Antoine's hand was already grasping the slightly peeling wooden doorknob. The cold wind from outside seeped through the cracks of the door, bringing a biting chill.
He did not look back.
He was confident that the bargaining chips and threats he had just thrown down had already torn through the exiled queen's psychological defenses.
After his time in New York, he had learned Felix's finest tactic:
When the other party is at their most desperate, slam both money and a blade onto the table.
Just as Antoine was about to turn the handle and leave with the two expressionless security guards,
"Wait..."
Queen Isabella II's voice echoed across the spacious parlor.
Her voice was no longer sharp with fury and hysteria; instead, it had regained the composure befitting a ruler at the negotiating table.
Antoine halted.
Releasing the doorknob, he slowly turned around.
Queen Isabella II still sat on the worn sofa, not sparing a single glance at the hundred-thousand-dollar draft on the coffee table.
She raised her hand and waved dismissively at the few ashen-faced veteran Spanish courtiers in the room.
"Leave us. Wait in the corridor. No one is to enter without my permission."
The elderly courtiers exchanged glances.
Yet, as die-hard loyalists, they maintained their obedience to the former queen.
They could only bow slightly and drag their heavy steps out of the parlor, pulling the inner doors shut behind them.
Only Antoine, Queen Isabella II, and the two statue-like guards at the doorway remained in the parlor.
Leaning back against the sofa, Queen Isabella II looked Antoine up and down.
It was as if she were taking the measure of this brother-in-law afresh—a man she had long guarded against and even despised.
"Antoine, after a single trip to America, you seem to have changed a great deal," Queen Isabella II said coldly.
"When you schemed in the past, you always preferred to talk in circles, veiling your ambition behind noble etiquette. Now, you have become as blunt as a butcher hawking pork in the market."
"Because those butchers hold the cold, hard cash capable of buying up every royal house in Europe."
Antoine walked back to the center of the parlor.
"Your Majesty, since you called me back, it proves you are a sensible woman. This deal is the only way out—for you, and for the House of Bourbon."
"A way out?"
Queen Isabella II let out a brief, mocking scoff.
She pointed a stubby finger at the draft on the coffee table.
"A hundred thousand dollars, plus an empty two-million-dollar promise in Switzerland from that American. And for that, you expect me to hand over the entire sovereignty of Spain on a silver platter to an American infant who cannot even speak, who has never even set foot in Europe?"
"Antoine, do you truly take me for a fool who would sell her soul to the devil just because she missed a few meals?"
Antoine frowned.
"Didn't your reaction just now mean you had agreed? Are you going back on your word? Felix does not have the patience to wait around while you play petty games in Paris."
"I have not gone back on my word, and I am well aware of my circumstances."
The flesh on Queen Isabella II's face quivered slightly.
"I admit, this man named Argyle is terrifying. He can secure immense wealth, and he can manufacture engines of slaughter. If he truly uses the press to dredge up my past scandals in Madrid, the republicans in France will certainly expel me. I truly lack the leverage to refuse his military backing."
Queen Isabella II rose from the sofa.
Though she had lost her crown, the commanding presence forged by thirty years of ruling from the Royal Palace of Madrid returned to her at that moment.
"However, accepting his gold and guns does not mean I will meekly stomach his crude, brainless political maneuvering!"
Queen Isabella II stepped toward Antoine.
"Antoine, have you spent two months in America only to have your head stuffed entirely with dollars? Do you truly believe that in Europe—on this Old World woven together by centuries of bloodlines, royal marriages, and religion—you can forcefully shove an American infant named Argyle onto the throne of Castile?"
"As long as we have the backing of the army and parliament..." Antoine attempted to argue.
"The army and parliament yield only to raw power, that is true. But the nobility and the populace of Europe answer to tradition!" Queen Isabella II cut him off ruthlessly.
"If that American oligarch genuinely thinks a few tens of thousands of rifles and dozens of cannons are enough to establish a puppet dynasty in Madrid by sheer force, then he is an utter political imbecile!"
Queen Isabella II began methodically picking apart the flaws in the plan.
"Think about it. If Amadeo I is driven out and we enthrone an American infant as king, how will the Legitimists in France view it? How will the House of Habsburg in Vienna view it? How will Queen Victoria in London view it? They will perceive it as a grotesque, intercontinental invasion!"
"When that time comes, the Carlists will not even need to lift a finger. The royal houses across Europe will secretly unite, funneling an unending stream of weapons and gold into the hands of the Spanish opposition."
"No matter how wealthy this Argyle is, does he truly believe he can wage an endless war of attrition on the European mainland, thousands of miles from his home base, against all the established empires?"
Antoine fell silent.
For what Queen Isabella II had laid bare were the very risks he had previously voiced to Felix.
It was just that Felix had arrogantly believed sheer firepower and money could bulldoze through anything.
"Therefore..."
Queen Isabella II turned, walked back to the sofa, and sat down.
"A deal can be made. Amadeo must go. I also need that American's money and army. But the transfer of the throne must adhere to European conventions. Otherwise, we will all perish in the chaos of Madrid."
"Then what are your conditions?"
Antoine knew that only now had the negotiations reached their substantive core.
Queen Isabella II looked at Antoine, her expression unreadable.
"First: I will absolutely not abdicate directly to surrender the Spanish crown to an infant. That is legally untenable and would make us the laughingstock of all Europe."
"Second: I will under no circumstances surrender the throne to you, or to your wife, my own sister Louisa."
Queen Isabella II made no effort to conceal her mistrust of Antoine.
