Chapter 17: The Bait

In the late afternoon, as the sun began its descent, casting long, gilded shadows across the countryside, Charles, in accordance with his prior and most secret arrangement, left the bustling confines of Paris and made his way to the secluded country villa of Monsieur du Tailly for a visit of the utmost importance.

However, had any of his usual acquaintances, even his closest friends, chanced to see him on that day, they would likely not have recognized him in the slightest. He was attired in a sober, severe black suit, a respectable, neatly tied cravat at his throat, and wore a pair of slightly tinted eyeglasses, designed not to aid his vision, but to artfully conceal the distinctive and memorable colour of his eyes. A brown, rather nondescript, wig covered his own hair, and a neatly trimmed, bourgeois-looking moustache was carefully affixed to his upper lip. In his gloved hand, he carried a slender, unassuming rattan cane. He looked, for all the world, like a young, and perhaps rather pedantic university lecturer on his way to a tedious academic conference.

When the hired, unmarked carriage stopped at the villa’s imposing, wrought-iron gate, Charles, as per their pre-arranged, and meticulously rehearsed, signal, tapped his cane three times sharply against the side of the carriage. Immediately, and without any visible human intervention, the iron gates swung silently open. Charles instructed the coachman to drive in at once, proceeding directly up the gravelled drive and stopping precisely before the grand entrance of the house. After Charles had swiftly, and without a backward glance, alighted, the carriage, its purpose served, departed immediately, its wheels crunching on the gravel as it vanished back down the drive. Before descending, Charles had glanced at his pocket watch; his timing, as always, was perfect.

Monsieur du Tailly, the master of the house, was already waiting for Charles at the heavy oak door, his expression a mask of ill-concealed anxiety. His bald head and his round, fleshy face gave him a somewhat simple, almost guileless and deceptively good-natured appearance – a countenance that, as Charles knew well, had deceived many an unwary investor, often to their utter and entirely foreseeable financial ruin.

“Monsieur de Friedland! You have arrived at last, praise be to God…” Monsieur du Tailly exclaimed, his voice laced with a nervous tension as he mopped his glistening brow with a fine linen handkerchief. “I was beginning to become most… most exceedingly concerned… Ah, I have a distinct feeling, Monsieur, that things in the city are becoming rather… tense of late. I find myself constantly on edge, starting at every shadow…”

“Do not be concerned, my dear sir. I took the necessary precaution of observing the surrounding area for some considerable time before making my final approach. It is, I assure you, quite safe for the present; I detected no sign of government spies or other unwelcome observers. Rest assured, my good man, I am even more exquisitely concerned for my own safety than you are for yours,” Charles replied, his tone cold, almost distant, deliberately intended to project an air of calm authority. He then, just as deliberately, added a gentle, yet pointed rebuke. “Furthermore, if I may be so bold, I would advise you not to display your natural anxiety quite so openly. It serves no useful purpose, other than to make you appear all the more suspicious to any casual onlooker. To successfully emulate the great and notoriously cool-headed Jacques Laffitte, Monsieur, requires more than just fine words and grand, patriotic sentiments. Composure, my dear sir, unwavering composure, is the absolute key to success in all such delicate enterprises.”

Hearing Charles’s rather sharp and entirely unexpected words, Monsieur du Tailly’s florid face first turned a shade paler, then he slowly, visibly seemed to relax, his hand falling away from his damp brow as if by its own accord.

Yes, Monsieur du Taily, a remarkably successful and notoriously ambitious Parisian banker, aspired, above all else in this life, to follow in the illustrious and highly profitable footsteps of his great predecessor, the legendary Jacques Laffitte. To this ambitious end, he had chosen with a mixture of political conviction and shrewd financial calculation, to emulate the great man by becoming one of the principal, if necessarily clandestine financial patrons of the burgeoning Bonapartist cause. Without the crucial, and often very substantial aid of such wealthy and influential patrons, no political party in France, of any persuasion, could ever hope to operate effectively, much less to successfully challenge the established order.

