Chapter 166: The Crown's Jewels (10) "Mr. Bömer. Have any invitations to social gatherings arrived for me?"
Having received the unbelievably generous quest reward in advance from Prometheus himself—the British Prime Minister William Pitt the Younger, who burned with determination to grind down the political enemies fighting over Great Britain—I spoke to Mr. Bömer, who served as my secretary the moment I returned to the office.
"Uh… yes, of course, Your Excellency."
Although he tilted his head slightly at my sudden question, Mr. Bömer answered obediently.
"Good. Bring all of them to me."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"…Hmm?"
"Is something the matter, Your Excellency?"
"Shouldn't you normally object about now, Mr. Bömer? Something like, 'You've ignored all of them until now—why suddenly ask about invitations?'"
I said this while sitting comfortably in my chair and loosening the suffocating tie around my neck. Mr. Bömer let out a short chuckle before replying.
"I've already witnessed Your Excellency's remarkable insight more times than I can count—far beyond anything my mind can follow. It wouldn't be proper for me to interfere. I'm sure you have your reasons."
"Oh, I'm nothing special."
"Ha ha."
Mr. Bömer merely shrugged before heading toward the room where the invitations and letters sent to my office were kept.
A short while later, the number of invitations he brought back was staggering.
"…All of these were sent to me?"
"That's correct, Your Excellency."
Even though my work desk was quite large, the pile of invitations nearly covered the entire surface. I suppressed the PTSD brought back by the Finance Minister's office in Versailles and picked up the one sitting at the very top.
The invitation—lavishly decorated as if a great deal of money had been spent on it—featured the name of some nobleman living somewhere in Great Britain, engraved even more flamboyantly than the invitation itself. As expected of aristocrats who always want to live differently from everyone else.
"…We sincerely hope that Your Excellency will attend and grace this gathering. Blah blah, Baron So-and-So."
They were definitely all invitations. Good.
I turned my head toward Mr. Bömer.
"Mr. Bömer. Among these invitations, are there any sent by government institutions?"
"Of course, Your Excellency. The Treasury, the Foreign Office, the House of Lords, the House of Commons, the London City Council—there are many."
As I've said before, the late eighteenth century was practically the age of social gatherings. From high officials of the government to even moderately well-off bureaucrats from ordinary ministries—everyone rented halls on weekends and cut cakes at parties. That was the late eighteenth century.
There wasn't a single government department foolish enough not to send an invitation to someone like me, a former top-ranking official of France.
"Do any of them come from the Admiralty?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
Mr. Bömer nodded and pulled out a blue envelope from inside his coat, as if he had set it aside earlier, and handed it to me.
"This one is from the Admiralty?"
"Yes. It was sent by Admiral John Jervis—the same man we once met."
"John Jervis… ah!"
The commander of the Mediterranean Fleet who ferried me across the English Channel. Come to think of it, I'd been so busy that I still hadn't visited the restaurant he recommended. What a pity.
"You remember, Your Excellency?"
"Oh, of course."
I nodded, then continued.
"Then remove every invitation bearing the Admiralty's name from my desk."
"…Pardon?"
"Leave the invitations from other government departments—the Treasury, the Foreign Office, and so on—right where they are."
Mr. Bömer simply blinked, unable to understand my reasoning.
"Oh—and do I have any banquets scheduled for tomorrow?"
"…Yes! A gathering hosted by the Deputy Chancellor of the Treasury will be held tomorrow in Whitehall, London."
"Excellent. Send a messenger saying I will attend."
"Yes… Your Excellency."
"Curious why I'm doing this?"
Mr. Bömer hesitated, then nodded slightly.
I beckoned him closer with a crooked finger and whispered quietly in his ear.
"Think of it as a simple jealousy strategy."
"A jealousy… strategy…?"
Mid-February 1793.
A banquet hall in London, rented under the name of the British Treasury, was unusually crowded tonight.
"They say Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon is coming today! What a rare opportunity!"
"Why? Hoping to exchange a few words?"
"Of course! Who knows? Maybe a chance to strike gold!"
Some arrived with hopeful anticipation that the former Finance Minister—now a businessman—might casually drop a hint about a gold mine or some financial lifeline.
"Guillaume de Toulon! A chance to converse with the living spirit of the Enlightenment! What greater blessing from God could there be?"
"Indeed! Ever since he came to London, the government released many of us who had been arrested as ideological criminals!"
"Let us save the people! Let us enlighten the people!"
Others came hoping to exchange even a single word with the legendary revolutionary who had shaken all of Europe from across the sea.
"Brother! How did you get this opportunity?"
"I pulled a few strings for my little sister! Do you like it, Jane?"