"Do not think I am blind to your schemes. If you or Louisa take the throne, once you control Madrid with the American's artillery behind you, will you still honor your promises to me? You would surely keep me locked in Paris forever, or even hire someone to drown me in the Seine River."
Antoine's expression shifted.
He indeed had contemplated such an outcome; in politics, the dead kept secrets far better than the living.
"Then to whom do you intend to yield the throne?" Antoine asked coldly.
"To the infant's mother. My niece, Isabella."
Seeing that Antoine didn't interrupt, Queen Isabella II breathed a sigh of relief and continued.
"I can sign an abdication proclamation, but only in favor of an adult of pure Bourbon blood. Isabella is your daughter with Louisa, and her status is documented in European high society."
"If she inherits the title of Queen of Spain, then in the eyes of the royal houses across Europe, this will still be a succession between the Anjou and Orléans branches within the House of Bourbon—a legitimate transfer of the throne. The resistance will be far smaller."
"As for that child named Philip..."
"He can only serve as Queen Isabella's heir apparent—the crown prince. Once he grows up and the situation in Spain is thoroughly controlled by American capital, he can naturally step in and take over. That is the only way to silence Europe."
After listening, Antoine began weighing the pros and cons.
He had to admit that Queen Isabella II was far more seasoned than Felix when it came to manipulating the legalities of European politics.
"Regarding this condition, I can try sending a telegram to New York to explain. I believe Felix is a pragmatic man. As long as the ultimate succession remains in Philip's hands, he should be able to accept a roundabout process."
He nodded, preparing to make a note of this condition.
"Don't be in such a hurry. This is only the first step."
Queen Isabella II's gaze grew deeper.
"The more critical condition comes after this, regarding that child's surname."
In nineteenth-century European royalty, a surname was not merely a personal designation; it represented territorial inheritance rights, the continuation of legal legitimacy, and the very foundation of national identity.
Antoine looked at Queen Isabella II, his brows knitting tightly together.
"Your Majesty, Philip is Felix's biological son. His surname is Argyle—is there a problem with that?" Antoine asked, knowing full well the answer.
"A problem? The problem is big enough to ruin the entire plan!"
Queen Isabella II raised her voice sharply, her stout frame leaning forward slightly on the sofa.
"Antoine! You can ask any Spanish commoner on the street, or any officer serving in the army. Ask them if they are willing to swear allegiance to a king named 'Argyle'!"
Queen Isabella II let out a scathing sneer.
"To Spanish ears, the name Argyle represents those British bastards swaggering arrogantly in the Strait of Gibraltar. It represents those profit-seeking American parvenus in the New World! If you make the future king bear that surname, you are spitting on the national pride of all Spain!"
"The Carlists wouldn't even need to fight! All they'd have to do is print a single line in the newspapers: 'The House of Bourbon has sold the crown of Castile to American capitalists; the new king is an utter foreigner.' The army would mutiny immediately, and those generals would line up to join the rebels!"
Queen Isabella II's analysis was spot-on.
Nationalism had already begun to awaken in nineteenth-century Europe.
A king with a foreign surname would never be able to sit securely upon the throne.
"Then what do you propose?"
Antoine naturally understood this logic, but when he was in New York, he hadn't dared raise the issue with Felix at all.
Because he had come to understand Felix's character.
In Felix's commercial empire, everything had to bear the brand of the Argyle Family.
That man possessed a terrifying possessiveness.
"The infant must change his surname."
Queen Isabella II stated her bottom line.
"Since he is coming to Europe to be a king, he must play by Europe's rules. He can continue being that American's son. But in the official royal genealogy and future coronation documents, the name Argyle must never appear."
"He can take the surname 'd'Orléans' and follow your house. Of course, if he feels your reputation isn't prominent enough in Madrid, he could even take 'de Bourbon' and be raised as an adopted lineage of the Anjou branch."
Queen Isabella II looked at Antoine.
"This is an absolute red line. If that American oligarch refuses to make even this political compromise and insists on hanging his commercial shingle over the gate of Spain's royal palace..."
"...then tell him to abandon all hope right now. Even if he uses machine guns to slaughter everyone in Madrid, he will never get a legitimate kingdom."
Antoine felt a chill run down his spine.
Demanding that an oligarch commanding absolute wealth and violence relinquish his son's surname...
If he were to say something like that to Felix in New York, he suspected he would be thrown straight out the window.
"Your Majesty, you don't understand Felix at all," Antoine said, his voice sounding somewhat dry.
"He is a proud man. The building named after his family was built ten stories tall just so he could look down upon all of Wall Street. If you demand to strip his son of his surname now, it amounts to denying his absolute ownership over this political acquisition. He won't pay the money."
"Hmph. If he is truly an intelligent man, he must pay!" Queen Isabella II did not yield an inch.
"What he wants is a government capable of protecting his assets in Cuba and the Philippines, and to use the nation's customs revenues to repay his expenses."
"A king named Philip de Bourbon can give him all of those things just the same! As long as he controls the money and guns from behind the scenes, a surname is nothing more than a fig leaf for foolish European nobles and commoners!"
Queen Isabella II sighed.
"Just relay my conditions to him and explain the political stakes clearly. And..."
A look of complexity flashed across Queen Isabella II's eyes.
"Tell him: if the surname must be changed, it is best not to have the child take 'de Bourbon.' That would only hold him over the fire."
"What do you mean?" Antoine asked, somewhat puzzled.
"Hmph, you must realize that our House of Bourbon has more than just the few of us in Europe," Queen Isabella II sneered.
