What is a Frenchman?
September 12, 1781. Lorraine. Countless Italian mercenaries-turned-refugees were cleaning up the ironworks site.
"Hey, check this out. I got pinned right here, and some soldier guy pulled me out? This bloodstain's mine. What do you think?"
"Ugh, that's gross. Get it away."
They were rebuilding the Lorraine ironworks alongside the hordes of refugees who'd flooded across the French border.
"Quit yapping and focus on the job. Back in my day, I ground up asbestos chunks the size of a man all by myself."
In truth, the refugees were the ones doing the heavy lifting, while the foremen barking orders were the original workers who'd built the old Lorraine ironworks. They hadn't been slated to join this reconstruction project at first—the bureaucrats had planned to staff it entirely with refugees. But Louis XVI, with his modern sensibilities on employment, had decreed that using only refugees wouldn't stimulate the local economy and insisted on involving the regional populace.
The debate hadn't dragged on. Both the king and his officials agreed they needed jobs to absorb the tens of thousands of unemployed who'd dropped from the sky like manna. The bureaucrats' refugee-only plan helped prevent urban slums and aided resettlement. The king's local involvement scheme ensured thorough restoration and won local goodwill. They quickly compromised: locals as site supervisors, refugees as laborers.
"Foreman, what does it mean to layer the iron bars in a four-deep grid pattern?"
"Hm? That's..."
Of course, even those foremen weren't proper workers, so a few hiccups arose on site—but nothing major.
"Lay the rebar in a grid on the supports and wire it together. Get the base solid, and the upper levels stack easy, right?"
Royal civil engineering safety inspectors had been dispatched for that very reason.
"Like this?"
"Hmm... Let me demonstrate. Both of you, come here."
They were all scholars with real expertise in architecture, to a one.
"Whoa, it's so straight and neat—pretty as a picture."
"How'd you do that?"
"You'll get the hang of it."
Under their command, the Lorraine ironworks rose sturdy and true—not some ramshackle labor-dump like before, but a genuine factory. Estimated completion: twenty months. The previous build had kicked off in May 1778 and wrapped in January 1780—an eighteen-month rush job. But this time, it wasn't slapdash.
"Don't skimp on the asbestos! This is where you'll work later—if the building catches fire from your corner-cutting, you'll regret it then!"
Real standards were in place, designed not with Louis XVI's half-baked rebar concrete hacks but by proper architects using formal methods.
"Check the plumb line! Dismantle all the wire from sector 16 to 27 and redo it. Out of level, and the whole thing collapses!"
They built the new plant with rebar produced at the old Lorraine ironworks, learning firsthand what made for safety and what spelled disaster.
"Don't stint on the tar! Coat it thoroughly. Heard about the Annecy granary collapse? Sloppy tar work caused that. Rust eats rebar, snaps it clean—then your building crumbles. Build it like it's your home—no, like it's your workplace. Solid."
Of course, with just over two years' experience, they leaned overly conservative.
"Inspector, about the blueprints here..."
"Yes, foreman? What's the issue?"
"According to the plans, this spot bears heavy load—sixteen rebar enough?"
"Hm. Beef the foundation from four to six layers, double the pillar rebar. I'll consult the other inspectors."
That two-year know-how led to choices that might haunt centuries later—but that was for posterity to sort. Contemporary buildings just needed to hold up in their time.
"We've conferred. Upping rebar by twenty percent. Eighteen in the pillars."
If no problems surfaced after a century or two, that was the next generations' headache, not theirs.
"Um, is this the refugee work site?"
Even amid the bustle, fresh refugees trickled in—fleeing brutal taxes, or escaping near-civil wars sparked by half-baked paramilitary police forces. Most had heard rumors of France's plenty.
"Ah, new hire? Sign the contract first—spots are full for today, though..."
"Oh... I see."
In normal times, they'd drift penniless into some city, turn beggar or worse. The lucky might snag day labor; most became pickpockets, con men, urban blight.
