Chapter 149: William in English, Guillaume in French (3) Great Britain.
In my memories from the twenty-first century, Britain had always looked like a toothless old lion—a doddering old man sitting in the back room.
They had created the European Union with their own hands, only to lose leadership to Germany. Then they threw a tantrum and left it, and afterward wavered about whether they should rejoin. Looking at that spectacle, the image of a toothless old lion fit perfectly.
But eighteenth-century Britain was not that toothless lion of the twenty-first century.
Right now it was the king of beasts in full vigor, with claws and teeth still sharp.
An opportunity to expand business in Britain?
In twenty-first-century terms, it was practically the same as entering the American market.
Ah, the chance to stick a straw into a country richer than my own?
As a businessman, there was no way I could resist that.
"That's why we're all sitting here wracking our brains over it. Do you understand, everyone?"
"Why don't we just sell quick meals like we did in France, boss?"
"Well… we can't be certain how that would be received there."
The concern was simple: whether a business idea that worked in France would work in a foreign country I had never even visited.
Fortunately, France was currently the cultural trendsetter of Europe, so the idea probably wouldn't fail completely. Still, the market structure there wouldn't be exactly the same as here.
"Hm. Do we really need to worry that much? People live more or less the same everywhere."
"Even if it's inconvenient, it's better to prepare in advance than regret it later."
Better safe than sorry.
Or as they say here: keep the vault firmly locked.
"First of all, we should exclude magazines and newspapers from the products we bring to Britain. If we enter that market, we'll only end up eating into the market already held by The Times. That would do more harm than good."
"You're absolutely right, boss."
We couldn't possibly create trouble for The Times, our allied company that already held a large portion of the British newspaper market.
If we simply left things alone, royalties would keep flowing in anyway. There was no reason to kick a hornet's nest.
"Boss, what about selling gas lamps?"
"Hm… I'm not sure."
Bright, dazzling gas lamps would certainly be effective, but installing the infrastructure would require digging up half of London.
Even in France, where the technology was still being developed, it was complicated. Could we really remodel the center of London that way?
We would probably spend ages just obtaining permits.
"That's something we can profit from later when the British come looking for it themselves. If French workers start digging up the streets of London, the locals will just think we're stealing their jobs."
"Understood, boss. I'll put the gas lamp project on hold."
Florian picked up his pen and crossed out one of the items in the notebook.
Seeing that, Fouchon spoke next.
"Boss, what about selling sugar beets or coffee from Saint-Domingue? Since Monsieur Toussaint has been appointed the new governor there, he might cooperate with us."
"That's work for the Ministry of Finance, not for the Nations of Isaac. Put it on hold."
If I were still wearing the hat of Controller-General of Finance, I could have taken a small cut from trade with Britain.
But now that I was a private citizen, that was difficult.
Of course, I could whisper a suggestion to the Finance Ministry staff, but I didn't want the impression that the state and a private company were secretly colluding.
Corporate image was important. Once it was damaged, restoring it took a very long time.
How many famous fashion brands had lost their prestige because street thugs started wearing them?
I wanted the Nations of Isaac to become a clean and trustworthy enterprise—not another giant corporation with the rotten reputation of the ones that stabbed me in the back.
"So this doesn't work, and that doesn't work… the only thing left is food. But can we really make a fortune from that?"
"We still have plenty of time before the trip to Britain. Let's think of countermeasures before then. Thank you for your hard work."
"Yes, boss. Have a good evening."
"See you all tomorrow."
Somehow I felt like one of those nasty department heads who rejected every proposal placed on their desk.
But business wasn't child's play.
And if the market was a foreign country rather than our own, we had to be even more careful.
"Ah, if only work would fall from the sky."
After sending the staff home, I sat alone in the meeting room, spinning a pen in my hand and muttering to myself.
Knock knock.
"Boss, are you still in the meeting room?"
"Who is it?"
"It's François Babeuf."
"Ah, come in, Monsieur Babeuf."
The door hinges creaked as Babeuf entered.
Strangely, his face looked even more exhausted than when I used to work overtime constantly.
That was odd… wasn't Babeuf supposed to work from nine in the morning to six in the evening?
Why did he look more worn out every day?
"Why are you staring at my face like that…?"
"Oh—nothing."
The moment I met Babeuf's lifeless eyes, I immediately lowered my gaze.
I should probably give him a week's vacation soon and send him back to his hometown to recuperate.
If he collapsed at work, that would be a disaster.
"Anyway, boss, someone wants to meet you regarding a business matter."
"Oh? Who is it?"