"The Neapolitan branch, the Parma branch, even the Legitimists in France. Those decrepit princes and dukes keep their eyes fixed every single day on these intangible rights of succession."
"If that American truly forces his son into the House of Bourbon's family tree, he will have to face the backlash of these cadet branches."
"This is my second condition." Queen Isabella II's tone turned cunning.
"I can agree to this deal, but I will only be responsible for using my remaining influence in Spain to pave the way for you. As for how to persuade or handle the protests from the other branches of the House of Bourbon, that is Argyle's own business."
"Doesn't he have money? Doesn't he have cannons? Then let him deal with those fussy European relatives. It's none of my concern."
Antoine listened, inwardly alarmed.
Although this exiled queen had lost her power, her knack for playing political balancing acts was as cunning and seasoned as ever.
She was dumping all of Europe's most troublesome traditional aristocrats onto Felix, far away in New York.
She would let the American monster clash head-on with European old money, while she hid behind and reaped the benefits.
"I will also convey this condition together." Antoine took out his notebook and began to record.
This negotiation had already exceeded the initial conception.
This was no longer a simple transaction of buying a throne with money.
This was a fierce collision and compromise between classical European political rules and the industrial capitalism of America.
"Write it down."
Queen Isabella II picked up the tea on the table that had already gone cold and took a sip.
"However, these two conditions only resolve the legitimacy issue of your grandson. Next, we should talk about the future of my son, Alfonso."
Queen Isabella II slammed her teacup heavily onto the coffee table.
"First of all, it is impossible for me to give away a country for nothing and let my own biological son be a wealthy idler holding a trust fund on the streets of Paris."
"Alfonso must obtain the political status he deserves."
The negotiation had already entered a critical stage.
Within Queen Isabella II's somewhat bloated body due to obesity, a mother's toughness to fight for her son's future erupted at this moment.
Alfonso (later King Alfonso XII of Spain) was still just a teenager at this time, wandering in exile in Paris with his mother.
But in Queen Isabella II's heart, he was Spain's only legitimate heir.
But now, for survival, she was forced to agree to cede the throne of Madrid to the mixed-blood son of that American capitalist.
But she would never allow the bloodline of the House of Anjou to completely disappear from Europe's political map.
"What status do you want?" Antoine frowned.
"In Europe, without real and substantial territories, all titles are a joke." Antoine looked at her.
"You must know that Felix has already promised to set up a two million dollar trust fund in Switzerland. This money is enough to buy several miniature principalities in Germany."
"I don't want miniature principalities in Germany; places like that don't even have a decent railway." Queen Isabella II refused without hesitation.
That pair of calculating eyes stared at Antoine and spat out a place name.
"I want Cuba."
Antoine was stunned for a moment, then, as if hearing something incredible, suddenly jumped up from the sofa.
"Cuba?! Are you crazy?!"
Antoine's reaction was intense.
"Have you forgotten why Felix wants to support this restoration? It is precisely to protect his industries in Cuba and the Philippines in the future."
"The Metropolitan Trading Company currently owns more than four hundred thousand acres of sugarcane plantations in Cuba, controlling Havana's core cigar processing plants and port logistics."
"That is an overseas cash cow!"
Antoine looked at Queen Isabella II as if looking at a lunatic.
"Not only do you want him to pay for military expenses and change your son's surname now, but you also want him to cede his core overseas colony to your son?"
"Believe it or not, if this telegram is sent to New York, tomorrow morning, there will be assassins sinking you into the Seine River!"
Queen Isabella II was completely unconcerned.
"Calm down, Antoine."
"Your timid appearance is truly disgusting."
"I didn't say I was going to grab his sugarcane plantations. You must know that I am a person who speaks of rules, I only want Cuba's political legitimacy."
Queen Isabella II had Antoine sit down and began to explain her vision in detail.
"If Isabella ascends the throne and Philip becomes the crown prince, they must confer upon Alfonso a noble prince title within the territorial scope of Spain."
"Alfonso becomes the Grand Duke of Cuba."
"It is not just an honorary title," Queen Isabella II emphasized.
"Cuba must serve as Alfonso's private hereditary fiefdom. Nominally, he is the supreme ruler of Cuba, possessing the feudal lord's judicial immunity and symbolic tax jurisdiction."
"What?"
"How is this any different from robbery?"
Antoine still felt it was unfeasible.
"The difference is huge!"
Queen Isabella II explained patiently.
"Antoine, go use your brain and think about it. Why do Americans always face harassment from local rebels and the Spanish governor in Cuba?"
"Because they are outsiders, multinational oligarchs. Their plantations forever face the legal risk of being confiscated."
"But! If Cuba becomes Alfonso's private fiefdom, that American named Argyle can completely sign a hidden commercial trusteeship agreement lasting up to ninety-nine years with Alfonso."
Queen Isabella II presented her long-conceived dual-track proposal.
"Politically, Cuba is the territory of Grand Duke Alfonso of the House of Anjou-Bourbon."
"This is sacred in European jurisprudence; no one dares to point fingers at the territory of an orthodox grand duke."
"The British dare not, and the republicans of France dare not either."
"As for commerce and actual operations, Alfonso can entrust the actual operating rights of Cuba's agriculture, minerals, ports, and even customs entirely to the enterprises under the Argyle Family."
"The Metropolitan Trading Company can logically and justifiably monopolize everything in Cuba. They earn their US dollars, and my son enjoys his grand ducal treatment in the governor's mansion in Havana."
Queen Isabella II looked at Antoine, her eyes full of petty schemes.
