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Chapter 1102: Futures Trading Really Is a Fast Way to Make Money

Swansea Coal Mine, South Wales, Great Britain.

In a shaft over 170 meters deep, Old David crawled on all fours, hammering frantically at the ventilation door at the end of the tunnel while bellowing, "Jamie! Open up, Jamie! Quick!"

These ventilation doors were crucial for preventing the excessive buildup of methane and carbon dioxide. Usually, a child waited behind the door to open and close it for the coal haulers as they passed through.

However, there was no response from the other side.

In the pitch-black tunnel, Old David turned to encourage his weary colleagues. "Don't worry, the lad’s probably just fallen asleep."

He was blissfully unaware that they were already in a desperate situation.

Jamie’s family hadn’t tasted a sugar biscuit or a cup of sweetened tea in over a week. Without enough glucose, his small body simply couldn't withstand the grueling seventeen-hour workdays.

Half an hour ago, he had lost consciousness.

His frail body had slumped into the corner of the tunnel, wedging the ventilation door shut.

Two hours later, Old David and Jamie were finally pulled out.

But two of David’s colleagues were now corpses. After huddling in the cramped tunnel for over an hour, David’s strength had finally failed. The hundred-kilogram coal cart he had been bracing slipped backward, crushing the two men following behind him.

At the Eaves Textile Mill in Manchester, Julia hung her shuttle onto the rack, vaguely hallucinating that she heard Thomas proposing to her.

Surprised and delighted, she turned around, only to see a brilliant splash of crimson.

It wasn't a bouquet of flowers from Thomas; it was her own blood. In her dazed state, she had leaned against the high-speed automatic loom, and her arm was instantly sucked into the gears.

On the outskirts of London, Mrs. Ricky’s eldest son, only seven years old, lay gasping for breath. He had fallen while sweeping a roof yesterday afternoon.

The little boy reached out with what remained of his strength, clutching his mother’s hem. "Mama," he whispered weakly, "can I have a sugar biscuit?"

Mrs. Ricky wiped her eyes incessantly, but she could only shake her head.

Every scrap of sugar in the house had to be saved for her husband. If he lacked the energy to work, he would be fired from the factory, and then her other two children would surely starve to death...

Sugar was the "fuel" of the British people. Currently, even with government subsidies, this fuel cost three shillings and eight pence per pound, and the price was still climbing.

Sugar consumption in ordinary households had dropped to a third of what it was last year.

In less than a month, chaos had erupted in London.

Near a sugar shop on Whitechapel Street, three policemen blew their whistles and swung their batons at the surging crowd. But the people were like madmen; they braved the blows, smashed the shop doors, and fled in every direction, carrying sugar in the folds of their clothes.

A protest of over a thousand people appeared before St James's Palace, demanding the government control the price of sugar.

These crowds were organized by the factory owners. While the lives of British workers were cheap, constant physical collapse severely impacted production efficiency.

Meanwhile, in the Palace of Versailles, Joseph was sipping green tea. Godan, sitting on the sofa across from him, was reporting the gains from their latest market maneuver. "As per your instructions, Your Highness, we liquidated three thousand tons of sugar by yesterday afternoon. The floating profit is sixteen million francs. We still have nineteen hundred tons remaining."

Joseph had previously squeezed over twenty million francs from the French treasury to snap up incredibly cheap sugar in London.

Now that the price had reached his target, he had begun to offload his stock.

He did this to keep the price from becoming too absurd; otherwise, it would likely provoke protests from allies like Italy and Spain.

Even so, his profit margin was as high as 117 percent. By the time he finished dumping all his sugar, he expected a net profit of over twenty-five million francs.

This was despite entering the market early to lure in the short-sellers; otherwise, his gains would have been even higher.

However, there were benefits to entering early. Most of the contracts he purchased were successfully settled—back then, the British short-sellers were far from going bust.

As for the speculative capital that entered later, like the Rothschilds, they got their chips even cheaper—at about sixty percent of Joseph’s purchase price. However, since the British began to renege on their deals, nearly half of their contracts were never delivered, and they only received some compensation.

Once Godan finished his report, Joseph gave him a few more instructions on stabilizing sugar prices before the minister took his leave.

After lunch, Eman arrived with the Crown Prince's private accountant, laying a thick stack of bank drafts before him.

Even though the accountant was used to seeing large sums, he couldn't help but swallow hard as he picked up the drafts one by one to explain. "Your Highness, this is the profit share sent by the Countess of Provence’s representative, totaling 390,000 francs..."

"This was sent by the Duke of De Brizard... 400,000 francs in total..."

"And from the Count of Magimel... 220,000 francs..."

"From the Baroness of Montair... 260,000 francs..."

Joseph raised a hand to cut him off. "Just tell me the total."

"Oh, of course, Your Highness." The accountant quickly pulled out a ledger and scanned it. "The total is 8,724,000 francs."

Joseph smiled and nodded. "Deposit it all into the French Reserve Bank for now."

This money was the agreed-upon "commission" from when he had leaked the "business opportunity" to the Countess of Provence and the others.

Well, although he had only told three people, the other participants who caught wind of the tip certainly didn't dare withhold the Crown Prince's share.

In fact, even Queen Mary, who had been the first to enter the fray, had made a profit of 780,000 francs in the sugar market. Lately, she had been obsessing over using that money to build a cathedral in Saint-Domingue.

Eman gestured to several servants behind him carrying small wooden chests. "Your Highness, these are gifts of apology from the Countess of Provence, the Duke of De Brizard, and the others. They were afraid you would reprimand them and didn't dare come in person."

Indeed, the three of them were still trembling with fear for having leaked the Crown Prince's inside information.

Joseph glanced at the red and blue gems in the chests and waved his hand magnanimously. "Please tell them that I have already forgiven them."

As he spoke, a servant announced from outside, "Your Highness, Mr. Lavalette has arrived."

"Please, send him in."

The accountant and the servants with the gifts withdrew. Lavalette stepped forward and bowed. "Your Highness, news has just arrived from London. Riots have broken out recently in London, Birmingham, and other places due to the rise in sugar prices."

"Second Lieutenant Portier’s report states that the Society of United Irishmen intends to participate in these riots."

Joseph immediately shook his head. "That will achieve nothing except getting their people thrown in jail."

"Yes, Your Highness. I will order him to restrain the Irish."

Joseph’s eyes narrowed suddenly. "While participating in riots is pointless, they can certainly do other things."

"For example, they can spread rumors, blaming the British government for the soaring sugar prices."

"They could even use this opportunity to drive up grain prices. We can coordinate with them from the international market..."

Britain was currently suffering from imported inflation due to the high sugar prices. If skyrocketing grain prices were added to the mix, the livelihoods of the lower classes would become even more dire, undoubtedly triggering even more severe uprisings.