"A man named Charles Auguste Boehmer. He's waiting in the reception room."
"Boehmer? Boehmer… I feel like I've heard that name somewhere. The meeting just ended anyway, so it shouldn't hurt to see him briefly. Could you show me the way?"
"Of course."
I followed Babeuf, who shuffled along like a zombie, into the reception room on the first floor.
The man waiting there looked almost sixty. As soon as I entered, he sprang to his feet.
His suit wrinkled from the sudden movement, but he didn't seem to care.
"Y-Your Excellency, the Controller-General?!"
"I'm no longer the Controller-General, but it's nice to meet you. I'm Guillaume de Toulon, head of the Nations of Isaac. I hear you wanted to discuss business."
"It is an immeasurable honor, Your Excellency!"
"W-why are you doing that?"
Why was he kneeling?
Six hours earlier.
Paris, France.
Champ de Mars.
"Oh dear… oh dear…"
Just three years ago, crowds had filled the street outside his shop. Nobles from all over France had sought him out.
And now—only three years later—it had come to this.
Life truly was fleeting.
—Vive la Révolution! Punish the greedy nobles who trampled the people's freedom!
—Hurrah! Punish the greedy nobles!
—M-Master Boehmer! Cancel my ruby order!
"Baron, what do you mean cancel it?! At least pay for the ruby!"
"Pay? I'll lose my head if I don't flee to Spain right now! When the heads of those rebels are cut off, I'll come back and pay!"
"Baron! Your Excellency! Where are you going?! Hey! You bastard! Pay before you leave!"
For Boehmer, who had spent sixty years crafting jewels for the aristocracy, the sight of France now felt utterly alien.
The nobles who once decorated their gowns and suits with sapphires, diamonds, and rubies had all fled—to Spain, the Netherlands, or America.
The carefully prepared jewel order lists had become nothing more than scraps of paper.
Because the people meant to pay them were gone.
And then—
—Deputy Robespierre eats nothing but black bread and milk every day! Let us all practice rational consumption instead of luxury!
—Robespierre! Robespierre!
"You scoundrels… then what am I supposed to live on?!"
The only people who still had money now walked around wearing plain black suits, intoxicated by Enlightenment ideas and Robespierre's revolutionary rhetoric.
Black suits.
Could people who dressed like that truly call themselves fashionable Frenchmen?
Boehmer could only sigh.
The warehouse full of uncut jewels awaiting his craftsmanship had turned from treasure into a burden.
"I should have fled to another country when the revolution began."
He sat on a bench in the square, sighing endlessly.
If no one would buy jewels anymore, he would spend the rest of his life drowning in debt.
"Sir, would you like to buy a newspaper?"
"…Leave me alone."
Boehmer glanced down at the young newsboy tapping his shoulder.
What kind of cursed world was this, where a man couldn't even sit quietly and think?
"Tch. You looked like you had money, so I tried talking to you. Total waste of time."
"What did you say?! In my prime, I was a legendary jeweler! Even the king and queen commissioned work from me!"
"You call yourself a jeweler when you can't even buy a newspaper? Stop lying, old man."
"You brat! Give me one!"
"…Damn it. At my age, what kind of life is this, Boehmer?"
After falling for the newsboy's sales trick and buying a paper in irritation, Boehmer rubbed his eyes.
Damn it. His life was already tight enough, and now he was wasting money on newspapers.
He had even canceled his Forbes subscription last month because of money.
"Well… since I bought it, I might as well read it."
He unfolded the newspaper and read the bold headline on the front page.
[King George III of Great Britain invites Controller-General Guillaume de Toulon as a state guest!]
Damn it.
A curse escaped his lips.
If he himself went abroad, he might at least earn a little money.
Yet while he could barely imagine leaving France, someone else received an invitation from the British royal court.
Boehmer folded the newspaper neatly and placed it on his lap.
Looking up at the vast autumn sky, he spoke softly.
"One man's lifelong business is collapsing… while another rises higher under royal invitations. Is life always so fickle?"
He sighed deeply.
"If only I could follow him…"
…
Wait.
Why couldn't he follow?
He was the finest jeweler in France.
Guillaume de Toulon was a businessman.
A businessman took opportunities when they appeared.
Would such a man reject a chance to earn money abroad?
"Whether I die doing nothing or die trying something—it's the same."
Boehmer inhaled the cool autumn air deeply.
Then he walked toward a consultation booth set up in one corner of the square.
"Where is the office of the Nations of Isaac?"
It was the final struggle of a bankrupt sixty-year-old jeweler.
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