Chapter 48: Provisional Government (1) Two days after the fall of the Bastille fortress,July 16, 1789.
• Guillaume de Toulon! The ancient laws of the lofty Kingdom of France strictly forbid commoners from involving themselves in the affairs of the world! To attempt such a thing—how shameless!• If I have a sin, it is that I carried out justice. Louis-Auguste Capet—you hid behind the throne.• Silence! I will make you pay for your crimes at once!• Who judges me! I am the French people themselves! Those who govern bear a greater fate: to protect the innocent people. But if those vaunted laws bind everyone, then I will no longer remain beneath the old regime.• Blasphemy!
Because today's session was already at the stage where most agenda items had been decided and they were distributing the last remaining posts in the provisional government, a young man just past thirty leaned back in his chair and endlessly replayed—again and again—the dreamlike scene from yesterday in his mind.
Like an adolescent boy fallen into first love, like the day he first read Rousseau, Maximilien Robespierre kept chewing on that intense memory.
I thought he was just a bold young man, but he was far more than that. A so-called king, flustered and scrambling before a greenhorn deputy not even twenty yet!
Even though this was a public session and he desperately tried to keep his lips sealed and hold back his laughter, air kept slipping from him with little snickers.
"…Then lastly: is there anyone who objects to appointing Election Commissioner Jean Bailly as Mayor of Paris, establishing the National Guard in place of the disbanded royal troops, and acclaiming General Lafayette as its commander?"
"No objections."
"Then today's convocation of the National Assembly will be con—"
The moderator's final words snapped Robespierre out of the flower garden in his head.
Damn. If I stayed lost in thought, I almost would have failed to bring up what I've been holding in my chest.
"Please wait a moment. Robespierre, deputy of Arras, has something to say."
When Robespierre raised his hand and stood, the moderator nodded and extended a hand toward him in a gesture to speak.
"I, Robespierre, recommend Deputy Guillaume de Toulon of the City of Paris as Finance Minister of the Provisional Government."
"Pffft—! Cough, cough!"
…What did I just hear, Finance Minister? Are you kidding me?
"Guillaume, are you all right?"
"I just… went down the wrong pipe… cough, cough!"
At Father Sieyès's worried gaze, I waved him off.
Why are you doing this to me. You were lukewarm, so I set the fire for you and carried the burden for you too! Now send me home already!
I'm done. I'm quitting. This isn't even a group project—why does the workload keep growing?
As if he had read my mind, Father Sieyès narrowed his eyes and said,
"…You weren't planning to turn the world into this and then run off to Paris alone, were you?"
"…Is it that obvious?"
"Of course it is. Your face says, 'I don't want to.' How would I not notice? Tsk tsk—stop scrunching up your face and speak. A fellow who does business—why does your face turn into an opera actor's face the moment you're in the Assembly?"
"Th… the difference between what you don't want to do and what you have to do, I guess…?"
At my words, Father Sieyès shook his head.
"If you didn't want this, you should have been half-water-half-wine from the start. Now that we're here, even if you act like that, who's going to see you as an ordinary man?"
"Ahem…"
Thaaat's not me. That's the little Korean inside my heart. Yeah. Exactly. I did nothing wrong.
"Hah… Guillaume, let me make a prophecy. I'm not as uncanny as you—more like I'm no Cassandra compared to you—but still."
"…That doesn't sound like a good prophecy."
"Be quiet and listen. I guarantee it—by now your name is probably being spread even among the people of Toulouse on the far side of France."
"Uh… why?"
"Why!? You dense man! If an arsonist burns one house, word spreads; if he burns a whole block, the whole town hears. So if there's a once-in-history arsonist who set the entire country on fire, how could word not spread? Along with the Parisians taking the Bastille, I'm sure what you said has already been printed somewhere and is circulating among people."
"…Tch. That's…"
"Now you finally understand what's going on?"
"Someone's stealing my words and printing them without permission. Are they at least paying royalties?"
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Ow, ow—still, did you really have to smack me on the head…"
I said it while holding an egg and rubbing the crown of my head.
Father Sieyès hasn't run a business, so he doesn't know, but to keep the people under you fed, you have to be crazy about money anywhere you go. Honestly—too much.
"…I don't understand the head-smacking either, but—"
"Are you going to start too, Mathieu?"
Mathieu, back after a week, had his arms crossed and was looking at me like I was insane.
"Aren't I better than someone who knew about rebellion and riots and didn't say a single word, Guillaume?"
"…Mister Mathieu, I think we had a minor disagreement."
"Shut up. Do you know how much I ran around trying to keep you alive?"
"We're all just trying to make a living—agh! That's a bruise!"
"If you don't talk, I think there'll be fewer reasons for me to hit you, Guillaume."
