Chapter 1006: The New Life of the Old Nobility
"Ha, give me a break," Pierre Janot de Portier said with a look of exaggerated agony. "I loathe accounting more than anything. Besides, Madame Lavisia can't do a thing without me."
He was currently serving as a Latin tutor for Madame Lavisia. In reality, his job was to help her coordinate the schedules of her various lovers, ensuring that the hotheaded young men never crossed paths and felt the need to challenge one another to a duel.
It was a relaxed and pleasant job. The income covered his own room and board, and he was even able to send twenty-five francs home to his family every month.
The three friends continued drinking for a while longer. By nine in the evening, they parted ways and returned to their respective homes.
None of them realized that this would be the last time they would share a drink together for several years.
Early the next morning, the blond youth Chaumont received an interview notice from the Paris Army Officer Academy. This meant he had essentially secured a spot at the military school, provided he didn't do something foolish like insult the interviewer to his face.
The officer who delivered the notice didn't leave immediately. Instead, he studied the porcelain in the house with genuine interest. "Mmh, quite beautiful. Is this from the East?"
"No, sir, they are merely British imitations," Chaumont answered honestly. "My grandfather purchased them before the Seven Years' War. You know how it is; no one wants these things nowadays."
The officer nodded, took a seat, and looked at Chaumont. "If you don't mind, I would like to hear your thoughts on honor."
"Very good. I understand you have skills in drafting and speak German?"
"I do, sir. My father taught me."
"He must be a man of great learning. Tell me, what is your view on liberalism?"
"Well... it has its value in certain circumstances, but order and rules must always come first. I have little patience for those who shout about 'freedom' and 'rights' just to do as they please. What this world needs is..."
After he had finished his long-winded explanation, the officer nodded again and jotted something down in his notebook.
Chaumont's mother placed a cup of tea, sweetened with three generous spoonfuls of sugar, in front of the officer, along with some small pastries. "We have little to offer, but please, enjoy what we have," she said politely.
As she turned away, she shot her son a discreet, warning glance.
The officer thanked her and turned back to the young man. "Mr. Chaumont, if you become an officer, would you prefer to stay in a command post directing the battle, or charge the front lines to strike down the enemy yourself?"
"To the front, of course! Neither flintlock musket nor cannon could stop me..." Chaumont suddenly remembered his mother's look and his voice trailed off. He muttered, "However, being able to command soldiers and defeat the enemy with perfect tactics is what an officer truly should do..."
"Understood."
The officer continued his questioning while taking notes. Half an hour later, he tucked his notebook away and stood up. "Mr. Chaumont, thank you for speaking with me for so long."
"No, not at all. I enjoy conversation."
The officer bid him farewell but suddenly stopped at the door. "One last question. Why do you want to be an officer?"
Without hesitation, Chaumont shouted, "I want to follow the Crown Prince's stallion and conquer all of Europe!" He hesitated for a moment before adding, "And, and I want to protect..."
The officer smiled and raised a hand to cut him off. "Mr. Chaumont, would you be interested in serving as an Honor Representative?"
'An Honor Representative? What’s that?' Chaumont wondered.
...
At the Josselin Tennis Club in the southern part of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district in Paris.
Rochefort reached out his chubby hand toward the middle-aged man before him, his voice almost pleading. "Mr. Jerome, as long as I manage it properly, the loans alone will ensure the cash flow doesn't..."
"I am very sorry, Mr. Rochefort." The middle-aged man picked up his leather bag. "Nine thousand francs is the minimum requirement for the agency. If you truly wish to pursue this business, go find the funds. For the sake of our friendship, I can wait three more days."
The chubby young man watched the man leave and sank back into his chair, dejected.
It was true that France was brimming with opportunities—steel, chemicals, medicine—everything was profitable. However, the basic requirement was capital.
His family had only given him three thousand francs in seed money. In truth, even if his family sold all their land in the countryside, they couldn't scrape together nine thousand francs.
As for borrowing, a hundred or two francs was manageable, but asking for more was a guaranteed way to have a door slammed in his face.
"Sigh, it's rare to find such a golden opportunity," Rochefort muttered to himself with a wry smile. 'Maybe I should just go rob the Discount Bank...'
He looked down at his short legs and shook his head in disappointment.
He finished his coffee and picked up his bag to head for the door. Just then, he heard two men at the adjacent table speaking French with slight accents.
"Jack, I know you still have a source. Spare me a little. Ten thousand pounds, just ten thousand pounds will do."
"James, let's be blunt. I have a bit of stock left, but you know how hard it is to get wool shipped in right now. I have to keep some for emergencies."
Rochefort turned and saw a middle-aged man with sagging eye bags and prominent ears holding out his hands in a plea. "The price is negotiable. Three francs, no, three francs and five sous per pound? If I continue to run out of stock, I'll lose the trust of my old clients in Lyon."
Rochefort sighed inwardly. Even a wealthy man who could drop thirty-five thousand francs in an instant had to humble himself before others.
Soon, the man named Jack stood up and left. The man with the prominent ears continued to try and persuade him as he walked away. "The price is negotiable! Look, I'm really about to run out of business..."
The other man walked straight out of the club.
Rochefort was about to follow them out when, by some strange impulse, he stopped. He turned back to look at James and thought to himself: 'He has a large amount of capital but is suffering from a lack of business, while I have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity in my hands.'
'Perhaps we could cooperate?'
He immediately stepped forward and gave the man a polite bow. "Honorable sir, I am Henri François de Rochefort, son of Baron Rochefort. Would you mind if I joined you?"
The latter was startled for a moment before flashing a practiced, habitual smile. "James House Walsh. It is a pleasure to speak with you."
Rochefort took a seat across from him. "Are you British?"
"No, no," Walsh said, waving a hand with a laugh. "I've been a Parisian for a long time now. My home is in the Palais Royal district."
Rochefort felt his hopes soar. A villa in the Palais Royal district cost at least a hundred and ten thousand francs these days.
After a few moments of pleasantries, Rochefort said, "Mr. Walsh, I have an excellent business proposition that might interest you."
"Oh? Please, tell me about it."
"Are you familiar with honeycomb coal? It's used in a very efficient stove that can be placed anywhere in a room. It can be used for both heating and cooking. Most importantly, a full day's worth of fuel costs only a few deniers.
"And I have the opportunity to become the primary agent for this product in the Saint-Antoine district."
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