Xavier had thought long and hard about this problem, and came up with an idea - he would simply process the plants himself. Whenever he could, he traveled to the lands north of Nantes and told the farmers directly that he would buy any amount, of any quality, of leaf-to-root hemp and flax plants. The individual farmers could not process all of the flax they were able to plant and harvest. Now they could plant all of their land, process what they could, and sell the rest to Xavier. He would buy it on the cheap, because it was raw material, but it would also be a windfall for the farmers, who were used to selling small amounts of the final, refined product after a tremendously time-consuming process. Xavier would acquire his material for next to nothing and process it in bulk, with his employees working in stages like a new world sugar plantation.
Once the fibers were extracted, Xavier would make rope and sails. The trick with rope was that in order for the strands to be twisted and spun together on special hooks, an enclosed space had to be built that was slightly longer than the rope’s final length. Short rope was cheap and easy to come by. Xavier had his eyes on the longest lengths of maritime rope, which were quite thick, and tapped out at some impressive three-hundred-and-fifty yards. Currently, Nantes had to import such lengths. Xavier could easily offer a cheaper price and corner the market, and perhaps force captains to buy the rest of their lengths from him as well.
The best flax fibers, however, would be used for making sails. Currently, sails were shipped to Nantes from linen-producing industrial towns such as Lyon, Flanders, or - even worse - foreign centers such as Holland, Switzerland and Spain. Sails required looms of high quality, with several skilled workers per loom. Xavier knew he could undercut prices by saving on transportation costs. He could also use the looms to create linen fabric, not just canvass.
Xavier outlaid a small fortune, and soon had the best and newest looms in Nantes. His sails would be of the absolute highest quality, saving captains money and aggravation. With sails of such quality, and no transportation costs, he could easily charge more for the sails than what they fetched at the Lyon factories – and Xavier’s canvas would still be cheaper than Lyon’s once they finally arrived in Nantes. Xavier would offer discounts if the captains bought their sails and their rope from him together. Papermaking from the shive by-product would come later - but would certainly occur - so he began to warehouse it. Xavier simply didn’t have time to research the process in order to figure out a niche and a plan. He sold tow - it was cheap and made little, but why have any part of the process go to waste?
But that was a long time ago, Xavier realized as he laid in agony. In fact, months and months had passed. His rope and sail-making businesses flourished. He had even hired many of the people he had put out of work, some of them for more pay than they had previously generated for themselves.
His mother was constantly nagging him about moving the operations off the grounds of the Meilleur. He was trying, but it was hard to move or replace a three-hundred-and-seventy-yard-long building – much less the host of other operations surrounding it.
Then something else had happened, Xavier now remembered.
War.
France had finally recognized the American Colonies, and Britain had declared war. His sail looms and rope hooks were running twenty-four hours a day to keep up with the demand. The extra money was unanticipated, and he decided to put it to work.
I purchased a river barge.
It was an old, decrepit, leaking thing called Le Roi Midas. He was trying to expand his business and generate more funds by shipping cargo up the Loire. Nantes was placed as far inland as ocean-going ships could sail. Cargo then went by barge further east, where the Loire and its tributaries became increasingly more treacherous and shallow. Barges were pulled upstream by oxen run by local contractor teams. To help them, Xavier attached a mast to his barge that could be lowered and raised with pulleys to fit under bridges. Xavier had generated some merriment with this innovation. Shipping prices were determined by the guilds and central authorities, why would anyone care to go faster or make it better? The guild bargemen didn’t even bother to cover their cargo from the rain.
But Xavier was not regulated.
He would barge faster, cheaper and better - and undercut them all. Cœurfroid had been ecstatic that Xavier had moved into riverine transport. Xavier gave him a fair deal on cargo, extraordinarily generous compared to the guild prices, and Xavier had personally taken a shipment of Cœurfroid foodstuffs and his own flaxseed oil to… somewhere. He remembered.
Tours. I am in Tours.
He had delivered his cargo to Cœurfroid’s agents at the city’s Halle, the central market. He had been prepared by his father’s writings for a unique feature of business in France: all of the measurements were different - everywhere. Sometimes they had the same names but different values, sometimes the names and values were different, but from region to region one had to know the unique system of measurements, and speak in the local language of weights and measures or be lost. To some, it might seem ridiculous, but to Xavier it only smelled of opportunity. If Xavier and his future merchants navigated the shoals of measurements effectively, it would put them ahead of their competition. Different kinds of measurements in every town simply meant another hurdle Xavier could jump - and some of his competitors could not.
It was more difficult to have positive feelings regarding the traites and the octroi. The traites were internal customs duties. If you moved goods from one province to another, it was as expensive as moving them from one country to another. The octroi was a city tax, levied on all goods sold within the limits of a given town. Tours had a relatively humane octroi compared to places like Paris.
