“What is it, Father?”
“The Comte de Vergennes has died. The powerful foreign minister. A bad time to take leave of France no matter what one thinks of him. The king has summoned the Assembly of Notables. Necker writes the hall of the king’s Menus-Plaisirs, not one empty seat. Those most powerful sit in the front, vigilant of their privileges. But listen, my dear. The Comptroller General of Finance, Charles-Alexandre de Calonne, began a speech insinuating that he, only he, wooed the king to call this assembly. Furthermore, he, again alone, has restored confidence in the nation’s finances, which when he was appointed in 1783 languished in a disastrous state.” He looked over the rim of his glasses. “That’s a broadside against Necker.”
“His predecessor?” Catherine did her best to keep abreast of events in England, France, and the various Germanies. As to Spain, rich though it was, Catherine considered it a shot bolt. She and her father would discuss these things, each finding reasons for the stagnation of Spain, the arrogance of England, the foolishness of France. Then they would examine the new nation in which they lived. The comparisons could be sobering.
“Well, Necker’s Account Rendered ultimately brought about his dismissal, but listen. This is fantastic. I cannot think of another word. The treasury collects four hundred seventy-five million livres a year. France spends six hundred million livres a year. At the end of 1786 the deficit was thirty-seven million livres, but, oh, this is shocking. Shocking.” He took a restorative breath. “By the end of 1786, twelve hundred and fifty million livres had been borrowed—twelve hundred and fifty million livres! Dear God. Furthermore, Calonne laid the financial abuses not just on the former Comptroller, my friend, but at the feet of the most privileged, who benefit from many special financial levies. Certain agricultural goods benefit some members, but not others. The purchase of salt. Good God, this is a most depressing list, but here is the insult, the outrageous insult.”
His face reddened. “The raving toady declares that France has given birth to America!” He slapped the letter on the desk. “Was their assistance invaluable? Yes. But the citizens of the colonies gave birth to this nation, not a gaggle of raving aristocrats and royals of questionable intellect. Just wait until I show this to my friends!”
Catherine picked up the letter, read quietly, then laughed. “Well, there is humor in Paris. The baron quotes from a pamphleteer or some form of writer. Now listen.” She raised her chin, glanced at her father, and began in her captivating, beguiling, cultivated rich alto: “ ‘Among the blessings attaching to this great age, France will soon be able to count the joy of embracing to its bosom the illustrious author of so many fine pamphlets against the Water Company.’ ” She laughed.
“That is an elegant humiliation.”
“The baron wishes you to know he did not inform you last year of Calonne’s pamphlets, thinking them of no interest to a man of the New World, as he puts it. And he wishes you to know that Calonne wrote those pamphlets. The Water Company. France was aware, forgive the pun, of screeds against the Water Company. A project for which Calonne was offered no livres under the table, which may have triggered his resentment.” She handed the letter back to her father.
“Something must be done over there, but each of those men at the Assembly will fight tooth and nail for his special privilege. And from this letter it appears the Comptroller has overplayed his hand.”
“I forgot to look, who wrote the scathing comment about the joy of embracing?”
Ewing scanned the strong handwriting. “Ah, here he tells us. Mirabeau. A man on the make, a man intelligent enough to make fools of the Assembly.” He again looked at his daughter. “That can be heady stuff but remember this is a country with a king. It is possible a man can lose his head. Not here.” Then he paused. “Not yet anyway.”
“Do you think we should call an assembly?”
“My dear, neither France nor we can go on. Should we add up all the war debts from the thirteen colonies, I don’t think it would touch the debt over there, but we are so new, our commerce small compared to theirs. We have some products the world desires. They have more ways to make money or coerce it out of others than we do. But do we need our own gathering?” He thought. “Sometimes putting men of education and wealth in a room is not a good idea. Leaven it with some military men, working men, still not such a good idea, but better. Fill it with lawyers and you are doomed, everlasting doom.”
Knowing of her father’s disaffection for lawyers, she kept silent.
He placed the letter on his desk. “I don’t mean to distress you, my dear, but I wonder if we are in a better state than France. Every state, like every prince, comte, duke, whatever, is out for itself. Petty. Selfish and retarding commerce. This can’t go on any more than France’s borrowing can continue.”
“Someone has to take the first step. Washington?”
Ewing shook his head. “The general will stay above the fray. But if some form of assembly is called it will only work if he blesses it.” He rubbed his forehead. “I wish I had answers. And, my dear, we had best prepare ourselves for losses from our French clients. I doubt we will be paid for our large tobacco shipment. I hope I am wrong, but we will face large losses.”
“The English?”
A lip curled slightly. “Convinced though they are of their superiority and that we are traitors, they will pay. Actually, I suspect the ire of the educated has been splenetic, focused on Lord North. We are somewhat off the hook.”
“We sent much tobacco there.”
“Safe. For one thing they sit around in those coffeehouses, talk politics, and smoke. I would question English industry in the cities. Too much talk.”
“Perhaps they save the coffeehouse for when work is done. Consider their power,” Catherine countered.
“I do. I do.” Ewing folded his hands over his chest.
Two sets of small footsteps echoed in the polished hall. Bettina’s echoed behind them. JohnJohn, Tulli, and Bettina stopped at the library’s open door.
“I rode today!” JohnJohn, tipping over two years old but a big boy for his age, much like his father, loudly announced.
Tulli, nine, kept a close watch on the child, loved him, really. “He did. Cold as it is he rode all by himself.”