Under Mont Blanc Lies the National Intelligence Agency
1775 May 21, Tuileries Palace, the king's office.
The last Estates-General had wrapped up without incident. No matter how much they grumbled, they'd been summoned to pay taxes in the end, and it was decided that the First and Second Estates would foot the bill. Perhaps because they had so many skeletons in their closets, they barely spoke up in the final session. The Duke of Orléans twisted himself into knots talking about "liberty," but... the liberty of just the First and Second Estates was full of holes, easily shot down with a word or two, and they fell silent soon enough.
"Your Majesty, tax collection from the First and Second Estates is stagnating at around 10%. Excluding pro-Third Estate figures like Count Mirabeau, it's effectively 3-4%."
Well, I hadn't expected much to begin with.
"It's fine. Jumping from 0% to 10% is a massive increase. How's the deficit looking?"
"Pro-Third Estate sympathizers didn't have much wealth to begin with. Even after collection, it's barely better than the petty bourgeoisie. And among the Second Estate, those who pay only cough up the land tax, dodging the rabbit tax and pigeon tax. They report no such things on paper while moving their rabbit hutches and dovecotes elsewhere to evade it. The annual deficit dropped from 351 million livres to 64 million livres, but we're not in the black yet."
From a deficit bigger than the national treasury, three years' worth down—that was progress worthy of a monument. Wait a second, isn't this a money-making opportunity?
"The promissory note scheme won't get found out. Don't be so jittery. And... start early repayments on the Daecheong Trading Company notes, just a little at a time. That'll reduce suspicion. Oh, and since that'll shrink the treasury, short French government bonds before repaying. The Treasury must be crawling with foreign spies, right?"
"We can't be sure about foreign spies, but... there are a few nobles tied by blood to foreign aristocracy."
European nobles would, of course. No wonder World War I was called a family feud.
"Then, after shorting, leak our treasury situation to foreign powers through them. Empty the coffers to make it look like bankruptcy's imminent, tanking bond prices to scrap paper. We'll have to cover the shorts, of course."
"Understood, Your Majesty. Where shall we store the short-selling profits?"
Hmm, tricky. Bringing it into the treasury would boost bond prices and trigger losses on the shorts. Spending on grain or materials feels wasteful. Where to hide a massive sum of untraceable black money? The nation's dirty little secret...
"Can't we bury it under some mountain?"
"Under a mountain... You mean Mont Blanc?"
Mont Blanc? Mont Blanc cake?
"Yeah, there. Bury it under there—no one will find it."
"It's in the Chablais region, no—Mont Blanc is one of the safest spots, right under the Alps despite being border territory."
Ah, the Alps. Got it.
"Let's make it the main base for the King's Shadow while we're at it. Fully organize it. Base it in the Alps, fund it through our economic ops."
"Won't it get corrupt?"
Tsk. This guy's clueless.
"An agency too squeaky clean can't function as intelligence. It needs just the right amount of corruption to get its hands dirty. I need leverage over the intel agency too, or it won't heed me, right?"
Right amount of corruption, aka performance bonuses. Gotta train the dogs that bite well into guard hounds, no?
"Can't live in the shadows forever. Build the main base near Mont Blanc, create a cover village. It looks like a quaint tourist spot from outside, but inside it's training our spies."
Like a ninja village in Japan. Or... not? My Japan knowledge's all from manga and novels.
"From now on, route economic op profits to Mont Blanc, not the treasury. Make it the king's slush fund vault. Keep it up until the First and Second Estates are gone. Keep issuing bonds too—we'll buy them all later and burn them. Set rates at ultra-low 1-2% so no one buys; cover interest with notes."
Anyway, the Daecheong Trading ghost company's note interest and principal had already topped 100 billion livres. France's 250-year budget, but hey, not my debt. Let the money-hoarding First and Second Estates and the colonial empires feasting on French reparations pay up. No money? Declare bankruptcy then.
"Yes, Your Majesty. We'll relocate the King's Shadow headquarters to Mont Blanc."
"And rename it while we're at it. It's gone beyond France to intel ops across Europe."
"What shall we call it? France's Shadow?"
"No. French National Intelligence Agency. Fits perfectly, right? Shorten to NIA."
Namsan screams NIA. Alps are southeast from France... south-ish, anyway?
Scams have always been led by one side holding the initiative. Like siege and defense. The initiative lets the scammer dictate when, where, and how to strike. Unlike sieges, where the defenders can hold firm with walls even outnumbered, scams start with the castle gates flung wide. Economic slaughter, really. Victims span rulers and ruled alike. But what can you do? I'm French; you're not. First and Second Estates French too? I'm Korean. None of my business. One thing's sure: this economic massacre weakens France's enemies—and mine.
1775 May 24, somewhere on Corsica island, France, a field.
"Maxim. Something feels off lately."
Typical French tenant farmer Theo sensed something amiss.
"I know, weird, right? Other fields look like bumper crops too."
Neighbor and fellow tenant Maxim shared the sentiment.
"Not quite that. You know bread prices lately?"
"Must be bumper crops nationwide. Yesterday's market had nine loaves for 5 sous."
Even as he said it, Maxim knew it was non sequitur. Corsica, France's southernmost isle, harvested wheat first. Other regions prepped only after Corsica finished.
"See? Something's wrong."
Prices this low were unnatural. Mainland France hadn't even winter-wheat harvested yet, and island shipping costs were double—yet bread prices were rock bottom. No, scraping the basement floor.
Neither harvest nor imports explained it. Prices were crashing anyway.
"Weird or not, what can we do? We're dirt-grubbing peasants. Just pray the big wave doesn't sweep us away."
"And check this. Steel plow from the smithy just now. Guess the price?"
Weirdness wasn't just bread. Non-essentials were tanking too.
"Steel plow... 40 livres?"
"Nope. 6 livres."
"What? Smith covers labor? Theo, look close—is it mercury-plated cast iron?"
Hearing Theo bought a steel plow at under 1/20 market price, Maxim assumed a scam. But no slipperiness; the edge even sliced his finger bloody.
"Gonna test-plow it. Wheat harvest's wrapping up anyway. Might reclaim a few quel toward the woods."
"You're nuts! Get caught, it's your head!"
"But I don't wanna debut this steel plow flipping our own field. So... lend some oxen?"
Tempted by the sturdy plow, Theo caved and decided to expand secretly.
Legally, tenant farmers Theo and Maxim couldn't expand without lordly permission. Secret reclamation meant no rent for the lord, no taxes for the state—"nonexistent land," a social evil by era standards.
"Ugh, fine. Just three quel for ours too."
But evil was evil; survival was survival.
"You got it."
As dusk fell, they hitched the plow to oxen beside the harvested field. Drought-hardened soil split like poked egg yolk.
-Ting!
Obstacles weren't zero.
-Moo!
Trifles before the steel plow.
"Theo, this is real steel. You fleeced the smith. Impressive."
Maxim still couldn't accept it—just lucky newbie smith got conned.
"Cheapest was 5 livres 6 sous. Looked fake, so I got the fourth-cheapest."
Maxim quit thinking.
"Theo, whatever. Just pray the wave spares us."
"Yeah. Good thing bread's cheap, whatever's happening."
The Flour War, meant to erupt between April and May 1775 in original history, fizzled before starting.
Thus, seeds of the French Revolution were plucked one by one by Louis XVI. Early dismissal of Physiocrat controller-general Turgot, infinite capital via ghost company notes. And unseen measures by the controller-general normalized France, bit by bit.