Jacques Laffitte was a prominent and highly influential French banker in the first half of the 19th century, who also served, at the height of his power, as governor of the Bank of France. After the final fall of Napoleon, he became actively and often riskily involved in liberal politics, strongly supporting the Orléanist faction and providing substantial, and ultimately decisive financial backing for their political activities. After the successful establishment of the July Monarchy in 1830, he served a brief, but significant term as Prime Minister, becoming the first of France’s great modern bankers to reach the absolute pinnacle of political power. He should not be confused with his near-contemporary, the far more aristocratic and romantically idealistic Marquis de Lafayette, who famously participated in the American War of Independence and was a key, if often conflicted figure in the early stages of the French Revolution.

And today, the carefully orchestrated, and highly secret, gathering being hosted by Monsieur du Tailly at his secluded country villa held the glittering potential to secure several more such invaluable patrons for the Bonapartist cause, to add their considerable fortunes to the war chest of the coming revolution.

If, that is, Charles de Tréville, in his current, rather theatrical guise, performed his assigned role with sufficient skill and conviction.

Charles followed Monsieur du Tailly into the opulent interior of his residence. The furnishings within were of the sort of extravagant luxury that was typical of those who, having acquired sudden, vast wealth, were now desperately and pathologically anxious to prove to the world, and perhaps to themselves, that they also possessed an innate, impeccable good taste. The walls were hung, frame to frame, with paintings by renowned and exceedingly expensive masters, and the rooms were arranged with the studied, somewhat impersonal, and rather ostentatious elegance of a grand, fashionable café on the boulevards.

But it was not the taste, or indeed the conspicuous lack thereof, that was of importance today; it was the carefully selected and anxiously awaited attendees.

The sky outside had already begun to darken into a deep, velvety twilight, and the heavy, damask curtains had been deliberately and completely drawn, plunging the grand salon into a dim, conspiratorial gloom. In the uncertain, flickering light of a few strategically placed oil lamps, the assembled guests could not discern each other’s features with any real clarity, only their general, shadowy outlines – a circumstance with which all parties, for reasons of their own, were quite content. Anonymity, in such gatherings, was a precious commodity.

Charles glanced at du Tailly, who, catching his eye, gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, a silent signal indicating that all the expected guests had now safely arrived.

Charles then, with a calm, unhurried air, took the seat that had been discreetly reserved for him – at the right hand of the host, a position of honour and significance at the head of the long, polished table.

Du Tailly took his own seat, then, his voice a little strained with the importance of the moment, addressed the shadowy figures of his assembled company. “Gentlemen, permit me to present to you the esteemed Monsieur de Friedland, of whom I have previously, and with the greatest confidence, spoken to you all.”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Charles said, rising smoothly to his feet, his disguised appearance lending him an air of scholarly authority. “To thank our esteemed host for his most generous and courageous hospitality this evening, may I propose that we drink a toast to our future shared success?”

“To success!”

“To success!”

A few of the men, their voices low and cautious, murmured their assent, and then they all, as one, raised their glasses and drank.

Everyone present, of course, knew that “Monsieur de Friedland” – a name rich with Napoleonic, and specifically, victorious resonance – was merely a pseudonym, a convenient nom de guerre. But not one of them, practical men of business that they were, wasted a single word, or even a curious glance on such a trivial and entirely necessary formality.

After drinking, Charles, wasting no further time on polite, meaningless pleasantries, proceeded directly, and with a businesslike briskness, to the very heart of the matter at hand.

“Gentlemen,” he began, his voice calm, clear, and carrying an unexpected note of authority that immediately commanded their attention, “I believe that you are all busy men, men of substance and affairs, with limited time, and even less inclination for idle circumlocution and empty, time-wasting chatter. As it happens, gentlemen, we too, those whom I have the honour to represent this evening, are men of action, men of pragmatism. My superiors, in their wisdom, have granted me the authority to speak with you frankly, to answer your questions with candour. Therefore, any questions you may have, any concerns that weigh upon your minds, you may ask them of me directly, and I shall endeavour to answer them to your satisfaction.”