"This is tantamount to my son providing a political umbrella that can never be torn up for that American merchant's industries in Cuba."
"With this layer of fiefdom jurisprudence."
"Whoever dares to touch the sugarcane plantations of the Argyle Family in Cuba is violating the private property of the grand duke of the House of Bourbon. This is an easy account to calculate in European courts."
After hearing this complex political and capital exchange, Antoine quieted down.
He had to admire Queen Isabella II.
After four years in exile, this woman actually combined Europe's classical feudal jurisprudence and America's modern capital monopoly perfectly together.
Alfonso obtained dignity, territory, and the title of grand duke.
As for Felix, he completely whitewashed his resource plundering in Cuba jurisprudentially, turning a colony that constantly faced political risks into an absolutely safe back garden.
"A grand duke politically, a puppet economically," Antoine muttered to himself.
This model was extremely attractive to Felix, who valued practical interests.
"Moreover..." Queen Isabella II added.
"If that American agrees to this condition, not only will I sign the declaration of renouncing the Spanish throne, but I will also use my old connections in Madrid to help you appease those stubborn royalist generals."
"I can even write a letter to the Pope, letting Vatican maintain neutrality towards this restoration."
In a devoutly Catholic country like Spain in the 19th century,
the Vatican's attitude could often determine the defection of tens of thousands of troops.
Antoine knew that this negotiation had reached a critical juncture.
Queen Isabella II not only laid out her conditions but also produced political chips that Felix could not refuse.
"I have written down all the conditions."
Antoine closed the black notebook in his hand.
He stood up, picked up the one-hundred-thousand-dollar draft, and solemnly placed it on the coffee table in front of Queen Isabella II.
This time, he no longer used that patronizing attitude.
"Your Majesty. This money is the down payment for you to maintain your last shred of decency in Paris. Over the next few days, please keep your old ministers in check. Do not let slip the slightest word outside; France's secret police are no blind men."
Antoine put on his black bowler hat.
"I will immediately head to the telegraph office in Paris. The three conditions we agreed upon today—concerning Isabella's ascension, Philip's change of surname, and the conferring of the Grand Duchy of Cuba—will be sent via the fastest encrypted dedicated line to the Argyle's Building in New York."
"As for whether Felix will agree—"
"—we can only pray that his ambition is big enough to accommodate the calculations of old fogies like you and me."
Seeing that the other party was about to leave, Queen Isabella II made no move to stand up and see him off.
After all, the two of them had harbored considerable conflict before.
"Hmph, then you had better be quick."
...
The winter sky over Paris was gray and gloomy, as if it could snow at any moment.
After stepping outside, Antoine took a carriage and circled the streets of Paris several times. Confirming that there were no spies from the Department of the Interior of France following him, he got off the carriage in a remote street near the Gare du Nord.
There was a seemingly ordinary trade and freight company here.
But in reality, this was a covert intelligence and communication transit station established by the Metropolitan Trading Company in Europe.
Antoine walked through the gates with two security guards.
Upon seeing the token bearing the crest of the Argyle Family presented by Antoine, the freight company manager led them without a word to a utility room on the first basement level.
They pushed open the secret door behind the utility room.
Inside was a telegraph room with advanced equipment.
Several state-of-the-art telegraph machines were on standby, and thick lead plates completely isolated the room from external electromagnetic interference.
"Lord Duke. This dedicated line goes via submarine cable straight to the relay station in Long Island, New York, and then transfers into the Argyle's Building in Manhattan. It is completely safe," the manager said respectfully.
Antoine nodded.
He sat down in front of the wooden desk and took out the black notebook where he had recorded the negotiation conditions.
He did not let the telegraph operator write on his behalf.
After all, this matter was of such monumental significance that even the slightest leak could trigger a terrifying diplomatic earthquake in Europe.
Antoine took a deep breath.
He took out a complex codebook.
This was given to him by Felix, specifically for single-line communication between the two of them.
Antoine began translating those extremely sensitive political conditions into code word by word.
He wrote on the paper:
[To New York, A.W.]
[Contact with Queen Isabella II completed, the financial down payment has been paid. The target is well-versed in European political rules, refusing to directly abdicate power and hand it over to him. She has proposed a revised plan that can guarantee the legality of the transaction and quell intervention from various European countries. This plan is the bottom line.]
Antoine's hand trembled slightly on the paper.
He knew that the content that followed might enrage that proud American oligarch.
[The primary condition is that the Spanish throne must first be inherited by Isabella, with the infant serving only as the first-in-line crown prince. This is to maintain the dignity of internal inheritance within the House of Bourbon in terms of European legal principles.]
[The second condition is that the infant must change its surname; the surname of Argyle will trigger a strong nationalist backlash and military mutiny. The target requests that the infant change its surname to de Orléans or de Bourbon in order to gain the recognition of the Legitimists. Regarding the disputes from other branches of the Bourbon that may be brought about by the surname change, the target stated that she is not responsible for handling them, and they must be resolved by us behind the scenes using force and funds.]
[Finally, the target's biological son, Alfonso, must be conferred as the Grand Duke of Cuba, with Cuba serving as his hereditary fiefdom. This move is a dual-track solution. Alfonso acquires political titles and judicial immunity, while the Metropolitan Trading Company will substantively and completely monopolize all agriculture, minerals, and customs of Cuba through a ninety-nine-year 'Full Delegation Operating Agreement'. Using the feudal territorial legal principles of the European royal family, this provides a layer of political umbrella for your commercial plunder.]
