What a Total Mess
October 11, 1780, Paris, Île de la Cité. The old Parlement, now home to the French Supreme Court, was buried under a mountain of lawsuits. From the Florance aggravated fraud case to run-of-the-mill individual scams. This year, proxy sales frauds had spiked to bizarre levels.
Up until early summer, the bureaucrats at the Paris high court had brushed them off. "France's economy is booming, so naturally the riffraff are swarming in," they'd say. Scams like these had a history stretching back thousands of years—textbook cons that dated to the birth of markets themselves.
But this year's schemes were on another scale entirely. The Florance case was just one piece of the puzzle. Village-level frauds had piled up into departmental catastrophes, tower upon tower of deceit. The total damage? An estimated 94 million francs—equivalent to one-eighth of France's peasants getting fleeced.
The commoner judges from Paris had no choice but to petition the Minister of Justice for action on this social plague.
*
That afternoon, at the Council of Ministers.
"This is a national disaster, Your Majesty. We beseech you to impose strict market controls."
The Minister of Justice and his officials spoke as one, pleading for measures.
"Is the Director of Agriculture from the Tax Office present?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"The Justice Ministry claims a fraud on the scale of one-eighth of our agricultural output. Do you truly believe it was a scam?"
"Absolutely not. Thanks to Your Majesty's foresight in setting the beginning-of-month market price as the floor, the French grain market holds steady. Without it, wheat would have crashed to sol-per-sack levels amid the glut. Those 'sales proceeds' were almost certainly legitimate transactions."
"There you have it."
The policy of pegging the floor price to the start-of-month rate had been something of a happy accident. It was born of administrative laziness—real-time pricing would have killed the bureaucrats—but it unexpectedly prevented panic selling.
"This is nothing but a massive misunderstanding born of the information gap between city and countryside warping the markets. The high court works tirelessly, as always. Dismiss them with suitable reasons and send the cases back."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Of course, a fraud that massive would have triggered visible flows of wealth. Sudden bourgeois merchants flush with unexplained cash, or investors with money falling from the sky. None had appeared. It felt almost unfair to pin the blame on the high court. Cognitive dissonance and self-justifying rage always twisted in odd directions.
"Next item. How fares free trade with Spain?"
"Yes, the Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs will report. Spain is using our flour and beans as currency substitutes, distributing potatoes for food relief. The cities are in all-but-famine conditions; every able-bodied man has been conscripted for public works. Their industrial base is shattered."
"Regrettable. And?"
"Spain is effectively a French colony now—economically and politically dependent. In three years, we can fully absorb them."
Hm. Not ideal. Swallowing Spain whole would boost territory and potential, but potential was just that. The Holy Roman Empire's electorates would panic, Britain would heighten its guard. And in a pre-modern world with sluggish communications, biting off more than you could digest was a recipe for a ruptured gut. Britain itself was still bloated from America.
"That's not the picture I envision. Once Spain rebuilds its economy, send French scholars under a Franco-Spanish research accord. Foreign Minister?"
"Noted."
Standardizing their systems to French norms should be fine.
"Undersecretary, continue."
"Yes. Alongside the free trade agreement, we leveraged the state shipping company for a five-year contract: 6 billion livres' worth of wheat and 4 billion in beans annually. First payment: 100 Merino rams and 2,000 ewes. To prevent breed leakage, we've allocated a dedicated section of the Brittany royal stud farm. Treasury estimates we can annihilate Britain's woolen industry in twenty years."
"I see."
Honestly, I had no idea if Merinos were worth that much. I'd vaguely heard of them in modern times, probably from some Shorts video. Eighteenth-century breeds were mostly useless by today's standards. Carrots looked like three-year-old wild ginseng roots; eggplants were smaller than eggs. Animals were no better. Full-grown oxen barely reached waist height—I mistook one for a calf at first. I thought it was starved, but no, it was prime stock. Plenty of strength, but little meat, and fattening them took mountains of feed. Inefficiency incarnate. Pigs were Great Dane-sized. Were they raising them for lard? Meager muscle, fat marbled throughout. Slow-roasted, it was edible... like 2,000-won pork by modern tastes. Chickens? Brown pigeons. Merinos would be the same.