"See that concrete over there? The mud-pouring stuff."
"Yeah. Head there?"
"Nah. See the guys hammering it down next to it? Join them. Air pockets make it crumble. And don't eat it—hurts the gut, even if you're starving."
But these were boom times. Even beggars had bread. Louis XVI figured if a beggar was French, he'd toss in Christmas sugar-dusted loaves too.
"People eat that?"
"Yup. Wish I didn't know."
By Claude Louis de Saint-Germain, Proprietor of the Saint-Germain Seamstress Factory in Paris
Hatred stems from misunderstanding. Foreigners, do not provoke the locals. Locals, have no need to overly mistrust foreigners.
* Versailles Palace, Council Chamber.
Peace had returned. "Postwar reconstruction"—grandiose for what it was, but France's largest single steel mill had collapsed, and numerically speaking, two weeks' worth of one nation's grain had been looted. They had to look busy for the world. Besides, spending money was the only way to write it off against reparations.
"Your Majesty, Interior Ministry periodic report. Recall that political essay in last week's Journal de Paris?"
"How could I forget? By Georges Danton, the human rights lawyer and junior colleague of Robespierre."
Danton. He'd tangled with the Revolution in original history, or so he vaguely recalled. But now? A whole different man. Everyone from that era was street weeds hardened by deception. Yet France now basked in a second Sun King era—or beyond. Historical figures weren't likely their original selves. Who'd have guessed purger Robespierre moonlighting as a rights advocate?
"Danton... He argued against taking reparations, didn't he?"
"Yes. Claimed more gain in forgoing demands than receiving them."
Ah, right. Non-interference from abroad trumped gold. He'd cited the Papal real-estate donation after the MEPO bills vaporized Europe's cash, no doubt. Sharp political instinct—great man then, great now.
"That essay's drawing massive backlash."
What? Why?
"Xenophobia dominates opinion. Backlash against refugees is worse than expected. The French masses firmly believe foreigners won't honor peace treaties. Wander the Seine, and you'll hear Italians are poverty-stricken philanderers—eternal lovers till marriage, then ghosts. Germans? Brutes whose fists fly before words if the bill's off. Worse than Jews, better than Gypsies."
"Fair enough. I've matters to ponder—dismissed."
"Yes, sire."
Even in romance-free, venom-laced modern times, foreigner hate sparked violence. Better to snuff sparks lest it trip up governance. Silence for mystique or divine right just bred extremists.
"Time for Minister Saint-Germain to step up. National Intelligence Agency—prepare a carriage."
Time to play the Enlightenment philosophe?
By "Medal Honor," Street Laborer
The influx of foreigners shrinks the space for Frenchmen.
Frenchmen dwindle as foreigners multiply.
France for the French!
September 19, 1781. France's premier paper, Journal de Paris, ran an op-ed. By "Saint-Germain Proprietor," who ran a Paris sewing factory.
Are You Not Spying on Your Neighbors?
It argued hatred bred from misunderstanding. Flowery words, but the gist: Foreigners, don't rile locals. Locals, ease up on suspicion.
Folks read it and scoffed: "Politico's resume—book-smart, street-dumb. Scholars are the problem, holing up in ivory towers. Better he joins the bureaucracy quick; rolling in the dirt cures this nonsense."
The piece that truly fired them up was elsewhere: an op-ed in Paris's mid-tier morning rag, Le Matin de Paris. By "Medal Honor," self-proclaimed street laborer.
Plain words, no frills. Thesis: Foreigners encroach, French spots vanish.
From tax-squeezed central Paris burghers to paupers scraping by on public works, all nodded fiercely. Even moderates admitted the radical tone hid no falsehoods.
Burghers eyed foreigners clustering kin in mini-factories. Laborers resented the newcomers. Paupers cut from canal cleanup blamed Italian refugees, knives whetted. They pinned public works cuts on outsiders.
"Medal Honor's" pithy three-liner had become gospel to the French.