Paris, 1860s. The Bourse trembles at the name of Saccard. Aristide Rougon has returned from ruin, more hungry than before, and he intends to drag himself back to the top of the financial heap by any means necessary. His scheme: a grand new bank funded by wild speculation, venture capital in the Holy Land, and the unshakeable belief that money is the only god worth worshipping. Zola maps the anatomy of a man who sees people as capital and morality as an obstacle. The novel crackles with the electricity of the trading floor, where fortunes are made and destroyed before lunch, where journalists can be bought, where wives are assets and mistresses are investments. This is Zola at his most cinematic, following one man's relentless ascent through the corrupt machinery of Second Empire finance. The result reads less like a Victorian novel and more like a heist film in period costume. It is also terrifyingly prescient: the crash that ends Saccard's empire anticipates every bubble from the Great Depression to the 2008 financial crisis. Money is a propulsive, ruthless study of what happens when ambition has no guardrails and desire is measured in francs.
