[b]Saint-Denis, Réunion[/b]
[i]Autumn, 1836[/i]

	Pierre Jaubert emerged from the cramped deck of the primitive merchant ship to feel the fresh, salty ocean air against his face. He had traveled long and far aboard the rugged and unadorned sailing vessel for weeks, stopping at each of France’s colonial possessions along the East African coast. It helped to break up the journey, and he had gained a newfound appreciation for the sailors who endured the arduous trade routes between Europe and India. Jaubert had mused at dinner with the captain a few nights ago about Napoleon’s proposed canal through the Sinai. They proposed wild and drunken figures about how much they thought it would cost, and how many men were needed to dig. Both of them laughed off the reality of the proposition: a crazed native Egyptian was in charge of the land and there was no possible way they could engineer a project of that scale.

	The Shah’s proposal to raise the Qajari flag over the Seychelles and Isle-de-France had been received by Jaubert’s colleagues on the islands. Réunion, being the southernmost territory, was last on his trip. Saint-Denis was a quaint European-looking town that sat nestled in the hills of the island’s north side. Merchant vessels of all countries were docked on the industrial side of the port, loading up on stores of provisions to continue their journeys to India. Crews of expatriate European sailors, Africans, and Indians made up a diverse population along the seaside districts. Captains would rotate their men for rest, taking on new crew to keep sailing. Beyond the peaceful port of Saint-Denis, plantations of sugarcane dotted the rest of the island.

	A man by the name of Cecil Montauban ran Réunion island. Jaubert knew that the administrator was an ardent capitalist, so he had plenty of time to prepare a sales pitch to the island. The Shah had not indicated any desire to buy out the small island, as that would require negotiations with the Bourbon regime in Paris, but Jaubert was convinced that he could get Montauban to turn it over without a fight. After all, money talks, and the Shah had opportunities to make plenty. Jaubert was led up to the administrator’s mansion atop a hill in Saint-Denis, past the nice-looking quarters for the French personnel on the island. Carefully hidden from view were the slums of the indigenous and migrant workers. He remarked to the guide that it looked like a little piece of home.

	Montauban greeted Jaubert at the door with a firm handshake. Clean-shaven with long sideburns, he dressed down in lightweight attire to better acquaint himself to the tropical conditions. Jaubert had clumsily forgotten to pack his lighter clothes and was wearing only the heavier garments needed for Iran’s autumn season. He had been sweating through them for the entirety of the trip and no doubt would have smelled horrible if not for the copious amounts of perfume he had been using to mask it. “Good afternoon, Monsieur!” he said to Montauban. “May I enter?”

	“Of course, sir,” Montauban replied, waving him into the mansion. “I have heard you’ve traveled for a long time.”

	Montauban gestured to a servant. “Fetch this man some food and tea. Surely he needs something more substantial than ship’s rations.”

	Jaubert removed his hat and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. He thanked Montauban for the offer of food. “If I have to eat another damned tin can of salted beef, I will lose my sanity entirely. Industrialization is killing the art of cuisine.”

	Montauban laughed. “Well, we have plenty of that here for the merchants, my friend. I’m afraid that your vessel will be restocked with canned foods for the journey home. After all, you’re only halfway done.”

	Jaubert grimaced and shook his head. “Don’t remind me.”

	The Frenchmen entered an elaborately decorated dining room where a long table had been prepared with silverware for the both of them. It looked as if it was usually used for larger meetings, but the two plates were just for Jaubert and Montauban. Montauban sat at the head of the table and invited Jaubert to come next to him. A servant, Indian by the looks of him, filled up ceramic glasses with steaming hot tea. Montauban barely acknowledged the presence of the worker and smiled at Jaubert instead. “I hear you are coming straight from the court of the… Persian king?”

	“Well,” Jaubert said, sipping contentedly at the fresh beverage, “the Shah has an offer for you.”

	“Seychelles and Isle-de-France have already accepted. Word travels fast.”

	“Yes, it does,” Jaubert replied. “Do you feel that it is time to leave France behind for good?”