[In exchange, the target promises to mobilize all remaining loyalist networks among the Spanish military and nobility to clear obstacles for the landing, and promises to write letters to win the tacit consent of the Vatican Curia.]
After finishing writing, a layer of cold sweat had seeped out from Antoine's forehead.
He handed the cipher paper to the telegraph operator.
"Send it immediately. After confirming receipt by the other party, destroy the cipher paper."
The telegraph operator took the paper and skillfully sat in front of the transmitter.
"Tick—tick, tick tick—"
The crisp sound of metal tapping echoed in the basement.
This string of encrypted radio waves, carrying the final struggles of the old-era nobility and the naked compromise with the capital of the new era, raced at the speed of light along the cold submarine cable spanning the Atlantic Ocean toward the East Coast of America.
Antoine sat on the wooden chair in the basement, feeling extremely exhausted.
Acting as a broker between New York and the European royal family, this pressure almost tore his nerves apart.
Now, he had finished everything he needed to do.
The ball had been kicked back to that building in Manhattan.
He felt that when this telegram reached Felix's hands, that young oligarch would definitely undergo intense psychological weighing.
To give up the pride of having his son bear his own surname in exchange for an extremely safe, legitimate European throne and overseas colonies that could maximize profits;
or to reject this extremely cost-effective yet insulting political compromise for the sake of a merchant's overbearing dominance?
Who knows...
In this turbulent era,
the button determining the fate of Spain and even the future layout of Europe
was currently in the hands of that monster who had just crushed all of America with capital.
Antoine closed his eyes, quietly waiting in the telegraph room for the notification spanning the ocean.
After Antoine left, Queen Isabella II stared at that bank demand draft for a full two minutes.
Reaching out, she picked up the draft, felt the raised anti-counterfeiting patterns on it, and tucked it into her bodice.
Turning to the attendant stationed at the corridor entrance, she instructed:
"Go call them in, and head upstairs to bring Alfonso down as well."
Less than two minutes later, the wooden door leading to the inner chamber was pushed open.
Led by Cánovas, prime minister of the court-in-exile, four veteran Spanish officials strode inside.
Following behind them was a fifteen-year-old youth.
Tall and lean, with slightly curly dark hair, the youth bore the prominent nose and deep-set eyes characteristic of the House of Bourbon. He was Alfonso, Queen Isabella II's only son, and in the hearts of these royalist veterans, the sole legitimate Prince of Asturias.
"Your Majesty, what did that old fox from the House of Orléans discuss with you?" Cánovas asked as he approached the sofa.
"Those security guards he brought with him looked like mercenaries fresh off the battlefield."
The other veteran officials gathered around as well, their faces fraught with worry.
Although they could not make out the specific conversation from the corridor, they had heard Queen Isabella II raise her voice several times.
Queen Isabella II pointed to the chairs opposite her.
"Take a seat, all of you. Alfonso, come sit by Mother."
Alfonso walked over and sat down beside the sofa. Seeing his mother's solemn expression, he felt a twinge of unease:
"Mother, what did Uncle come to Paris for? Wasn't he trying to contest you for Madrid before?"
Stroking her son's hair, Queen Isabella II swept her gaze across the four veteran courtiers sitting opposite her.
"Antoine is here representing that American oligarch, Alan Argyle."
Queen Isabella II withheld nothing, recounting the plan Antoine had proposed and the terms she had countered with.
As she spoke, the expressions of those in the sitting room grew increasingly grim.
When they heard clauses such as "abdicating in favor of her niece Isabella," "designating a mixed-blood infant as crown prince," and "sending Alfonso to Cuba as a grand duke," the entire room erupted.
"This is absolutely out of the question, Your Majesty!"
General Mendoza, a veteran commander, sprang from his chair so violently that the sword at his waist struck the edge of the table.
"We have followed you in exile in Paris for four years, sold our ancestral estates in Castile, and endured the contempt of the French republicans day after day—for what?"
"It was so that one day we could place Prince Alfonso upon the throne of Madrid!"
"Our allegiance belongs to the legitimacy of the Anjou Branch, absolutely not to the daughter of that traitor from the House of Orléans!"
"General Mendoza is right!"
Another aging noble shouted, his face flushed scarlet.
"Surrender the throne to Isabella?"
"What does that make us?"
"Servants laboring for free on behalf of the House of Orléans?"
"Your Majesty, you cannot sell out the foundation of the House of Anjou just because of short-term financial distress!"
Beside them, the young Alfonso looked even more distressed.
He rose to his feet with his fists clenched tightly, his voice brimming with fury and humiliation.
"Mother! How could you agree to such conditions?!"
"I am your son, the crown prince of Spain!"
"You want to send me to Cuba, that wretched island crawling with mosquitoes and black slaves, to be some grand duke?"
"And hand over all actual authority to an American trading company?"
"How would I be any different from a monkey locked in a cage?!"
The fifteen-year-old youth's eyes reddened.
Even though the royal family had been in exile for four years, his upbringing had instilled in him that reclaiming the throne of Madrid was his sole purpose in life.
Now, his mother was actually prepared to hand that opportunity over to his cousin and a newborn infant.
It made him feel as though his entire world had collapsed.
"Enough!"
"Shut your mouths, all of you!"
Queen Isabella II was thoroughly exasperated by the clamor.
She slammed her palm down on the coffee table, rattling the teacups atop it.
The sitting room fell instantly silent, save for Alfonso's ragged breathing.
Gazing at the agitated men before her, Queen Isabella II's eyes held the cynical derision of someone who had seen through the world.
