Eden Treaty, December 18, 1781
Paris brimmed with year-end cheer. Beggars on the streets had fashioned small tents from the shoddy woolens distributed earlier. With the coins they'd received in charity during the day, they bought food and enjoyed their own modest banquets. The common folk were no different. In the past, when survival was all that mattered, Christmas had meant a single church service and perhaps some meat or fish on the evening table—that was it. But thanks to the sweeping reforms and progress since Louis XVI's ascension, the commoners' year-end celebrations now rivaled those of the middle class.
Parisian workers with money to spare tossed a few coins to the beggars they passed on their way to and from work, starting their days with light hearts. Those gearing up for the approaching Christmas worked 14-hour shifts to claim two hours of overtime pay. It was a paltry 10 to 15 sols, but to the commoners, it was worth its weight in gold. Even the bosses got into the spirit, letting those who lived nearby head home briefly in the evenings. Grateful for the consideration, the workers shared dinner with their families before returning. The priests watched all this with deep satisfaction, seeing the restoration of family bonds as a sign that France's spiritual world was healing. The dwindling hardline faction in the Church could only stand by and watch. Ever since the Hundred Days' War, when royal authority had pierced the heavens, anything they did was futile.
December's chill winds met the bells on the upper classes' Christmas trees, ringing out warm, tinkling chimes. Commoners savored soup enriched with an extra hunk of meat and slices of stollen shared by the young man Adolf next door. The middle class scrimped to buy pork or goose roasts for Christmas dinner. The upper crust, sensing a threat from the folksy yet delicious foods of Germany and Italy, began distributing quintessentially French dishes. True to the 'haute cuisine' of French high society, these were lavish with sauces and spices. Former noble chefs, now helming exclusive restaurants, tailored 'refined cuisine' to be a touch more accessible. Using fresh Brittany milk, eggs, and butter transported in subzero weather, they baked cakes dusted generously with duty-free cacao from Nueva Granada and sugar from Saint-Domingue. Bûche de Noël. The Yule log. Its wrinkled surface from mass production evoked bark, the cacao the log's skin, the sugar winter's snow. To flaunt their wealth and publicize their charity, the elite scattered these cakes through the streets.
"Bread and circuses... no, cakes and Christmas, is it?"
William Eden accepted a bûche de Noël from the distributors.
"My lord, this custom seems to have started just this year. The givers aren't nobles but ordinary bourgeois—shipping magnates, plantation owners from the colonies, or successful investors. Private philanthropy from the wealthy merchant class."
"I see. Any other peculiarities?"
"They make the recipients shout, 'Long live His Majesty the King! Thank you, Mr. Charles-Louis!'"
Eden sat in a coffeehouse, dissecting the bûche de Noël with his accompanying diplomat.
"Cuts nicely. Not bread, but cake. The sugar's fine-grained and clear."
Eden and the diplomat analyzed France over coffee from the house and bites of bûche de Noël.
"Pax Gallia—no, Pax Francia, France's peace. I get why Spain and Portugal grovel to them. No wonder we can't compete."
"Shall we amend the negotiation terms?"
"No. We're still pursuing Great Britain's interests."
A British delegation had arrived.
"Lord Eden. Welcome to France. So, you wish to discuss trade."
"Indeed. By command of His Majesty King George III, I stand here to negotiate amicable trade between our nations. Here is the letter of credence His Majesty granted me."
"Very well. I acknowledge you as Britain's representative. My ministers await at the Foreign Office—go discuss amicable trade between our realms."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Eden, was it? Anthony Eden? No, that's someone else. My memory's fuzzy these days. Anyway, if he's here for an FTA, he's probably decent enough. France is starting to grapple with surplus production issues too.
"Your Majesty, the delegation mentions French policies and wishes to discuss them with their architects."
Not long after the British team headed to the Foreign Office, Foreign Minister Mirabeau himself reported their request.
"Just send them over, then."
Why the personal report when I'm not even at the Tuileries Palace?
"They're all Your Majesty's policies."
Right—back at the Tuileries, I was a dictator.
"I can't attend negotiations myself. I'll prepare a personal letter—ask what they're curious about and report back."
"Yes, sire."
Not a bad move. Attaching the king's name to a policy changes everything. It boosts our negotiators' leverage.
"What policies intrigue them?"
"Public works and currency devaluation."
Simple enough.
I penned a letter blending 18th-century laissez-faire with 21st-century revisionist capitalism—my brand of quack economics. Is this revisionist capitalism too? It works because you revise what doesn't. Come to think of it, 1781 is peak Adam Smith idol-worship in capitalism. I'd love to meet him someday.
"Minister, this letter outlines the intent and philosophy behind public works and devaluation. Show it to the British. By the way, who inquired about these policies?"
"Britain's special economic advisor, Adam Smith."
Huh. 'Lunch sometime' doesn't mean actual lunch.
"I see. Convey that I was deeply impressed by The Wealth of Nations."
Wanting to meet is one thing; actually doing it is another. I'm just a 21st-century quack economist, not the real deal. Born 250 years late to this era, that's all—a mere mortal who's learned from history's blunders and heroes' triumphs what not to do and what to achieve. Face-to-face with an 18th-century giant, I'd hold my own outwardly but get skinned alive inwardly. His foundation is scholarship; mine is hindsight. I can't explain public works to Adam Smith by name-dropping the Hoover Dam.
"The Wealth of Nations, eh. Maybe I should write a book myself."
My experience isn't worthless—I could pen a few warnings to keep France from veering off course later. Even radical nonsense from me becomes national vision because I'm the king. What makes a mere intellectual or bourgeois a subversive threat becomes power from my lips.
We begin with the definition of value. Value bifurcates into material value and added value. To a monkey, gold is but a shiny soft stone, yet bread is sustenance.
Markets weave illusions—the hallucination of the market—mistaking speculation for true worth. Public works anchor value in labor's sweat, devaluation tempers monetary excess, forging prosperity not from phantoms but from the people's toil.
Thus, France rises: not by market whims, but by guided industry and enlightened reform.
At the Foreign Office, the British delegation could only marvel at Louis XVI's letter.
"To think this philosophy underpinned those policies. No need to seek reasons for France's might afar."
"The fruits of His Majesty's grace, no doubt."
Trade concessions momentarily forgotten, the room turned to dissecting the king's missive.
"Defining value first—policy fused with scholarship."
"Especially splitting it into material and added value. 'To a monkey, gold is but a shiny soft stone, yet bread is sustenance.' A monkey, of all things. Utterly brilliant."
"What say you, Mr. Smith?"
Adam Smith, who had requested the explanation, wore a complex expression unlike the others.
"I sense His Majesty's wisdom. Yet I worry his distrust of markets runs too deep."
He eyed skeptically the refrain of 'market hallucination' in every paragraph. What market hallucination so unnerved the king who had elevated France from regional power to continental hegemon in three years?
"Foreign Minister, His Majesty's insights, proven by France herself, humble me. But as a scholar, pure questions arise. Purely academic, setting politics aside—might you convey my scholarly queries to His Majesty for discussion?"
"Of course."
"Thank you. Back to negotiations. Britain wishes to address what His Majesty warned of: 'national industrial structure ossification.' French agricultural output risks making her Europe's breadbasket—profitable short-term, but breeding technical complacency long-term."
Eden took up Smith's thread, steering the talks.
"Yes. Thus, we cannot yield on importing British steel."
"Steel production demands iron foundries, does it not?"
"True enough."
"Foundries aren't built overnight. An FTA until then—five years, renewable. How's that?"
"Agreed. For the perennial interests of France and Britain."
"For the perennial interests of our nations."