The men, their faces still largely obscured by the convenient gloom, glanced at one another. After a moment of heavy, almost palpable silence, one of them, a man of some evident standing amongst them, took the lead, clearing his throat before he spoke. He asked his question cautiously, his voice low and measured.

“Monsieur de Friedland, it is… rumoured… in certain circles, that you and your associates are, at this present time, planning some… significant political action, some decisive move, in the very near future?”

“That is entirely correct, Monsieur,” Charles nodded, his expression serious. “We have studied the political climate, the mood of the nation with the greatest possible care, and it is our firm, unwavering conviction that the opportune moment, the moment for decisive action, is now fast approaching. The France of today, as you must surely be aware, is a nation deeply restless, profoundly discontented. Dissatisfaction with Monsieur d’Orléans and his timid, ineffectual government has, we believe, reached a boiling point, a point of no return. You, gentlemen,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the shadowy figures around the table, “are all engaged in your own considerable enterprises; you have daily contact with many different strata of society, from the highest to the lowest. You must surely, in your own dealings, have a profound, an almost visceral sense of this growing instability, this pervasive, national malaise, do you not?”

If they had not, on numerous, increasingly alarming occasions, sensed the underlying instability of the current regime, the fragility of the entire political and economic order, they would surely not have risked their fortunes, and indeed their very necks, by attending such a clandestine and potentially treasonous meeting.

Several of the men, their faces still indistinct in the gloom, nodded lightly, almost imperceptibly in silent, grim agreement.

After another brief, contemplative silence, a gentleman wearing spectacles, his lenses glinting in the faint lamplight, spoke up, his voice that of a cautious, methodical man of finance.

“Monsieur de Friedland,” he began, his tone polite but firm, “forgive my impertinence, my directness, but if we, the men gathered in this room, were to offer our not inconsiderable support to your… political faction… what tangible benefits, what practical advantages, might we, in all honesty, expect to receive in return for our considerable investment, and our not insignificant risk? If it is merely a question of honours, of ribbons and decorations, then I must tell you frankly, Monsieur, that we are not, for the most part, lacking in them. And while a title of nobility, a coronet, still holds a certain… nostalgic attraction… it is hardly, in this modern, pragmatic age, sufficient inducement for us to undertake such very considerable and potentially ruinous personal, financial risks, is it?” It was the question upon which everything hinged.

“We will, of course, gentlemen,” Charles nodded, acknowledging the legitimacy of the question, “remember with a profound and most practical gratitude the assistance of all our valued supporters. However,” he added, his voice taking on a slightly harder, more businesslike edge, “the precise extent of our gratitude, the tangible nature of our rewards, will naturally and quite properly depend on the precise extent of the assistance offered. For those individuals who offer us their great and unwavering support, our rewards, I assure you, will be correspondingly and magnificently great. As for those, however, whose assistance proves to be… minimal, or perhaps merely symbolic… well, gentlemen, in that case, I fear our hands will be tied, our capacity for expressing our gratitude similarly and regrettably constrained.”

“Permit me to be entirely frank with you, Monsieur de Friedland,” another of the attendees, a man with a deep, resonant voice that spoke of authority and immense wealth, interjected. “Before your arrival this evening, we, those of us gathered here, had already reached a certain… consensus… amongst ourselves. If we decide, collectively, to support your noble cause, we will not, I assure you, do so by half-measures. We are prepared, should your proposals prove sufficiently attractive, to commit ourselves and our resources, fully and without reservation, to your enterprise. On that, Monsieur, you may have our solemn word. However,” his voice became more pointed, more demanding, “you must, in return, give us some tangible hope, some clear, unambiguous vision of the future, so that we may know with a degree of certainty, for what, precisely, we are being asked to commit ourselves, and our fortunes, so completely.”

“That you gentlemen have reached such a courageous and far-sighted consensus is most gratifying indeed, and it fills me with the greatest hope for the future of our beloved France,” Charles said, rising to his feet again with a slight, respectful bow, his expression one of sincere, heartfelt admiration. “And on behalf of our entire party, I offer you our most profound, our most sincere thanks for your confidence. And I, in turn, can assure you, gentlemen, with an equal solemnity, that if you offer us your full, unwavering support, we shall, upon our inevitable success, reciprocate with an equal, and I daresay, an even greater commitment in our rewards to you.”