But no choice. Sometimes you paint the small picture for short-term gains, even knowing the long-term inefficiency. Besides, grabbing too much now would tarnish our reputation. The sheep might tally tens of millions of francs, but we were shipping hundreds of millions in grain. For fair value, we'd want timber, ships, arms. But bulk ruled them out—too conspicuous. Eyes would turn, tongues would wag. Amateur agitators might cry "plunder of a brother nation," or rumors of Spain's "losses" could spread. No fervent nationalism or fascism yet to ignite, but we couldn't ignore the world entirely.
"Tell the Spanish ambassador it was a fine deal. Any other issues?"
"None major. Britain sent a warning missive, but from a nation at war with us—beneath notice."
The undersecretary distributed copies of the British letter to the council. As he said, it was empty bluster.
"As expected, Britain's the champion of meddling in others' affairs."
Solemnly warns against joint Franco-Spanish actions...
"Britain's fit means we're thriving upright. Your labors make France shine brighter. Well done thus far; keep it up."
"No, Your Majesty—it's all your grace."
Still, protocol demanded a reply to such a letter.
...Protocol, yes.
"We can't very well ignore it. Secretary, take this down: 'This free trade accord is a legitimate sovereign act. Should they wish, we can sell grain to Britain as well. The French crown respects the British Parliament's decisions.'"
This free trade accord is a legitimate sovereign act. Should they wish, we can sell grain to Britain as well. The French crown respects the British Parliament's decisions.
Moreover, Your Majesty's loose talk of humanitarian aid betrays nothing but anxiety over phantoms. The ties between France and Spain are bound by blood alone—staunch and unyielding.
Pot calling the kettle black.
You know we're not that close, right?
I'd sent Britain a beautifully wrapped middle finger.
*
November 21, 1780, Britain, Parliament.
"This is a challenge to the British Empire!!"
A Tory MP bellowed in fury.
"Shut it, conservatives! Blaming innocent France from the start was the mistake."
"Shoddy agitation! Must we sit idle while our enemy grows stronger?!"
"And what have you done?"
"That rotten mindset is what's tanking army morale!"
"Rotten appointments are why we're losing sea battles left and right! Know Admiral Graves's record?"
Parliament had been paralyzed for three years. Colonial wars, financial scams, rampant petty pirates preying on merchants. Heaven itself seemed to have forsaken Britain—misfortunes unending.
"Graves was a Tory pick. Proof you're sidelining talent for cronies! The army's factionalizing into warlordism!"
"Meritocracy, not warlordism! Graves lost battles, but his merits make them victories. Recall New York early this year? Without his cannon support, 34,000 British sons would have perished!"
"What admiral just watches with thirty ships? I grant his contributions, but navies are judged by sea fights. Once more: Graves's sea record? 28 battles, 28 losses! Total wipeout! Why's he still strutting as admiral? Tory or Whig, incompetence demands dismissal. Why shield him?!"
"Incompetence? He turned 28 disadvantageous engagements into minimal losses—a master! Defeats on paper, triumphs in merit!"
"So masterful he loses three ships of the line to pirates?!"
"Frontline commanders' fault!"
"Too grave for mere incompetence?"
Dig deeper, and neither Whigs nor Tories had clean hands. Whig bourgeois had raked insurance windfalls from the war; Tories' generals botched against rebel colonists. Worse, this Parliament reflected no public will. Whigs had gone rogue pre-war, babbling about selling independence for cash. Tories bled politically as costs mounted and defeats piled. Whigs held a slim edge, but no regime-change margin—they'd touched the untouchable: bread.
Blockade-betting insurance booms while grain imports fed the poor? That was wagering on starvation.
"Calm down. Shouting changes nothing. Act with dignity, gentlemen."
"Mr. Speaker, the Whigs are mired in baseless slander, dragging us into the muck."
"I know."
Speaker Charles Wolgrave wearied of the corpse of a chamber, weeks of bickering. The Prime Minister seized the lull to pour oil on the fire.
"We all want the Empire to thrive, no? If you hamstring governance with blind opposition instead of constructive proposals, we might as well dissolve Parliament... er."
"What was that? Dissolve? Dictatorship?!"
"I meant cooperation."
"The Empire's progress stems from capitalists' and entrepreneurs' innovations! Treating Whigs as obstacles? Repression as an option? Wrong from the start! We won't stoop to your level!"
Parliament sank into the mire once more. No debate on Merino imports or wool industry safeguards.