It was as if the government was sucking the blood from its cows, instead of milking them. If the country needed funds so badly, it did not make sense to consistently lower the total amount received by strangling commerce. Xavier was left with almost nothing, but almost nothing was more than exactly nothing - it was a small step forward.
After the Halle, he had gone to the local Freemason lodge for a meeting. He had given a speech and met several important contacts.
Then what? What had put him in this bed?
A young Priest came into his vision, “Good afternoon, Monsieur.”
Xavier tried hard to speak, “Where am I?”
“You are in the Cathedral of Saint-Gatien.”
“Cathedral?”
“In one of the outbuildings. In the Presbytère. You were brought here. You were found in the street. You were attacked, Monsieur.”
The clue was enough to jog Xavier’s memory. He could never sleep after a meeting, and asked where an interesting amble could be found. Place Plumereau was suggested, a bustling medieval square filled with cafés. On the way to Plumereau, he became distracted when he thought he was being followed. He found himself in an alley, near the ruins of the colossal Roman basilica.
He remembered seeing a man lying in a doorway.
He was barefoot and dressed in tattered peasant rags. A nearby réverbère lantern flickered light over his face, and his jet-black eyes stared up at Xavier like those of a corpse. Xavier slowed until he found himself standing stock-still and looking down at him. The man was older than he looked, probably nearer middle-age, but the living corpse was granted an ironic gift of youthfulness, and there was power in the man’s limbs. Judging by the hardships indicated by the state of his clothes, by all rights he should have been utterly emaciated. Perhaps Xavier was in a strange frame of mind after the Freemason meeting. For whatever reason, he found himself speaking to him, “What has brought you to this doorway, Monsieur?”
The Man did not blink. Suddenly, as if life bubbled up from thick mud, he finally spoke in an even voice, “Go to hell.”
Xavier continued looking down at the man, as if the same forces that compelled Xavier to speak to him would now make the man answer his question.
And after a moment, he did, “I have nothing. I am nothing. I wish nothing. Fro
m you, or from anyone else. What I had, no one can return. There are your answers, Monsieur, to every question you could ever ask. Now go, and leave me be.”
Xavier nodded. He took out a gold Louis and, rather than dropping it, or demanding that he take it, placed it on the ground next to him.
Xavier walked away, absolutely bewildered by his act. Every last sous he could save, he did. Yet he had given the man gold.
Gold!
Why in God’s name had he done such a thing? But, just then, his thoughts were interrupted by masked ambushers. They had come out of nowhere. Their first attack had driven him to the stones. They used thick, short rope wrapped in rawhide, to viciously torture and hurt with each impact, but not break bones or kill. Xavier moaned and gasped like a child with every blow, powerless to hide his pain. In a moment of clarity, he managed to bring up his forearms to cover his face. Scars could be hidden and bones could mend, but his teeth had to remain in his head. As the blows rained down, Xavier distinctly remembered seeing glimpses of the black-eyed corpse-man - who had shifted, if only to get a better angle on the melee. His expression was still without emotion. The gold Louis next to him duly glinted in the lanternlight. He had not bothered to pick it up.
When the men were done beating him, their leader searched him quickly and took everything he had, even his Freemason apron and his shoes. He looked Xavier in the eye and spoke, “Xavier Traversier, do not return to Tours. Do not have your barges return to Tours. Do you understand?”
He knew my name. This was no accident.
Xavier could only nod. It was evidently not good enough. The man slapped him, spoke his name again, and calmly repeated the question. Xavier forced himself to reply as loud as he could, telling the man that he understood. He heard the words barely croak from his mouth. The man motioned to the others, and they quickly disappeared. Xavier remembered nothing more. The men who attacked him were just Sans-Culotte, poor townspeople paid to do the unsavory work of another, wealthier villain. But Xavier did not forgive either party. Such things were not supposed to happen in the cities of France. It was a ridiculous breach of order. The French police were efficient and competent. They needed to deal with this immediately.
Xavier cursed himself for not anticipating this. He had become lax in the safety of Nantes. Now he was trapped in a priest’s bed by shackles of agony.
“I am Father Almo. What is your name?” said the priest.
“Xavier Traversier.”
“Where do you live? Can we summon your family?”
“I am from Nantes.”
“Ah, I see.”
“How long have I...?”
“You are lucky to be alive at all.”
“How long?”
“Two nights and a day. You have slipped in and out of consciousness, from the pain and the exertion of healing.”
“I wish to send a letter. Help me.”
“Yes, of course.” Father was prepared. He moved to a desk with a quill and ink. “When you are ready, Monsieur.”
“Address the letter to Monsieur Antoine Thibault Greffier. I am unsure of his address.” He was the Grandmaster of Tours.
The Father chuckled, “Does Monsieur Greffier know you?”
“Yes.”
The Father sobered quickly, “Very well then. He is known in Tours. Getting a letter to him will not be difficult.”
“Please write that I am the victim of a crime, and to send the appropriate authorities.” If there was a Freemason detective, he would be on his way as soon as the letter was delivered.