“For example, Monsieur de Friedland?” the man with the spectacles pressed, his voice sharp with a practical, almost impatient curiosity.

“In this new, pragmatic era of ours, gentlemen,” Charles began, his voice calm, meditative, deliberately building their anticipation, his eyes seeming to pierce the gloom, “what, I ask you, are titles of nobility, however ancient? What are honours, prestige, or medals, however glittering? Though they may be decorative, though they may soothe the vanity, they are not, I think you will all agree, nearly as useful, nor indeed, as truly handsome as the solid, dependable, and universally respected French franc, are they?”

These words, so simple, so direct, so utterly in tune with their own deepest convictions, struck a powerful, resonant chord with the assembled company of capitalists.

“Indeed! Yes! Most true!” came the chorus of enthusiastic, heartfelt nods and fervent, murmured assent from around the shadowy table.

Very well, Charles thought, a flicker of triumph in his heart. The bait is ready. Now, to set the hook.

He picked up his wine glass, gazing for a moment, as if in contemplation, at the deep, ruby liquid swirling within its crystal confines. “We have, gentlemen, after much careful study and deliberation, reached a most momentous conclusion. Upon our assumption of power, upon our restoration of order and good governance to this troubled nation, we shall, as a matter of immediate and paramount national priority, undertake a massive, an unprecedented, expansion of the French railway system.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the silent room. “We will issue railway bonds, gentlemen. As many as are needed to accomplish this great work, and even, perhaps, when they are not strictly needed, we shall continue to issue them, to fuel the engines of our national prosperity. And we will, gentlemen, draw up a list, a golden register, if you will, of our most valued, most loyal supporters. And to those esteemed industrialists who have offered us their invaluable aid in our hour of need, we will, without hesitation, grant the lucrative construction contracts for this vast enterprise. And to those esteemed financiers who have demonstrated their faith in our cause, we will entrust the exclusive and highly profitable issuance of these government-backed bonds, the sole management of the immense financing that will be required!”

The room was utterly silent now, every man leaning forward in his seat, listening with a rapt, breathless attention, the air thick with the scent of ambition and potential profit.

“You, gentlemen, are all practical men, men of vision. You know far better than I, how immensely useful, how profoundly, almost miraculously profitable the railways are. They are, without question, a vast, inexhaustible source of national, and indeed personal wealth. When well-managed, their ability to service their debts, to generate immense profits, is beyond any reasonable question. And within this great, nation-building enterprise, gentlemen, how many countless, glittering business opportunities lie hidden, waiting to be seized by men of courage and foresight?” Charles’s voice began to rise in volume, in passion, in a contagious, hypnotic fervor that seemed to electrify the very air of the room. “Gentlemen, do not forget, we are not speaking here of a mere three hundred kilometres of railway track, nor even of a paltry three thousand. We are speaking, gentlemen, of thirty thousand kilometres of new railway! And more! And more! And still more, until every corner of our great nation is bound together by bands of iron and fire!”

“Oh!” A collective, soft, almost reverent gasp of astonishment, of dawning, avaricious comprehension, swept around the table.

“For a railway of such unprecedented length, gentlemen, how much track will be required? How much rolling stock? How many grand stations, how many humble depots, must be constructed from the ground up? And how much financing, how many millions, nay, billions of francs, will be required to bring this magnificent vision to fruition?! Gentlemen,” Charles’s voice was almost a shout now, a ringing, triumphant declaration that resonated with an almost messianic conviction, “we will not rest, we will not falter, until every last village, every remote hamlet in our beloved France, is connected by the glorious, civilizing power of the railway! And one day, gentlemen, one day, I tell you, we shall lay our tracks to Baghdad, to Delhi, to the very gates of Peking itself!” (No, my dear reader, that is not a typo.)

The railways! Yes, the railways! This, Charles knew, this was one of a modern nation’s most vital, most essential, and most profitable assets. This was the key to unlocking the immense, untapped industrial and economic potential of France.

