The Accountant Becomes Louis XVI to Save His Neck

The news that Spain was entering the war to fight Great Britain arrived to Versailles not in a whisper but in a thunderclap. That nice, risky game of de-escalation that Art had been playing was over. The Pacte de Famille, that Bourbon Family Compact coming together of the thrones of France and Spain in a mutual defense and attack treaty, was in play. No longer did he have that choice. Neutrality was betrayal towards his own flesh and blood.

He summoned the Royal Council the next morning. The atmosphere in the room was utterly transformed. That anxious foreboding of the previous weeks was replaced with a raw, uninhibited ecstasy. Those war hawks so recently blocked and outmanoeuvred were jubilant, their protest completely and irreversibly justified by the deed of their Spanish cousins.

Vergennes stood before the council, no supplicant but a prophet whose scroll had been unfurled. Red-cheeked with victory, his eyes ablaze with the fervor of some long-held dream that finally was in his hand,

"Your Majesty," he started, his deep voice ringing with a sublime tone that swelled the room, "Providence has smiled down upon France! Our great Spanish relatives have been bold in their beliefs, boldness that must become our own! They issued a challenge to the British tyrants. Patience, these fruitless, tedious commissions and diplomatic letters, must end. Glory's hour dawned bright!"

He turned to the nobles present, his hands spread wide. "Our sacred duties under the Pacte de Famille are clear. An attack on Spain is an attack on France. They fight; we fight. We must now keep our solemn pledge and ally ourselves with them in this great war against British pride and piracy. All of Europe sees, gentlemen! Shall France hold to its word? Shall France rally to its family? There can be but one answer!"

The room erupted in cheers of approval. Lafayette and the young aristocrats stood up, their faces aglow with dreams of glory and adventure. Even the more cautious aristocrats, who had been swayed by arguments in favor of caution made by Art, were caught up in the tidal wave of patriotic and family obligation. To forego their obligations under the treaty was out of the question.

Art sat at the top of the table, a lone island of sanity amidst the fever of war. He knew he couldn't stop it. To try to would be to break his oath, his allies, and perhaps bring about a full-scale revolt amongst his courtiers. The train had left the station, however, and he was riding in it. But if he couldn't stop it, he knew with a clear, uncomfortable clarity, he had to guide it. He couldn't be seen to be a reluctant passenger racing to war against his will. He had to be its leader, and in so doing, define its terms.

He rose to his feet. The room fell silent, all eyes turned upon him. But he did not look back with any similar fervour to their wild excitement. He looked back with a cold, serious solemnity that instantly claimed and held all their attention.

"Minister Vergennes is correct," Art began, his voice strong and clear. "France will honor its commitments. We will stand with our Spanish allies. We will fight British aggression with French steel."

A cheer was getting underway but he halted it with a raised hand.

"But let no man within this room be in any uncertainty," he continued, his gaze sweeping the faces of the councilors. "This will not be a quick nor great war of parades and rapid victories. I will not commit the sons of France to death for some idealistic indulgence. This will be a war of necessity, visited upon us through the aggression of Britain and our holy duty. It will be long. It will be horribly costly. And it will demand sacrifice from every individual citizen of this realm, from the greatest prince of the blood to the lowest peasant in the field. Frolics of yesteryear are at an end. France is a nation at war, and every resource, every livre, every waking moment must be given to the single-minded goal of victory."

His words, so devoid of the traditional tropes of glory, came with a sobering impact. All the elation in the room disappeared and was replaced with a more serious, more resolute determination. He'd seized their fervor and molded it into something more useful: concentration.

"To that end," he stated, "I am simultaneously forming a War Cabinet to be responsible for all aspects of this war. I will preside over it myself." He was making it clear that this was his war, and that he would be its chief executive officer.

"Minister de Vergennes," he stated, bowing to his foreign minister, "your experience cannot be replaced. You will be in charge of all diplomatic strategy, hold our alliances intact and keep the British separate from the other European courts."

Vergennes bowed, his face beaming with delight. He had been given a mission of prime importance.

"And Minister Necker," Art added, glaring at the financier's pale face. Necker looked up, expecting to be put aside, his fearful tone no longer necessary. "You will hold the title Minister of War Finance. No cannon will be fired, no ship will sail, no supply contract will be signed without your individual approval. You will hold absolute power within the war chest. Your task will be to ensure that this war will not merely be fought with courage, but with effectiveness. You will be our guardian of the treasury, our safeguard against the bankruptcy our enemies are anticipating."

It was a masterly, dazzling stroke. The council was flabbergasted. He had just entrusted the command of the war chest to the man who argued most emotively against indulgent spending. He had entrusted the final dove to look after feeding the hawks. Vergennes's face faltered for an instant, a flicker of disappointment appearing in his countenance when he understood the thrust of it. He might plot a major conquest of India, but Necker might deny him the money as "fiscally imprudent."

Finally, Art consulted the map. "Now let us speak of our goals. I will not throw away French blood and treasure in pursuit of revenge fantasies." He scowled at Lafayette. "So the reoccupation of Canada is not one of our targets in this war. It is a vast, lightly settled wilderness that will be costly to subdue and more so to keep in subjection. Our French brethren there will be freed from British rule through the victory of the American colonists and not through our armies."

Lafayette looked crestfallen, but was unable to argue with the King's personal command.

"Our goals will be pragmatic, achievable, and economically profitable," said Art in a tone that did not invite debate. "First, our ultimate and unconditional goal will be to secure for the American colonies their complete and universally recognized independence. An independent America is a constant sword at the British Atlantic empire's chest. That is our finest military prize. Second, we will seize with our navy their most important holdings. I mean the West Indian sugar Islands. They are the root of British commercial power. We make our enemy poor and ourselves rich for every West Indian sugar island we seize. Everything comes second to these two goals."

He had done it. With one speech, he had pulled the war he was unwillingly in out of the jaws of his enemies. He had calmed the hawks and given the doves courage. He had stripped the idealists of romantic illusions and placed in their heads a cold, calculating business strategy. No longer Vergennes's war of retribution nor Lafayette's war of revolution. It was Art's war of slim, calculated, and profitable objectives. That unwilling king had just become that incredibly ruthless war leader.