"The family foundation?"
"The legitimate crown prince?"
Queen Isabella II pointed toward the gloomy Paris sky outside the window.
"Go out onto the streets and shout about legitimacy, and see if French bankers will lend you a single franc! See if the Carlists in northern Spain will lay down their muskets!"
She rose and walked over to General Mendoza.
"Mendoza, you clamor about fighting our way back to Madrid."
"Tell me, where are the military funds?"
"Those two infantry divisions outside Madrid haven't received their full pay in three months. The soldiers can't even afford winter boots!"
"In two more months, without Amadeo even lifting a finger, they will mutiny on their own and defect to the republicans!"
"What do you have to put Alfonso on the throne?"
"The loyalty you preach with your lips?"
Mendoza parted his lips, unable to utter a single word, his aged face turning the color of pig liver.
Empty slogans certainly were of no use.
Queen Isabella II turned her gaze back to her son.
"And you, Alfonso."
"Put away your childish tantrums!"
"Do you think I want to surrender the throne?"
"The reality is that the throne of Madrid isn't in our hands to begin with!"
"It sits under the backside of that Italian, Amadeo, with tens of thousands of Carlist rebels watching from all around!"
She walked back to the sofa, sat down, and regained her composure.
"If we don't agree to that American's terms, Antoine will walk out that door and land tomorrow with American repeating rifles and cannons on his own."
"When that happens, if he uses dollars to buy off all our generals back home, we won't even have a seat at the table. We will rot in Paris forever!"
Prime Minister Cánovas adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose.
"I understand Your Majesty's point."
"However, once you issue a public declaration of abdication in favor of Isabella and instruct our generals at home to cooperate with Antoine..."
"If Madrid is truly taken, the die will be cast."
"By then, military and financial authority will both rest in the hands of Antoine and that American. How will you reclaim the throne?"
Alfonso raised his head to look at his mother.
Queen Isabella II picked up her teacup, drank the cold tea, and lowered her voice as if wary of eavesdroppers.
"The die will be cast?"
"Do you truly think I would come unprepared?"
"Do you really believe that little girl Isabella can sit securely on the throne of Madrid?"
"Don't forget how she bore that American's child."
The veteran courtiers and Alfonso looked bewildered.
How else could a child be born—wasn't it just that sort of business?
"Humph! They were never married in a church! My people in New York investigated this long ago."
"That Argyle has a wife in New York named Katherine O'Brien."
"Isabella is nothing more than a mistress!"
"And that infant named Philip, whether he takes the surname de Orléans or de Bourbon, is an illegitimate bastard under the doctrine of the Catholic Church and the laws of all European royalty."
The veteran courtiers and Alfonso were utterly stunned.
They had never expected such a revelation.
Meanwhile, Cánovas's eyes suddenly lit up.
"Your Majesty, do you mean..."
"Humph! Do you know why I agreed so readily, and even proposed letting Isabella ascend the throne first?" Queen Isabella II smiled smugly.
"Right now, we need that American's millions of dollars in military funds, and we need the new artillery and those gatling guns to drive Amadeo out and shatter all the Carlist rebels!"
"Let Antoine and the Americans bleed and spend their money cleaning up the mess in Madrid for us!"
She patted the back of Alfonso's hand.
"Once they win and install Isabella on the throne, this matter will become the most lethal explosive."
"A queen who got pregnant out of wedlock and bore a bastard to a married foreign man?"
"The Catholic Church will never tolerate such a humiliation, and Spain's devout believers and conservative nobility will view it as a national disgrace!"
"By then, Alfonso will not only have the legitimate title of Grand Duke in Cuba, but he will also have accumulated his own capital through commerce with America."
"All we will need to do is leak ironclad proof of Isabella's illegitimate child to the Vatican and the people of Madrid at the opportune moment."
"Then, secretly contact our loyal forces back home to stage a coup, and we can swiftly depose that shameless woman and her bastard!"
She looked around at the dumbfounded audience.
"By then, the rebels in Madrid will have been slaughtered by the Americans, the treasury will be replenished with American capital, and the railways will be completed."
"Alfonso can then return to Madrid to be crowned as the legitimate heir who redeemed the morality and honor of the House of Bourbon. That is true perfection!"
Ecstasy washed over all their faces.
"Your Majesty's wisdom is profound. This plan is magnificent."
"Let the Yanks supply the funds and guns to clear the hurdles for us, and in the end, we will cast them aside with doctrine and morality!" General Mendoza's beard quivered with excitement.
Alfonso finally unclenched his fists, a smile gracing his face:
"Mother, I understand now."
Having convinced everyone, Queen Isabella II produced the draft and handed it to Cánovas.
"Cash this money. Use a portion to improve our living conditions here—we must project the demeanor of an impending resurgence."
"Send the remainder back to Madrid and entrust it to those loyal generals."
"Instruct them to cooperate with Antoine on the surface and take in the Americans' weaponry. Get the guns and artillery into our hands first."
"Remember, not a word of this must leak."
"Until that American's munitions are delivered to Spain, our people must display absolute cooperation with Antoine."
Tiny snowflakes fluttered outside the building, but inside the office, it was as warm as spring.
Anthracite coal burned quietly in the fireplace, producing not a speck of soot or smoke.
Felix held the freshly deciphered telegram in his hand.
Frost stood gingerly across from the desk.
When deciphering this telegram and seeing the clauses regarding "changing the infant's surname" and "demanding a fief in Cuba," cold sweat had been trickling down his back the entire time.