In actual, recorded history, from the Bourbon Restoration in 1815 to the ignominious end of the July Monarchy in 1848, a long and largely stagnant period of thirty-three years, the two successive monarchies, for all their pretensions, had together managed to build less than a paltry five thousand kilometres of railway track across the entire expanse of France. The Second French Empire, in contrast, in less than twenty short, dynamic years, built over twenty thousand kilometres of new, modern railway.

Why this stark, dramatic difference? Was it because the great, powdered, and often rather dim-witted men of those earlier royal courts did not know that the railway was a good, a profitable, a strategically vital thing?

Not at all. They were not entirely fools.

This situation, this failure to modernize, arose primarily because the numerous and politically powerful, large and small landowners of France at that time, the very bedrock of support for the Bourbon and Orléanist regimes, did not, for the most part, appreciate the prospect of having noisy, smoke-belching railways cutting directly through their valuable, and often ancestral agricultural estates. Nor, indeed, did they welcome the inevitable competition from cheaper, more efficiently transported farm products, brought in by rail from distant, more fertile regions of the country, which would undoubtedly depress the prices of their own local produce. The Bourbon Monarchy, and the July Monarchy which was, in essence, born from it, no matter how much they might style themselves as enlightened, as modern, could never, in their fundamental nature, truly escape the long, inhibiting shadow of the landed, conservative aristocracy.

But the Bonapartists, Charles knew, were entirely different. From their very inception, they had no intention, no need to rely on the fickle goodwill of the landed gentry for their political survival. The true, essential pillars of their prospective rule were the rising, dynamic classes of the industrialists and the financiers. And the bourgeoisie, whose vast and rapidly growing wealth was based not on the static ownership of land, but on the fluid, dynamic circulation of capital and goods, desperately, urgently needed the railways to realize their own immense interests, to expand their markets, to fuel their factories.

It was for this very reason that a future Bonapartist regime, unburdened by feudal loyalties, could, and would, implement far stricter, far more ruthless policies of land expropriation for the national good than the previous, more timid monarchies, without fearing a significant, or politically fatal backlash from the old, increasingly marginalized aristocracy. This, in essence, was the grand, implicit bargain that Charles and his political masters were now offering to the assembled men of money: their support, in exchange for a direct, and enormously profitable share in the future industrial development of the nation.

Although the historical Napoleon III would go on to make many grievous mistakes, many unforgivable, and ultimately disastrous errors from France’s long-term perspective, the creation of a preliminary, yet extensive and remarkably efficient railway network was, without question, one of his two great, enduring, and undeniably positive achievements for the French nation – the other being the complete and visionary renovation of the city of Paris, transforming it from a medieval warren of streets into the truly magnificent, modern city that the world knows today.

Of course, Charles understood, merely having an extensive network of railways was not, in itself, enough. Effective, centralized state control and strategic management of that railway network was also a crucial and often overlooked part of unlocking a nation’s true potential – especially, and most critically, during times of national crisis, of war.

Germany’s railways, for example, had always been conceived of, and managed as a vital strategic national asset. From their very inception, the planning and construction of the German railway network was primarily in service of clear, long-term military objectives. The central railway bureau was directly under the jurisdiction of the powerful Prussian General Staff, and every important railway hub, every strategic junction, had a military officer, a transport specialist, in charge of its operations. This highly efficient, militarily-oriented transportation system laid an excellent and ultimately decisive foundation for the outstanding logistical performance of the German army in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, and, indeed, in the two subsequent World Wars of the 20th century.

France, in stark, and ultimately tragic contrast, was vastly, almost criminally different. The French railway authorities, for most of the 19th century, never had direct, centralized control over the national network, which remained a fragmented patchwork of competing private interests. Nor was there even a dedicated, powerful government ministry for railways. The French Railway Administration was merely a small, relatively powerless subordinate department buried deep within the bureaucratic labyrinth of the Ministry of Transport, possessing little real authority. It could only indirectly, and often ineffectually, influence the various private railway companies to implement national transport plans through administrative suasion and financial incentives. It was not until the year 1938 (a mere two years, it should be noted with a shudder, before Germany would once again, and with devastating effect, invade France!) that the French government finally, and in a state of some desperation, nationalized its five main private railway companies, creating the state-owned SNCF (Société Nationale des Chemins de fer Français) and at last, far too late, achieving effective state control over its own strategic railway network!

