company. Two thousand pounds in the British East India Company."
"Yes. Including commission, that's sixty-one thousand nine hundred and fifty ducats."
"Here you go. Gold coins—want to count them?"
"Haha, we'll tally it inside. No way you'd cheat us, sir."
"Appreciate the trust. If there's any extra, consider it a tip for your trouble—keep it. I'm in a rush, so I'll be off."
"Thank you! Come again!"
February 9, 1775, France, Tuileries Palace, the king's office.
It had been about half a year since I'd met Robespierre. Nothing much had happened in the meantime. The First and Second Estates still refused to pay a single sou in new taxes, and the Parlement continued ignoring me. Cutting the royal budget had reduced the number of balls, turning me into a social pariah. My wife, Marie Antoinette, must have been getting money from her family back home—she was eating and dressing well enough on her own. Our marital relations had grown a bit neglectful, which left me mildly resentful. But if I had to pick the most important event from the past six months, it might be installing a ton of public toilets in Versailles Palace, the Tuileries, and the Louvre Palace. No wonder the gardens didn't stink anymore.
And the promissory note scam was still cruising along smoothly. It had spread across Europe, drawing some attention, but since it juiced up each country's economy in short order, even their intelligence services dropped their suspicions. On the surface, it looked like legitimate economic activity—and the boom was real, after all. Even the British private detectives who'd probed the hardest concluded it was "part of a circuitous loan scheme." That was one reason this operation could succeed. No country in the world had proper intelligence agencies or police forces.
Sure, there were cops, prosecutors, and spies. But the most effective spycraft any of them managed abroad was "eavesdropping on high officials' conversations." Might as well not exist. Britain had some private detective industry, but it was still in its infancy. In an era like this, twentieth-century financial crime? No chance of stopping it. Individualism hadn't even had its seeds planted yet. Stockbrokers treated our spies—who flashed massive sums without flinching—like nouveau riche VIPs. That was why Terray had declared the note scam an absolute success. There was simply no one to catch financial criminals.
Local churches pitched in with security, but to me—schooled by twenty-first-century degenerates—it was all pointless flailing. Seeing this, I could vaguely grasp why the Church held such power in old Europe. Hospitals, schools, police, local courts—they provided all the infrastructure. Tithes weren't just extortion; they were quasi-taxes for public services. No wonder the Church's authority was ironclad. Small wonder France fell into chaos right after the Revolution. The entire social safety net and public infrastructure got ripped out wholesale—how could the country not collapse?
"So, we're going to establish a police force, village health clinics and city hospitals, elementary schools, local pretrial judges, civil and criminal codes, and a royal special prosecutor's office."
"Yes. All told, it'll run about 50 billion livres."
"What? Fifty billion?"
That much?
"Yes. Materials are in short supply, so we'd have to import everything, and factoring in salaries and upkeep for the staff, that's the rough total."
"Can't we cover it with notes?"
"Materials? With 70 billion livres in notes circulating across Europe right now, that's feasible. The problem is labor costs. Materials might run four billion livres, but we're critically short on priests and nobles to staff each department."
"Why would we need priests and nobles for this?"
"Who else should handle public service but the clergy and nobility?"
"???"
"???"
Oh. Right. Still the eighteenth century.
"Terray. Why assign public infrastructure roles specifically to priests and nobles? That just strengthens the First and Second Estates."
"Are you saying the Third Estate should do civil service?"
Doesn't that elevate classes socially? Hoarding wealth and power like this is what sparks revolutions.
"Not 'civil servants'—bureaucrats. Private-sector bureaucrats. That's more efficient. And why put priests and nobles in village clinics? Put doctors there."
"Y-Your Majesty. The backlash from the nobility would be unbearable. Why not just sell baronies outright?"
Sale of offices? Isn't that a symptom of a collapsing state?
Oh, right. We're right on the brink.
"Just issue a lit de justice."
"They'll invoke veto."
Argh, seriously.
"So, what then?"
"First, we undermine the First and Second Estates with the note operation. Only then will their influence wane even slightly."
"In the end, we stake everything on the gamble. The second quarter of 1777 decides it all."
"Your Majesty, what should we do in the meantime?"
"Hmm, eat some popcorn?"
"Your Majesty, the Mississippi corn farms in New France all became Spanish territory under the Treaty of Fontainebleau. No popcorn."
Damn it for real.
February 17, 1775, England, Bow Street.
"Sir Fielding. Things feel... off lately, don't they?"
A young man—scruffy beard, dust clumps on his coat, looking every bit the thug—addressed an elderly blind man.
"True, crime's dropped a lot. Especially petty theft for survival."
John Fielding, magistrate of Bow Street. He was the second head of the Bow Street Runners, the private police force founded by his brother Henry Fielding.
"Even the mounted patrols complain of nothing to do. Back in the day, they were too busy chasing pickpockets to let the horses fatten up. Now, with zero action, the beasts are getting downright plump."
"Good news is good news, eh? Shame for those missing out on bounties, though."
John and the young man shared a wry chuckle.
"Brother should've seen this."
"All thanks to our hard work, right?"
"Indeed. I'm always grateful to you lads."
"Then, about our pay..."
"Now, now. Already on the public teat. Go post some wanted posters."
"Haha, got it, Sir Fielding."
The precursor to the London Metropolitan Police, the Bow Street Runners, was riding high on the economic boom.
March 3, 1775, Austria, Schönbrunn Palace, Maria Theresa's office.
Austria's empress regnant, Maria Theresa, hadn't slept soundly in days. She fretted over her daughter, Maria Antonia—Marie Antoinette—whom she'd all but shoved into a marriage with France to secure victory in the Seven Years' War. Letters to her daughter brought back painful reflections on Austria. Betrayed by that vile Peter III, international relations lay in ruins, and everything she'd built over a lifetime was crumbling in her twilight years. Neighboring France wallowed in debt, slashing its once-lavish royal budget to ribbons. As Austria's traditional enemy, France's plight might normally have drawn a secret smirk. But having forged an alliance through her daughter's marriage to Louis XVI, she felt no schadenfreude in France's fall.
She wanted to bail France out, but Austria's own finances were hardly robust. At least upstart capitalists were pumping vast sums across Europe, fueling a boom—that was a silver lining. Give it twenty years, and the Habsburgs, Holy Roman Empire, France, Spain, and other blood-allied realms would unite, unleashing their full potential. But she couldn't tell her precious daughter to wait two decades blindly. She might not even live that long—her age made it certain she'd go sooner. Resigned, she dipped into the treasury's diplomatic funds and wired three hundred thousand livres in gold to Maria Antonia. That sum would cover balls and finery without shame for months to come. Hoping Louis XVI— that naive young king—wouldn't fall too deep into Enlightenment folly, Maria Theresa finally drifted off after another night of worry.