Chapter 11: A Warm Yet Cold Winter "Marie, starting today, I'd like you to make 100 more portions."
"Yes, understood, little boss."
"And don't take those 100 portions with you when you go out to sell today."
"…Pardon?"
"I have somewhere I need to use those 100 portions."
"Well, if the little boss has somewhere to use them, I suppose you do. Understood."
"Thank you, Marie. Oh right—you said your daughter's birthday is coming up, didn't you? Think of this as a token of my sincerity. It isn't much, so don't feel burdened."
Guillaume said that as he handed the envelope he was holding to Marie.
"Huh? What is this? No, what is all this money!? One, two, three…"
"I put in 1 livre. It's not enough to buy your daughter a pretty dress, but please at least buy her lots of tasty things."
"Oh my, oh my—what could a fifty-year-old woman like me have done to deserve such a big sum?"
"An employee's happiness is a valuable asset to an employer, so don't say that. Don't waste it on something pointless—use it somewhere good with your family."
"Oh, thank you so very much. Thank you. All right, everyone! Let's do our best today too!"
"Yes!"
With the cooks all shouting together as the last thing he saw, Guillaume went outside.
The moment the little boss stepped out, the kitchen filled with the women's chatter.
"See? Our little boss really is different from other noble lords. I've never seen someone who treats each and every working person with such care!"
"Of course. I've never seen a boss that kind before!"
"Sometimes I think someone like him could show up in the Bible!"
It was a cold winter, but whether it was because of the heat pouring out of the ovens—or because of the good atmosphere—either way, warm laughter bloomed again today in the People of Isaac kitchen.
"So… you're saying… the poor didn't forcibly steal the lord's goods…"
"Yes. I personally handed them out."
"…Really?"
"Yes."
"No, but why?"
"It's noblesse oblige—if you have something, isn't it only natural that you should give? Hahaha!"
This brat's seriously lost it.
A police officer from the Paris police, Patrick, shook his head inwardly.
He had been on patrol when he got a report that some noble child had been robbed by ignorant, uncultured poor people, so he came running in a rush—
Only for the "victim" to say he had voluntarily distributed his goods to the poor.
Damn it. I ran over here without even getting lunch, and it wasn't worth it.
Patrick stared at the little noble in front of him with irritation packed into his eyes.
The boy, the moment their conversation ended, slung the basket over his shoulder again and wandered around, handing bread-like things out to beggars here and there.
—Eat this and keep your strength up!
—Oh my, milord, why would you give something like this to vagrants like us?
—Aren't you and I both God's children in the end? Those with abundance shouldn't pretend not to see those whose bellies are starving.
—Th-thank you, milord!
Well, he's not doing something bad. I should just go back to patrolling.
Patrick watched with a sulky expression, then turned and started walking back the way he had come.
"Officer!"
Just as Patrick was about to leave, someone called from behind.
When Patrick turned toward the voice, it was that same little noble calling to him, holding bread in his hand.
In a brusque tone that meant don't bother me with pointless things—just go home, Patrick replied,
"What is it?"
"You probably couldn't even eat lunch because of patrol, so at least eat this."
The little noble said that and held out bread that was still sending up warm steam.
The smell struck hard at Patrick's empty stomach, and before he realized it, he had taken the bread.
"Then take care!"
Leaving those words behind, the little noble trotted off into the side alley again.
He was probably going to hand out the rest of the bread to more people.
"…So he's not some completely ill-mannered brat. Ngh—! Wh-what is this!?"
Patrick, looking after the boy's back, muttered low as he took a bite—then jolted in shock.
"There's meat in this!?"
Even in the cold winter weather, the warm meat and bread hadn't lost their heat. The taste made Patrick freeze in astonishment.
Napoleon couldn't understand the things happening lately, no matter how he thought about them.
Did he think he couldn't understand that his close younger friend Guillaume was doing business?
No.
Business was something anyone could do.
Sure, it was true Guillaume was a bit young to be called a businessman, but that was something he could brush off as not a big deal.