He knew his boss's increasingly overbearing disposition.
He had worried his boss would tear the telegram to shreds on the spot and fly into a rage.
Yet, the room remained quiet for a full five minutes.
After reading through the telegram, Felix not only showed no sign of fury, but instead casually picked up the sterling silver cigar cutter on his desk and leisurely clipped a Havana cigar.
"Boss..."
Frost ventured tentatively.
"Queen Isabella II has quite an appetite. Especially with that second clause—she actually demands that Young Master Philip cannot bear the surname Argyle, and must instead take d'Orléans or de Bourbon."
"This is practically an insult to the family's dignity. Should we have Antoine reject her directly and handle it ourselves?"
Striking a match to light the cigar, Felix took a puff before blowing out the flame and flicking the spent match into the ashtray.
"An insult?"
"Edward, since when did you become like those old European aristocrats, placing value on such meaningless vanity?"
Smoothing out the telegram on the desk, the corners of Felix's mouth lifted.
"It's just a surname."
"If she wants it changed, we change it."
Frost found it somewhat hard to believe.
"Boss, Young Master Philip is your biological son."
"If his surname is changed, on official records he will have no connection to the Argyle Family."
"No connection?"
Felix leaned back against his leather armchair and blew out a ring of smoke.
"My second son, Caesar—what is his full name?"
"Caesar Clark."
Frost answered automatically.
That was the second son born to Anna Clark; in order to make it easier to inherit Thomas's political legacy in the future, that child had used the Clark surname ever since birth.
"Exactly. His surname is Clark."
"Does that change the fact that Argyle Family blood runs in his veins?"
"Does it change the fact that once he grows up, he'll still have to answer to me, his father?" Felix asked in return.
Frost understood in an instant.
Felix tapped the desk with the fingers holding his cigar.
"I'm no feudal lord from the Middle Ages."
"In commercial mergers and acquisitions, if keeping the acquired company's old brand name avoids friction with local consumers and saves millions of dollars in public relations expenses, why force your own signboard onto it?"
"All I care about is who holds controlling power over the company, and whose pockets the profits flow into."
He picked up the telegram and pointed to the second clause.
"Queen Isabella II is entirely right on this point: Spaniards possess an ingrained tradition of xenophobia."
"If a king named Philip Argyle sits on the throne in Madrid, the lower nobility and soldiers will probably spend every waking moment plotting rebellion."
"How many troops would we have to station there just to suppress that kind of nationwide resistance? The cost would simply be too high."
"But if his name is Philip de Bourbon, those foolish nobles and peasants will kneel on the ground to kiss his boots, shouting 'Long live legitimacy!'"
"Swapping out a few letters saves tens of millions of dollars in military expenditures for maintaining order."
"By my count, that's a bargain."
"At worst, once we help him firmly secure the throne, we can always change his surname back."
Felix spoke these words because it was truly what he intended to do.
At heart, being of Chinese descent, he naturally attached great importance to family names.
However, if temporarily changing a name could smoothly secure an entire country, it was undeniably worth it.
It could always be subtly altered back over time.
After all, if even the British royal family could change their name from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor, his own son could certainly do something similar.
Even though the British royal family hadn't done so voluntarily back then, he could still borrow a page from their book.
Germany had its Gotha bombers; neighboring Italy or France could just as easily have Bourbon bombers or battleships.
Frost, unaware of Felix's grander perspective, was thoroughly convinced.
He had never imagined that in his boss's eyes, even royal bloodlines and surnames could be quantified into costs and revenues.
"Then what about the trouble with the other branches of the House of Bourbon that she mentioned? If we take the de Bourbon name, the Bourbon princes over in Italy and France might kick up a fuss," Frost asked.
"Hmph—let them come."
What a joke; those people didn't even have their shares in the Suez Canal anymore.
What capital or strength did they have left to cause trouble?
"They're nothing more than broke vagrants who've lost all their territories."
"If they dare to yap in the newspapers, Timmy's Intelligence Department happens to need a few practice targets in Europe anyway."
"Trimming down the family tree of the House of Bourbon..."
"...will only make Philip look all the greater in the future!"
Felix's gaze then shifted downward, falling upon the third clause of the telegram.
It concerned granting Alfonso the title of Grand Duke of Cuba and implementing a dual-track system separating political and economic governance.
Seeing this, the smile on Felix's face broadened.
"This exiled queen has far more wits than Antoine."
"To actually come up with an approach like this."
Frost, however, voiced some concern:
"But Boss, if we give Cuba to Alfonso as a fief, could that become a threat down the road?"
"You have to remember, Cuba is barely over a hundred miles from Miami, and we have four hundred thousand acres of sugarcane plantations and our largest cigar factory there."
"If that Alfonso pulls any tricks in Cuba once he grows up..."
"What tricks could he possibly pull right under our noses?" Felix scoffed dismissively at Alfonso.
Besides, of all the places to pick for a fiefdom, she just had to choose Cuba.
If it were up to Felix, he would have preferred Puerto Rico or the Philippine Islands.
As for why?
Because Cuba had already begun descending into turmoil, of course.
Spain was contemplating the abolition of slavery.
Yet the locals were demanding outright independence; an independence war was practically on the verge of erupting.
Could someone like Alfonso XII truly crush that?
Felix considered the chances slim at best.
"In Paris, I might temporarily have limited leverage. But if he goes to Havana, he'll be walking straight into my pocket."
"Armed merchant ships from the Metropolitan Trading Company dock in Havana's port every single day; the Cuban police, customs, and even the cooks and guards inside his governor's mansion are all paid by Argyle Empire Bank. Over there, he'll be nothing more than a rubber stamp for signing and sealing documents."