"Of course! My heart is racing! I'm already worried about what I'll write in my diary tonight!"
Still others came simply out of fanlike enthusiasm, eager to meet the once-untouchable Guillaume de Toulon, whom only high officials had previously been able to approach.
"Oh, business? Well… this is merely my humble opinion, but doesn't the East India Company have… quite a few problems? If the company belonged to France, I would have smashed it during my tenure as Finance Minister. I suspect the Treasury officials here might think similarly. Ah, but that's only my personal opinion."
"Thank you! Thank you, comrades! I shall host another banquet here tomorrow—bring as many friends as you can!"
"Your name… Jeanne Austen? Ah, since we're in England, that would be Jane Austen. A pleasure to meet you, my lady."
To meet the young revolutionary and businessman, the lights of the banquet hall continued to burn—today, tomorrow, and for many nights to come.
April 1793.
As always, the four-story Admiralty building of yellow brick in London was full of noise.
If laws against noise between floors had existed in this era, the civil servants working in nearby Whitehall would probably have united in suing the Admiralty's officers and staff.
Unfortunately, in late-eighteenth-century Britain—where eight-year-old children were forced into hard labor beneath spinning machines—such human-rights-minded laws did not exist. Admiralty personnel were therefore free to shout as loudly as they pleased.
Today, however, the shouting was not because of work, but because they were preparing to receive a very important guest.
"Are the staff uniforms ready?"
"Yes. Everyone from junior officers to clerks has been issued top-grade uniforms from the supply depot."
"And the tea?"
"The finest tea from Singapore has been prepared."
"And the meal?"
"We have hired the head chef from the finest restaurant in London."
"Not bad."
Admiral John Jervis—currently commander of the Mediterranean Fleet and a contender for the position of First Lord of the Admiralty—nodded approvingly at his confident aide, then suddenly spoke again.
"…Just in case, have the sailors resting at the London harbor properly dressed and standing by as well. Our honored guest must see nothing but the perfect image of the Royal Navy."
"Yes, Admiral!"
Watching his aide rush off to carry out the order, Admiral Jervis finally felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.
After all, the guest arriving by carriage today was no ordinary guest.
If the man who currently dominated London's social circles—Guillaume de Toulon—felt offended by the Admiralty's hospitality, not only would Jervis's reputation suffer, but the Admiralty itself would once again be mocked by other departments as a pack of uncivilized brutes.
"Especially those bastards in the Treasury."
Admiral Jervis muttered under his breath before taking a long breath.
—"Another shipbuilding plan?! What more does the Navy want?!"
—"If we are to maintain the maritime power of the British Empire, constructing new ships is absolutely necessary!"
—"If we allocate that much funding to the Admiralty, what will the Army fight with? Bows and arrows? Catapults? Do you think this is the fourteenth century instead of the eighteenth?"
—"The strength of our empire comes from the Navy, not the Army!"
The arguments were always the same.
The Admiralty wanted to increase the Navy's share of military spending, while the Treasury tried to cut expenditures wherever possible.
—"Strength of the empire? Do you even know how much debt this country carries? One hundred seventy million pounds! Our annual revenue is twenty-four million!"
—"That's your Treasury's fault for managing money like drunkards! Why blame the Navy?"
Shouting matches were inevitable.
—"I'd rather not hear lectures about extravagance from men who kidnap civilians off the streets and force them into naval service!"
—"At least France's Treasury manages a debt of 3.5 billion livres! Our Navy already dominates them at sea!"
—"What did you just say?! Take off your rank insignia and fight me!"
—"Gladly! Aide—bring me my sword!"
Before long, the gentlemen would throw aside their masks of civility and draw the swords at their waists.
The Treasury and the Admiralty were essentially mortal enemies living under the same roof of the British Empire.
Admiral Jervis ground his teeth.
Fools from the Treasury. Fools who understood only half the picture.
Did they not realize that protecting Britain's stronghold in Bengal—the jewel of the Crown—required more ships, more sailors, and more naval power?
To crush the arrogance of those Treasury men, today's meeting was vital.
It might have been a brief acquaintance during a crossing of the English Channel, but the Guillaume de Toulon that Jervis had met was a proper gentleman. There had not been the slightest trace of hostility toward the Navy.
Yet that same gentleman had never once attended an Admiralty invitation.
Since the first social gathering he attended in London had been hosted by the Treasury, it was obvious those Treasury men had already used their slick tongues to lure the distinguished guest away.
"Admiral! The guest will arrive shortly!"
"Good. Prepare the honor guard."
"Yes, Admiral!"
Admiral Jervis adjusted his uniform one final time before leaving his office.
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