So what, exactly, did he not understand?
First, he couldn't understand—rationally—the "easy meal" Guillaume was selling like he'd gone insane. How was it possible for bread stuffed with thick chunks of meat—and even vegetables, even if only a little—to be made for only 1 sou?
A month had passed, but Napoleon still couldn't understand it.
Next were the cooks hired at Guillaume's shop.
A place in this world that worked unskilled laborers for two hours a day and paid them the enormous sum of 2 sou?
That wasn't something a businessman aiming to skim profit would ever do. That was something a charity worker would do.
Is that really business? Did Guillaume finally snap?
So on the first day Guillaume started his business, Napoleon predicted Guillaume would fail.
But that prediction wasn't just wrong—it was spectacularly wrong.
One month into the business, Guillaume's "People of Isaac easy meal" was bringing in 86 livres a day.
From the Grenelle Street where the shop was located, all the way to every street leading to Notre-Dame Cathedral, Guillaume was selling his once-in-a-generation business item as if it had sprouted wings.
So Napoleon had no choice but to accept, humbly, that he had been wrong.
Well. With nothing but artillery and marksmanship stuffed in my head, how would I know business? Trying to predict what I don't even understand—that premise was wrong from the start.
But even after accepting all of that, what Guillaume did today was something Napoleon truly couldn't understand.
—But, Guillaume. Why'd you have them make a hundred portions of easy meal?
—Ah, that? I'm going to hand them out to people.
—No, if you're selling them, you can just leave it to the aunties, can't you?
—Huh? I said I'm not selling them. I'm handing them out.
—…?
—…?
—Aren't you a businessman?
—Yeah, I am.
—Isn't a businessman someone who makes money?
—Yeah, I am.
—And you're saying you're giving it all away?
—Yup. I'm giving it to the poor.
—No, why?
—Hyung, when have you ever seen me do something pointless? Everything has a use~.
—Well, if you don't do weird things, you wouldn't be Guillaume.
—Hmph. It won't be as weird as you writing weird novels every day.
—Hey! I'm not weird!
—Madame Pluier said so too, though?
—Ghk…!
—It's because you keep reading gloomy stuff like The Sorrows of Young Werther. Try reading adventure epics or something~.
—Gyaaah! If I catch you, I'll kill you!
Remembering what happened earlier, Napoleon ground his teeth for a moment.
That insolent brat.
He could endure anything else, but he couldn't endure Guillaume trash-talking The Sorrows of Young Werther.
Next time, he would write a true masterpiece of the ages and crush that petty little brat's arrogance. Yes. Absolutely.
Bang bang!
Just then, someone knocked on Napoleon's door.
Napoleon stood and opened it.
A mailman.
"Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte? Is that correct?"
"Yes. That's me."
"A letter from Corsica."
The mailman left those words, shut the door, and vanished.
Clatter, clunk.
January 24, 1785.
A cold wave that had come to France for the first time in decades kept pounding on the windows of houses today as well.
People's clothes grew thicker, and the crackle of firewood burning in fireplaces filled homes all day.
People lay in bed, holding in warm air, spending winter nights with family and friends.
But there was also someone, in a cold and dim room, worrying about the road ahead.
After receiving a letter from his hometown Corsica a few days ago, Napoleon fell into deep worry and shut himself in his room for two days.
[To my beloved Napoleone,
Napoleone, are you doing well? I'm truly sorry that I can't bring you good news, only bad. Since we have to cut even paper and ink costs, I'll write briefly and directly.
Things at home have become too difficult. I don't think I can possibly pay your tuition on time this semester. Please tell the school our situation and ask them to extend the payment deadline a little. I'm truly sorry.
—From your mother, in our hometown Corsica]
"Damn it… does God even exist? I don't know why something like this has to happen to me…"
Without realizing it, Napoleon squeezed the letter so hard it crumpled, but he didn't notice.
That was how humiliating his situation felt, and how bitter it was.
It was a truly, brutally cold winter.
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