Watching me rub my head with an egg in both hands, Mathieu sighed once and said,
"Why are you rubbing an egg on your head, anyway… What kind of folk remedy is that?"
"…Think of it as a mysterious Eastern healing method."
"Where did you even hear that?"
Well… uh… a previous life.
"Enough. Anyway, are you doing it or not?"
"Doing what—ah, Finance Minister?"
"Yes."
"Wellee…"
When I dragged out my words with my head tilted, Mathieu gave me a puzzled look.
"'Well'? It's Finance Minister, Finance Minister! After the king—no, you already blew the king away, so it's the top seat in France!"
"And you think the Assembly will actually pass that? Only one person nominated me, and I'm not even twenty. If the deputies are sane, they won't put me in charge."
"…This bastard is pretending he's rational now."
What are you talking about. I'm always rational and reasonable.
Sure, sometimes a person can get juuust a little emotional, right?
"Anyway, what Finance Minister. Wake up."
"Fuuuuuck…"
"Hm? What did you just say, Finance Minister Guillaume?"
"Ah, no, Commander Lafayette…"
I said it so quietly nobody should have heard—how did he hear that?
More than that, this is ridiculous. Is there really a country that makes an eighteen-year-old the equivalent of an economic deputy prime minister? This isn't some clickbait title from 200 years later—what the hell is this.
• Then we will take a vote on whether to approve Deputy Guillaume's concurrent appointment as Finance Minister, raised at the end of yesterday's session. Deputy Robespierre, please speak.• Deputy Guillaume de Toulon is the face and pathfinder of our National Assembly. And I hear he is a businessman. That means he is more versed in money matters than those of us from the judiciary.• I also agree with Deputy Robespierre.• So do I!• Let us return to him the weight he carried in our place! I also approve!
Wow, great—so great I could die. I wasn't even expecting to receive a rice cake, and you're forcing one into my hands.
"Finance Minister Guillaume? It's your turn now."
"Yes. Sorry. I was thinking for a moment."
At Commander Lafayette's words, I stood.
After the Provisional Government and the National Assembly were formed, the first thing they did was draft a constitution.
Naturally, with dozens of clauses to be written by all the deputies, it would take at least a month.
So today the Provisional Government had convened to issue temporary administrative decrees to use until the constitution was established.
Why issue temporary decrees?
Because France was "the China of Europe."
When the malicious(?) news spread that the king had been insulted, the oh-so-highborn noble officers went and collectively deserted with weapons.
When the news spread that the Bastille had fallen, peasants everywhere beating lords to death with plowshares became an everyday thing.
So across the provinces, clashes between the private troops of noble deserter officers and peasants were being reported to the Provisional Government multiple times a day.
Was this the living world or hell?
France was something else.
"As everyone already knows, we are being threatened by an enormous fiscal debt."
At my words, the provisional government members all nodded.
"Good. Since everyone seems to understand, I'll go straight to the point. If we abolish the office of 'lord' and all feudal rights, and bring that into tax revenue, we can somewhat ease finances that are on the verge of collapse."
At my words, the provisional government members could not nod.
"Th… Finance Minister Guillaume, we understand your intent. But among our deputies there are many nobles, and many wealthy men who bought noble titles. If we do as you say…"
"…So?"
"Well… I mean… such a radical method right now may be difficult…"
I stared silently at the deputy who spoke, then slowly opened my mouth again.
"Deputy, you do know the debt is 3.5 billion livres, right?"
"…"
"What I just said isn't a preventive measure. It's something we must do immediately, no matter what. Do you understand?"
Now the deputy spoke with an urgent expression.
"Even so—give us a little time, that's all…"
What is this man saying. The debt collectors are about to slap a red notice on the door and he's whining that he wants time to sell a gold necklace?
I exhaled once and spoke again.
"…Then let's levy a tax of at least one-tenth of property on everyone above a certain wealth threshold. The threshold should be limited to people with roughly 100,000 livres or more in liquid assets."
At 100,000 livres—about 15 billion in value—I could protect the middle class and crush the feudal lords.
Someone might call me a communist, but if you want to reform France's vertical social structure—where you can't even hope for trickle-down—there's no other way.
Three percent of the population holds seventy percent of the nation's wealth and land. That has to be reformed, even by force.
Later, if we cut taxes and give subsidies to sectors that can produce more profit, the economy could be revitalized again too.
I'm not a red.
But at the answer I got back, my brow furrowed.
"Isn't that… too extreme?"
Extreme? What do you mean extreme. Someone here is already taking a job he doesn't even want, trying to carry a group project to the end, and you're saying this won't work and that won't work—are you kidding me?
Smiling, I said softly,
"Really? Then I'll resign as Finance Minister. Handle it yourselves."
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