“I can summon the police if you wish, Monsieur.”
“No. Just send the letter. And get me some water. Please.”
Father finished the letter, and helped him drink the rest of a bowl of water. Xavier thanked him, and he left.
The men had robbed him. The funds he was carrying were mostly destined for Maurice Cœurfroid, and were payment for the goods he had transported. He would pay Cœurfroid the money regardless, and say nothing of what transpired, of course. Between the barge and the goods, the trip down the Loire was going to be extraordinarily expensive. This might set him back a year, even with the benefits from the war.
Xavier, to his surprise, wept. He was nineteen, and far too old for tears, but his body hurt everywhere, and the added sting of disappointment had peaked his emotion. He had tried so hard, and sacrificed so much, for so long. And just when everything seemed to be coming together, when the carriage was finally at speed, so to speak, unforeseen barriers had broken the horses’ legs. No matter how powerful one became, the world found more powerful enemies. How long could he go on like this? He was doing the work of five men. He was a servant - several servants - an accountant, a sailor, a merchant, and had spent time behind his own looms, and spinning rope on his own hooks. He didn’t sleep, he barely ate, and now he was broken from foot to pate. It hurt. Everything hurt. He never thought a body could betray one with so much diabolical agony. What was the point, the objective, of his nerves? What benefit did he receive from this extraordinary amount of pain? He took in several deep breaths and willed himself to calm. He addressed himself.
Is this the moment when life finally beat you? Is this the moment you give up? Do you quit?
They were almost his father’s words. Now he spoke them to himself and found the same answer. Faced with such direct self-questioning, the answer could only be a resounding no. He spoke to himself once again. This time, his own words.
My reason and intellect are more powerful than my emotions. In all things, I assess what course of action provides the most benefit. Tears are useless. They do not provide benefit, nor do they aid the process of thought.
Xavier found himself feeling better.
I am a Spartan who does what needs to be done while others do nothing.
I am a Freemason. I am a Traversier of Nantes.
I am a citizen of the greatest nation on earth. France is the inheritor of Rome, the seat of Charlemagne. Modern Europe is our invention. We stopped the Muslims outside this very city, and saved Christendom.
I am a man of Nantes. A man of the rivers.
No.
I am the river.
If the river is wide and deep, even nations of men cannot dam it or change its course. They exist with the river at its whim, and pray it does not overflow its banks.
Xavier was no longer crying. He was calm. He was back.
Disadvantages, challenges and disappointments - whether new or old - were simply factors in a continuing calculation. What was important, in this moment, was that the negative forces within his own soul had been beaten. Xavier had won the fight within himself. He was neither ahead nor behind. He was a series of calculations and actions, designed for the greatest benefit, in a continuing struggle that would last over decades.
The Father left, but Xavier didn’t wait for his return. In any case, he felt like a bit of a hypocrite accepting his help and ministrations.
Xavier dressed alone. Every movement hurt. By the time his hat made it to the top of his head, he was exhausted. He grabbed his cane, pausing for a moment to control his breathing. He vaguely remembered that his hat, his cane, and his shoes had all been stolen - yet here they were.
A policeman entered, “Good afternoon, Monsieur Traversier. I am Detective Chouette.”
Xavier was surprised to see him so soon. He was a mason - Xavier recognized him from the lodge. “How much do you know about what happened, Detective?”
“Everything, I believe.”
Xavier forced himself to walk.
The Detective frowned, “Are you sure you are quite all right? I must confess, the last time I saw you, I did not think you would survive the night.”
Odd.
“You’ve been here already? Before I sent the letter?” As he spoke, Xavier moved through the door, into a hallway.
“Yes, I was here the night of the incident. As soon as they found the apron.”
Ah, that made sense.
The Detective
followed him, “The Father told me you have blood in your urine. Such a thing is very serious, Monsieur Traversier.”
“There was a man in the street. He witnessed the entire incident. He was barefoot, in tattered rags. But you can identify him plainly, just by his eyes. They are black, Monsieur le Détective, jet-black without color of any kind.”
“Yes, that is quite an accurate description.”
“You have found this man?”
“He is quite an interesting character. I would have judged him villainous, were he not so courageous and forthright.”
“I am surprised you had such an easy time with him. Perhaps I can corroborate his story, if need be.”
“That really won’t be necessary.”
“What do you need from me, Monsieur?”
“In terms of what?”
Xavier found himself getting impatient. He was hurting, and the obtuseness of the detective wasn’t helping. But the man was a brother, and losing his patience would avail him nothing. He answered calmly, “What do you need from me in order to catch these perpetrators, and hopefully retrieve the remainder of my effects. I do not anticipate getting anything back, but one never knows.”
“Ah, this explains much.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Father hasn’t told you anything.”
“No, nothing. I thought no one had heard of my case until my letter was delivered.”
“Then I will not keep you in suspense. We caught them all.”
The Crimson Heirlooms Page 10