Chapter 76: The Rulers (6) "Full forgiveness of one billion livres… isn't that an amount that would make people start a rebellion if they heard it?"
"That much money can be squeezed out if you twist a couple of princes hard enough, Your Excellency."
Even at my words, Goethe only smiled gently and brushed it off.
Damn it. What do I do.
That bait looks too delicious.
"What do you need me to do?"
I bit my lips for a long time, then spoke to Goethe.
"Soon, an Electors' Council to choose the new Kaiser will be held. The Elector of Cologne wishes to invite Finance Minister Guillaume, Your Excellency, to that gathering."
"…So you're saying you'll throw me into a place crawling with electors and nobles?"
"Only throw you in? You will also need to give a speech."
Huh? If I do that, I'm going to end up with a bullet hole in my chest. No—before that, that grim, square-jawed Duke of Brunswick will challenge me to a duel.
If it were something manageable, I'd grit my teeth and do it, but how is this any different from telling me to walk across hellfire?
"I won't do it."
"…Pardon?"
Goethe blurted it out without thinking, flustered by my firm refusal.
"If you and this Elector of Cologne fail, I don't think I'll be able to return to France cleanly. And from what I can tell, the fact that you're secretly meeting me like this at such a late hour also looks like proof that your side's power isn't very great compared to the Duke of Brunswick or the other electors."
"Your Excellency… weren't you someone who would do anything for France? I'm rather taken aback."
What are you talking about? I did it because I had no choice after being forced into the seat.
I always keep my resignation letter sharpened and ready in my arms, you know?
Buzz buzz—this is the world's greatest resignation sword.
I just can't draw it. Sob.
"I only did my duty. And no matter how I look at it, siding with you and this Elector of Cologne looks like low-odds gambling. No matter how big the money on the line is, the odds have to be at least somewhat decent before you gamble, don't they?"
"…Hm…"
Goethe quietly nodded and let out a low sound.
"Author. I do have a compromise to propose—would you like to hear it?"
I leaned toward Goethe, who couldn't speak and had grown gloomy.
"…A compromise, you say?"
"You're trying to use me as a totem of revolution anyway. I'll gladly be your totem. But I can't be one openly."
"What do you mean…?"
What else? Let's put on one hell of a play.
So—are you in, or not?
Sssup.
Hoo.
Ah, now I can breathe again.
I took one last deep pull from the pipe I'd borrowed from the sergeant, then returned it to its owner as I spoke.
"Hoo… how much did you buy this for, Sergeant?"
"Yes? It was probably a two-livre item."
"And the tobacco leaves?"
"I bought those for about three livres."
"Sell me both for ten livres."
No matter how I think about it, I need nicotine. I keep getting tangled up in this shitty mess, and I feel like I'm going to go insane from the stress—and if I don't even have nicotine… I don't even want to think about it.
If there's no tobacco, the weak Guillaume might die!
"Why would you buy an old used one to smoke, Your Excellency? You should just buy a new one nearby."
"Ah—there's a tobacco shop around here?"
"Shall I guide you?"
"Yes, please."
The sergeant and I changed into plain everyday clothes and left the lodging early in the morning.
Not far from the lodging, just as the sergeant said, a tobacco shop had opened its doors.
"Hell—no. Guten Tag?"
"…I can speak French. And since it's morning, it's not Guten Tag but Guten Morgen."
The old man sitting at the counter gave a snort of laughter when he saw my face.
"Ahem. I came to buy some tobacco."
At my words, the old man stood from the counter and headed toward the goods, then asked me,
"What will it be? Cigars? Hand-rolled cigarettes? Or a pipe?"
"…Hand-rolled cigarettes? You have cigarettes?"
Pipes and cigars, sure—but cigarettes… I've never seen them here.
The old shopkeeper snorted again and spoke.
"Hah. Is there such a thing as a tobacco shop without cigarettes? You look like a young fellow smoking for the first time, so I'd recommend a pipe. Hand-rolled cigarettes are too strong."
"Hah, don't underestimate me—I've smoked Marlboro Reds."
They were pretty strong, though. I borrowed one once, and I think I never smoked them again after that.
"Mar—Marlboro? What is that?"
Ah, damn it.
"…I mean, I've smoked strong tobacco."
"Well, in that case, I won't stop you."
The old man hitched his shoulders, then wrapped tobacco leaves in paper and handed it to me.
"Here you go. Hand-rolled. Want to try one? Use the flint right there for the fire."
I took the cigarette the old man handed me and clicked the flint on the counter, producing sparks.
The flame I made began to burn the tobacco.
Yeah. This is tobacco.
Sob. I missed you so much, tobacco!
I put the cigarette to my lips and inhaled hard.
Sssup.
"Kraaaagh! Ugh! Keh-aaagh! Cough, cough!"
Seeing me cough nonstop, the old man clutched his belly and laughed loudly.
"Ha ha ha! I knew it! Young fools like you always try to look cool, get burned once, and only then come to your senses."
"Cough! Cough! This is… a cigarette? Isn't this poison, not tobacco?"
"What you smoked is the standard one."