The profound, humiliating tragedy of 1870 stemmed in large part from France’s fatal, almost inexplicable slowness in mobilizing its armed forces and its essential logistical resources in the face of the swift, efficient Prussian advance. And the government’s lamentable lack of firm, centralized control over the nation’s railway network was, without question, one of the primary and most unforgivable reasons for this fatal, nation-shattering tardiness.

It was for this very reason that Charles de Tréville, from the very moment he had first, with his unique, future-informed perspective, joined the Bonapartist party, had loudly, persistently, and with an almost obsessive conviction, advocated for the massive, state-sponsored development of railways, and for the concurrent expansion of direct government control over this most vital of national arteries. And his prescient and highly practical proposals, after considerable deliberation and extensive, often heated discussion among the rather conservative Bonapartist leadership, had finally, and with a growing enthusiasm, been met with widespread approval. (This approval, Charles knew, was primarily due to their quick grasp of the irresistible prospect of using lucrative construction orders to win over and indebt the powerful industrialists, and of using the vast financing opportunities to secure the unwavering and highly profitable loyalty of the great financiers. The added, and not insignificant convenience of being able to rapidly transport troops to suppress any potential future rebellions was, of course, merely a welcome, additional bonus.)

And since the railways were to be of such great, central importance to their future state, the establishment of a dedicated, powerful Ministry of Railways to manage this vast enterprise was a natural and entirely logical consequence. Of course, their primary, unspoken consideration in this, as in all things, was to keep the myriad, lucrative opportunities for patronage, for profit, and for power, firmly, and exclusively in their own hands.

Having delivered this powerful, visionary, and deeply seductive speech, Charles fell silent, allowing the full import of his words, the sheer, intoxicating scale of his promises, to percolate through the minds of his rapt, and now deeply impressed, audience. He let them murmur amongst themselves, to digest the magnificent bait he had so carefully laid before them.

After a little while, the volume of their hushed, excited whispers decreased, and it was clear, from the nods and the focused expressions, that a broad consensus had been reached, a silent, collective decision made.

The gentleman with the spectacles, the one who had spoken earlier, now once again acted as their spokesman. His voice, this time, held a new note of respect, of genuine, almost eager interest.

“Monsieur de Friedland,” he began, “what you have said, what you have proposed, is indeed most… extraordinarily attractive. We are, I believe I can say on behalf of all present, deeply impressed by the scope, and the… potential profitability… of your vision. But,” he paused, the natural caution of a man of finance reasserting itself, “if these are, at present, merely… words, however inspiring…?”

“Our promises, Monsieur, are certainly not limited to the spoken word,” Charles smiled, a slow, confident smile that seemed to gleam in the dim, conspiratorial light. He then lifted his wine glass and drained it in a single, decisive gulp. “Ah, I seem to have neglected to mention one small, but perhaps not entirely insignificant detail to you gentlemen. Once our plan succeeds, once the new government is established, France will, as I have said, immediately create a new and most powerful Ministry of Railways, dedicated solely to the management of all railway affairs within the nation, and indeed, beyond. And I, gentlemen,” he paused, his gaze meeting each of theirs in turn, “shall have the distinct honour of serving as the Political Secretary of that ministry. And the Minister himself, I can assure you with absolute certainty, will, without question, be one of our own, a man entirely committed to our shared vision.” He smiled again, a smile of absolute, unshakeable confidence. “In that case, gentlemen, surely you will not still doubt our ability, and our unwavering intention to fulfill our promises to our most valued friends and supporters?”

“Oh…” A collective, soft, and deeply satisfied sigh of comprehension, of dawning, joyful certainty, swept the room. Here, at last, was a promise they could truly understand, a promise they could, quite literally, bank on.