	Montauban scoffed. “The Bourbons have maintained the status quo, I have not had any issues with them. And besides, what are they going to do? Sail out and arrest me for insubordination?”

	“It is far more likely that they will sell you to the British again. Charles already does not like those of us who have stayed overseas in the [i]empire colonial[/i]. He thinks we are disloyal. Napoleon is no longer here to protect us, you know this.”

	“Talk of disloyalty from a man who is in the employ of an oriental king is an interesting thing, monsieur,” Montauban said pointedly.

	Jaubert frowned and crossed his arms. “Would you rather be British, or work under a man who we have basically colonized in reverse? Mohammad Shah loves us. He loves all things French. You have no idea of the special privileges he has granted Frenchmen who own companies in his kingdom. There are dozens of mines producing coal for the Iranians and riches for their French owners. They all live in mansions along the Caspian Sea that makes yours look like a shack.”

	Montauban frowned. “Are you here to mock me or offer me a choice?”

	“The latter, my friend. Pledge loyalty to Mohammad Shah Qajar and you will be rewarded beyond anything France will do for us. The Muslims are not savages, they are an untapped market of wealth sitting right under our noses. Flying the flag of Mohammad Shah will grant you tremendous opportunities to profit from trade with the Arabs, Indians, and even African kingdoms. The routes are shorter, we will have more say in the value of our goods, and the political situation is much less tenuous. Not to mention now that the rest of the French positions have switched sides, you will be integrated into a much more tax-friendly network.”

	Montauban sat back in his chair, stroking his chin. “I never imagined this day would come,” he lamented. “Napoleon offered us a path to greatness. We were even close to destroying the British, for God’s sake! And now we are led by a cripple. And even ‘led’ is a strong word… nobody has seen that senile old man for weeks! Even we know this out here.”

	“Exactly,” Jaubert said. “Mohammad Shah is eager to exert himself. He is young but driven. Some may even say the ghost of Napoleon himself lives inside him.”

	“That’s rather dramatic,” Montauban chuckled. “But I see your point. It is just unconventional, never in my life did I think that the Muslims could mimic even a fraction of Europe’s power.”

	“The Muslims had a golden age while we were struggling with the dark ages. And the Persians were the first world empire, eclipsing even the Greeks or Romans in their prime. I think we as Europeans simply don’t want to think about the concept of oriental power. I have lived there for almost three decades, monsieur, they have a fire burning within them. They just needed some help.”

	The meal arrived. Chicken, rice, and vegetables raised all from local farms on the island. The chicken had been seasoned with a uniquely Indian spice that had come from the traders stopping by Réunion. Had Jaubert not been living in Persia for so long, he would have been uniquely surprised by the taste. The eastern colonies had more in common with the Iranians than they believed. Jaubert and Montauban enjoyed the meal, making small talk about life in Persia. Jaubert told him of the history and ancient sites of Shahs past, while Montauban asked questions about the culture.

	“So you mean to tell me that the Persians have alcohol?” he asked incredulously, sipping on a glass of imported French wine. “I thought they forbid it entirely,” Montauban proclaimed as Jaubert chuckled at his comment.

	“Well, the Muslims do not,” Jaubert explained. “But luckily through my connections, I have a fine cellar of Armenian brandy in my home. See, they are the oldest Christian nation in the world and their alcohol rivals even French bottles!”

	“Preposterous!” Montauban laughed. “I may need to put out a request for a few of these bottles of Armenian brandy, then.”

	“Absolutely, monsieur!”

	The pair ate and drank their way into the night. The topic changed from alcohol to tobacco, to women and their beauty, to the traditions of Persia. Montauban was amused by the Iranian holidays, particularly jumping over the fires during the festival of [i]Charshanbeh Suri[/i]. It had been long past the sun setting on Réunion that Montauban offered a guest room to Jaubert. “Monsieur,” he slurred drunkenly. “Tell Mohammad Shah that Réunion accepts his offer. It will be difficult for me to transition, but as long as things are kept running smoothly then I think we fit better with you than the Bourbons.”

	Jaubert bowed to Montauban and smiled, almost stumbling when he lost his balance briefly. “Thank you, monsieur. You will not regret this decision.”