Is this… the power of a filter? Have I been smoking filters all this time instead of tobacco?
The pure smoke without a filter stabbed through my lungs everywhere—no, it was rampaging inside my lungs like Grouchy gone insane.
"Cough, cough! Just give me a pipe."
The old man went back to the shelves, rummaged through several pipes, and spoke.
"What material do you want? You look like someone from a well-off house—ivory is prettier than wood and lasts longer. Of course, it's a bit pricey. Still, a lot of ivory has been coming in lately, so it's cheaper than last year. It shouldn't be too burdensome."
"…Then give me ivory."
"A very goooood choice! Ha ha ha!"
The old man grinned at me, showing yellowed teeth, clearly pleased.
Early March, 1790.
Ajaccio, Corsica, territory of France.
"Withdraw from Corsica."
"…Do you hear yourself?!"
In the early dawn darkness, at the first words of the Englishman who had arrived in Corsica, Paoli furrowed his brow deeply and replied in fluent English honed through over a decade of life in Britain.
But the Englishman, as if he couldn't care less about Paoli's reaction, kept his spine straight and spoke.
"Even if you say that, the decision made by Parliament and the Prime Minister is firm, Mr. Paoli."
"I've done everything you told me up to now! I swore that if Corsica became independent from France, we'd join the British Empire—loosely, but still! I even agreed to accept a governor!"
At last Paoli kicked back his chair, rose, and glared at the Englishman.
The Englishman tilted his head, looking as if he truly didn't understand Paoli, and continued.
"Mr. Paoli. Choose your words. Participation in the British Empire and dispatching a governor are nominal anyway, are they not? That was not the promise between the British Foreign Office and yourself."
"…"
"The British Empire uses Corsica to check southern France, and Corsica enjoys autonomy equivalent to an independent state—was that not our practical agreement? Yet you are becoming so heated; from my perspective… it is rather surprising."
"…Stepping onto my homeland—the land I dreamed of for over a decade—seems to have made me emotional. I apologize."
But the thirsty man digs the well. Unable to do anything without British support, Paoli lowered his head in the end.
"As a gentleman, I accept your apology, Mr. Paoli."
"But tell me."
"Yes—do you have a question?"
The Englishman asked with a faint smile.
"Why, in the world, are you suddenly telling me to withdraw from Corsica? At least explain the reason properly."
"…Ah, that is because all of Europe is stirring."
"…Europe is stirring?"
"Yes. Two weeks ago, the Kaiser of the Holy Roman Empire died, would you believe it. Thanks to that, only the British Foreign Office is dying of overwork."
It truly is difficult. The Englishman removed his hat and shook his head as if regretful, adding,
"…"
"His Majesty the King and Prime Minister Pitt believe that to respond to the current change in circumstances, a full revision of our present diplomatic strategy is necessary."
"…So the British Empire is abandoning us Corsicans now?"
"Abandoning you? Whatever do you mean! We are merely postponing Corsican independence until a concrete diplomatic strategy is produced."
"…Listen. I will ask just one thing."
"As much as you like."
"How old do I look to you?"
Paoli stared at the Englishman with calm eyes—yet something like fire seemed to flicker within them.
"…What do you mean?"
"This man with white hair and a face full of wrinkles—how old do I look to you?"
All sixty-six years of my life, I have waited for this day. And now, because your heads babbled a few words, you want me to go back to that sewer called London?
But Paoli's words could only circle in his throat to the end.
"…"
To the Englishman now staring at him, Paoli bowed his head again and said,
"…No. That was a slip of the tongue."
"…In any case, between mid-March and late March, we will send a smuggling boat as we did before, so be prepared, Mr. Paoli."
"Understood."
After the Englishman shut the door and left, Paoli muttered softly,
"Disgusting British pirate bastards."
What's the fastest way to make people close to each other?
Find common ground and talk about it?
Sneak away from work, go up to the company rooftop, and share a cigarette with coworkers?
Or—
"Come on! Cheers! To Corsica!"
"""To Corsica!"""
Gulp, gulp.
"Kuaaaah!"
"Damn, Napoleone! Aren't you pushing it too hard today?!"
"Hah! For me, this is no different from water."
"Didn't Napoleone do that the other day too, then slam his whole head into the tavern table?"
For nearly a week now, paying for the drinks, Napoleon had been mingling with Paoli's close associates.
With someone from the same hometown—about the same age—stuck to his side all day, shouting drink up, drink up, Napoleon's younger, low-ranking members around his age began to treat Napoleon almost like a friend—an older brother or younger brother.
"Hey! Napoleone! Take a drink I'm giving you too!"
"Of course!"
"Brother Napoleone! This time I'll pour for you!"
"Sure!"
"Hey, hey—tell us what you did in Paris!"
"Of course. So when I was in Paris…"
Like any drinking table, today too Napoleon began spinning all kinds of stories.
From cracking that ill-mannered bastard Hugo's skull—
"Man, that feels good!"
All the way to stories about his friends.
"G-Guillaume—that Finance Minister? That guy is your friend, Napoleone?"
Napoleon was, step by step,
building his moves—one by one.
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