The room fell silent for several seconds before Charles looked up at Fulde and asked, "It seems the governnt is determined to abolish the tax farming system. What should we do?"
If the French governnt had truly secured 200 million francs, it could cover nearly half a year of fiscal expenditures. During this ti, continuous tax revenue would flow in, creating a self-sustaining cycle.
In such a scenario, the governnt would no longer need to rely on the Tax Farrs' Association. A simple cabinet decree could reform the tax system.
An elderly man sitting on the left side of the table shook his head and murmured as if to himself:
"For the French governnt to implent such a major reform, even with 200 million francs, finances would still be tight.
"Perhaps we should approach Brienne for negotiations, offer loans, and secure a higher interest rate."
"We cannot give up so easily!" Hope interjected loudly, cutting the man off. He scanned the room, his voice rising with determination. "Governnt loans offer slightly better interest than governnt bonds. Is that all you want—to settle for such small profits?!"
The gathered tax farming magnates showed their discontent.
Though the official profit margin from tax farming was only 16%–20%, the business provided many hidden advantages. For example:
Using the collection of tobacco and salt taxes to peddle counterfeit tobacco and inferior salt.Exploiting differences in provincial tax rates to control inter-regional trade.
Including these side benefits, their real return on investnt exceeded 25%.
Lowering their profit margins to single digits would be worse than a death sentence.
Baron Morel gritted his teeth. "Damn the French governnt! This is a business my family has run for generations. If they won't let farm taxes, I'd rather invest my money in Britain! I hear the gas lamp project in London yields a 15% return."
His words imdiately drew agreent:
"Exactly! I'll move my business out of France too."
"We must stand together and not bow to the French governnt!"
"I've been considering the Dutch stock market. This might be the right ti to try it..."
Hope raised his hand for silence, as if concluding the matter:
"Let Viscount Berland probe further. Increase the proposed tax farm bid to 540 million francs. If the governnt still refuses, we'll leave France."
These financiers had no loyalty to any nation. They bled countries dry and moved on, seeking perpetual wealth wherever they could dominate economic systems.
Examples included the Wallenberg family, who controlled Sweden, and the Sassoons, who wielded power in eastern Ottoman territories. Later, they would be joined by the likes of the Rothschilds and Morgans.
At this mont, Bororay stood up, sneering. "After all this talk, you're just admitting you can't do anything about the governnt and planning to run away."
As the room turned toward him, his expression grew fiercer. "We have massive funds, connections, and thods. Why not show those who dare challenge us what fear looks like? Let's give the French governnt a taste of what we're capable of!"
Baron Morel's eyes glead with cunning as he feigned admiration, exclaiming, "You're absolutely right! We must show our strength. No one is better suited for this task than you—we're counting on you!"
Bororay smirked arrogantly. "Hmph. Just wait and see."
As the eting neared its end, British banker Goldsmith hesitated before addressing Hope cautiously:
"Mr. Hope, we do have one particularly useful 'weapon' at our disposal. It could compel the French governnt to share so of the tax revenues with us."
"Oh? What do you an?"
"Tax records."
With just those two words, Hope fell into thought. Slowly, he nodded. "You're right. The French governnt hasn't directly collected taxes in over a century. Without the data we provide, they won't even know how much to charge those cunning rchants."
Goldsmith nodded. "We can also teach factory owners and rchants to lie—claim they're paying quarterly or semi-annual taxes or that they had agreents with previous tax collectors for exemptions.
"Without our records, the new tax officials will face endless argunts and disputes. Even if they try to force tax collection, it will only provoke taxpayer outrage."
Hope's eyes lit up. "When the governnt's tax bureau descends into chaos, we can negotiate for a share of the tax revenue—or exclusive rights to collect certain taxes—in exchange for helping restore order."
Seeing his proposal gain traction, Goldsmith continued:
"First, we need all tax farrs to centralize their records under the Association's control.
"At the sa ti, we should compile so rough or even deliberately incorrect records to mislead the French governnt."
"Brilliant!" Hope exclaid, praising Goldsmith. Turning to Delph and the others, he added, "Let's proceed. Mr. Goldsmith's plan will ensure we maintain a minimum level of profit."
Northern-Central France, Orléans Province.
The Duke of Orléans had once made this province his stronghold, investing heavily in its developnt. As a result, both its agriculture and comrce were among the best in France.
The new Director of the Orléans Tax Bureau, Le Maire, had arrived with high hopes of making his mark. However, he now stood tensely, staring at two bloodied n in the room.
The injured n were his tax inspectors: Vincent and his assistant.
After the doctor directed servants to place the wounded n on stretchers and conducted a brief examination, he explained to the arriving police:
"The taller gentleman has a broken left arm. The other's injuries are less severe, though both appear to have been beaten with blunt objects. The good news is that neither seems to be in life-threatening condition. I'll need to treat them further."
"Damn scoundrels," Le Maire spat, gritting his teeth as he looked at his unconscious subordinates. "They dared to attack governnt officials!"
One of the police officers turned to him. "Director, do you have any leads on the perpetrators?"
Le Maire nodded grimly. "On our third day in Orléans, we received a threatening letter. It warned us to resign imdiately or face the consequences.
"We dismissed it as a prank. But two days ago, François and Garcia from the bureau were ambushed on the street. Thankfully, passersby intervened, so their injuries weren't too serious.
"Then today, Mr. Vincent was attacked."
As he spoke, another officer hurried in and handed a crumpled piece of paper to his superior.
The officer frowned as he read it aloud:
"Leave imdiately, or next ti it won't just be an arm."
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