Jacques Necker emerged into the King's study looking every inch what he was: a man of incredible wealth and authority dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour. His wig was askew, his perfect lace cravat tied in the haste that betrayed the gravity of the summons. Necker was Swiss, a Protestant, a commoner by birth, and at Versailles, he had always had the sense of being an outsider. He had battled his way to the position of Director-General of Finance through pure, irrefutable mastery of figures, but at the French court, he navigated as through a minefield, always in the awareness that a false step would be his undoing. A royal summons in the dead of night might bode dismissal, or, conversely, that the King desired the impossible.
What struck his eyes, however, when the doors of the study were flung open, was something that his busiest fantasy could not have contrived. He had steeled himself for the appearance of the youthful King in his entire ceremonial dressing gown, grappling with the problems of the State. He was faced with a sight of controlled commotion, directed by a man who seemed less the sacred ruler than the worried, ink-stained clerk teetering on the edge of discovery or disintegration.
The King—Arthur, though Necker did not recognize him—was leaning over the enormous desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his face illuminated by a candelabra. The room was a bulwark of ledgers and scattered parchments. Necker's meticulous banker's mind stumbled at the disorganization, yet also caught a hint of system to all of this, of system to the madness.
He began the usual courtly preamble, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty does me the honor of this call. I am, as always, your most humbly obedient…"
"Thank you for coming, Minister Necker," Art cut him short, his voice toneless and without ceremony. He did not even look up from the ledger in his hands. "Save the courtesies. We've got a problem."
The directness was astounding. kings did not speak thus. they spoke in degrees of protocol and pleasantries. Art sat up, his eyes flashing in anger that made Necker extremely ill at ease. He gestured toward a chair piled high in books. Art simply kicked the pile of books onto the floor with his foot in order to clear space in the seat. "Sit." It wasn't a request. It was a command, issued in the casual voice of a senior partner at a CPA firm to a junior.
Necker, at a loss by virtue of this breach of all proper etiquette, sat down.
"I've spent the last twelve hours going through the household and pension accounts," began Art without further ado. His speaking style was brisk, staccato, the reverse of the French court's slow, reflective enunciation. "The system of accounts, by any criterion, is terrible. Controls don't even exist, no cross-checks, no reconciliations. It's a paradise for a robber."
He couldn't help gaping. He agreed in the King's diagnosis—he himself had attempted to hint at the same difficulties for years, only to be rebuffed by courtiers who would find such matters vulgar—but to hear the King himself speak in this terminology was divine.
Art did not wait for a response. He shoved one of the heavy ledgers across the well-finished face of the desk, accompanied by a smaller registry book. His finger covered in inky marks stabbed at a designated page.
"Marquis de la Tour, Charles-Auguste. Annual pension, five thousand livres." His finger moved to the other book. "Death registry. Died April 1771. His pension," Art continued, his voice cold as a winter morning, "was paid in 1772, 1773, and will be paid again next month." He shifted two other pairs of books in, staccato-tapping the same accusatory beat. "Same story with the Baron of Creil and the Dowager Countess of Sissonne. These are no errors of the clerk, Minister. The odds of that are astronomically high. These are no errors. These are patterns. Classic ghost payment chicanery, almost certainly the work of a clerk, or clique of clerks, in the treasury office with access to the disbursement ledgers."
He felt a queasy feeling of vertigo. He recognized the individual words—fraud, payment, disbursement—but the King spoke in a strange, clinical fluency that was completely unknown. Kings talked of glory, of honor, of the will of God. This king talked of statistical likelihood and internal control weaknesses. It was as if a master craftsman had suddenly turned stonemason in his vocabulary, and was less concerned with the beauty of the statue than with the imperfections in the marble.
Art looked upon the complete confusion and suspicion inscribed on Necker's face. He knew that he balanced on the edge of a knife. Necker may leave this room thinking his king a dangerous lunatic. Or, he may be the strongest advocate Art would ever be in a position to be. It was time that a risk be weighed. He stared at Necker and leaned in, opting to breach the preset boundaries of that world. He turned on the HUD. "Explain the principle of a systemic audit and internal controls to Necker."
DECISION: Reveal advanced financial analysis concepts to Necker.
Pros:
Necker Alliance: +40% (STATUS: LOYAL). (He will recognize your superior financial intellect and become a dedicated instrument.)
Efficiency of Reforms: +25%. (He has the skill to implement your modern ideas effectively.)
Cons:
Risk of Exposure: +10%. (Your knowledge is unnatural. He may conclude you are not Louis XVI, but an imposter, or worse, possessed by a demon.)
The profit potential far outweighed the risk. Necker was a man of numbers. He, of all others present at Versailles, would be able to understand the logic, although he would be unable to grasp the origin.
"Minister," Art explained, his voice lowered somewhat, gesturing Necker inside. "What I've just shown here is merely a symptom of the issue. It's what in. other circles. would be termed a 'red flag.' What we can't do is fix up these three examples. That'd be treating symptoms. What we must do is cure the disease. What we must undertake is a systemic review of the whole Royal Pension scheme."
Necker blinks. "A... systemic audit?"
"Yes," said Art, his enthusiasm overriding his caution. "We don't just play whack-a-mole with the ghosts we find. We cross-check the whole list of beneficiaries against the official death registries of the last ten years. We create a master file. Then, we put in place a new system of controls to make this impossible in the future. We will require annual proof-of-life documentation for all recipient. Signed, witnessed affidavit, in person to a regional office if that would be necessary. We build a new, centralized system of disbursement with tiered authority for disbursements of the larger amount."
He was struck dumb. He couldn't imagine the world hadn't rotated on its axis. Proof-of-life document. System audit. Central payment system. These were words that did not belong in 18th-century France. It was a standard of organizational and monetary theory that was decades, if not a century, prematurely. It was cold, efficient, and brilliant.
He stared at the boy in front of him. The pale, gentle face of Louis XVI was the same, yet the eyes were different. They bore a chilling, unearthly cleverness. The tentative, variable boy that he had been advising for months no longer existed. He was superseded by... this. A king who spoke the private language of bankers and accountants better than he himself spoke.
Suspicion and confusion drew away from the face of Necker, leaving room for something in their place: awe. He was a man who prized genius, genius in his own field. And what he was witnessing was indisputable genius. He did not understand where it originated, and be honest, it terrorized the wits out of him. But the hard, cold logic of the King's plan evaded him. The King was not insane. He was a visionary.
"Your Majesty," Necker spoke at last, his voice hoarse with emotion. He stood up and bowed, no longer the ceremonial bow. It was the bow of the disciple to the master, the bow of deep respect. "This is... unprecedented. Revolutionary. However, it is... perfect. It is the only way." He stared at the King, his eyes now shining with fanatic enthusiasm. "I will begin the investigation immediately, Your Majesty, and with every possible discretion. You have given me the sword, Your Majesty. I will uncover the rot and cut it out."
Alliance was made. Not in the name of loyalty to the Crown, but in the language of numbers and in the will to instill order from disorder. Art had his man within. He finally had his weapon.