Felix strolled over to the large map hanging on the wall and gazed at the slender island in the Caribbean Sea.
"Queen Isabella II imagines she's securing a flexible stronghold for her son from which he can advance or retreat at will—perhaps even hoping he can build up his strength there to plot for the future."
Frost gasped in surprise. "Boss, she would dare do that?"
"A fallen royal family will dare anything; they have no bottom line." Felix turned around, his eyes as keen as a blade.
"You have to remember, those who have seen the light will never endure remaining in the dark forever."
"Not that it matters. The moment Alfonso sets foot on Cuban soil, his life is mine to dictate."
"If Queen Isabella II behaves and cooperates in Europe, Alfonso can enjoy an entire lifetime in Havana as a wealthy grand duke, smoking cigars and chasing women every day."
"If that old woman dares try anything..."
Felix narrowed his eyes and gazed out the window.
"Heh, tropical diseases run rampant in Cuba."
"And the ranks of those demanding independence grow larger by the day."
"A teenage European boy succumbing to an unforgiving climate in a Havana bed, or falling to an assassin's blade..."
"What could anyone possibly do about it then?"
Frost was utterly awestruck.
Whatever schemes Queen Isabella II harbored, in the face of someone like his boss who wielded absolute power and wealth, they amounted to nothing more than parlor tricks.
Delivering her only son right into her creditor's hands as a hostage while still dreaming of turning the tables was pure suicide.
"Still..."
Felix walked back behind his desk, tapping his fingers lightly against the polished wood.
"While her terms are fundamentally in my favor..."
"...agreeing immediately would make us look far too eager, and lead that old woman to think she actually has leverage over me."
"In business, you always have to drive a hard bargain."
Felix looked over at Frost.
"Go call George upstairs."
"Since we're signing a contract, we need to pack it with a few rider clauses that'll lock her down tight."
A few minutes later, George Templeton, president of Argyle Empire Bank, walked into the office.
Felix gestured with his chin toward the paper on the desk.
Templeton understood, picked it up, and quickly scanned through it.
As a banker who had dealt with European nobility, he immediately saw through the trick, a knowing smile appearing on his face.
"Boss, this former queen certainly knows how to exchange empty titles for real gold and silver."
"A ninety-nine-year full power trusteeship agreement over Cuba effectively turns Cuba into the family's private domain, without taking on any political risks."
"To be honest, it's quite a bargain."
"A bargain it may be, but her asking price is too high."
"My previous promise of a two-million-dollar Swiss trust fund was contingent on her completely renouncing all royal power."
"Now that she wants the nominal fiefdom over Cuba and also wants to retain Alfonso's political standing..."
"...this money cannot be given on those terms."
Templeton instantly caught his meaning, pulling a gold pen and notebook from his pocket.
"How do you intend to make the cut?"
"First, cut the two-million-dollar trust fund directly in half," Felix said mercilessly.
"Furthermore, this money cannot be deposited all at once into an independent trust in Switzerland. It must be held in an escrow account at Argyle Imperial Bank's London branch, released over ten years at one hundred thousand dollars a year."
"If, during these ten years, any rebellion arises in Spain under her name or Alfonso's against Queen Isabella, payment of this money will immediately terminate, and the entire amount will be forfeited."
Templeton scribbled quickly on his paper and asked:
"Using installments to tie down her long-term cooperation is very rigorous. Should there be any change regarding the conferral of the Duke of Cuba title?"
Felix thought about this question for a moment.
"As for that, the title of Duke of Cuba can be conferred."
"However, before Isabella is officially crowned in Madrid and the Spanish Parliament passes a bill recognizing Philip as the sole legitimate crown prince, Alfonso cannot go there."
"By the way, Alfonso must be brought to New York under the guise of studying abroad before the war begins. He will live over on Fifth Avenue, just like Antoine used to."
"Once the situation in Madrid is completely stabilized and the ninety-nine-year Cuban trusteeship agreement is stamped by the Madrid Parliament, we will send a ship to take him to Havana."
Templeton couldn't help but look up at his boss.
This was a ruthless move.
Detaining the hostage directly at headquarters in New York completely cut off any possibility of Queen Isabella II switching sides or playing tricks midway through the war.
"Third point," Felix continued.
"Didn't she mention in her telegram that she could write to the Vatican to have the Pope remain neutral regarding this restoration?"
"Tell her, neutral for what? Having spent so much money, we must get the Vatican's public support!"
"Public support?" Templeton frowned.
"Boss, the current Pope Pope Pius IX is a stubborn conservative. Ever since the Italian army captured Rome two years ago and the Pope lost vast territories of the Papal States, locking himself inside the Vatican Palace, he has been deeply hostile toward all secular governments."
"If we want the Pope to publicly recognize the Queen's status and Young Master Philip's legitimacy, I'm afraid a letter from Queen Isabella II alone will be far from enough."
"Of course I know one letter isn't enough. That's why I called you up here, George." Felix looked at his bank president.
"The Pope losing his territories means he also lost a large portion of his tax revenue."
"The Vatican needs money to maintain such a massive church operation. In this world, wherever money is needed, that is a battlefield for Argyle Imperial Bank."
Felix pulled open his desk drawer, took out a financial transaction document concerning the Catholic Church of New York, and tossed it onto the desk.
"For the election earlier, we donated five hundred thousand dollars to the Cardinal of New York. Now, I want you to use the New York Archdiocese connection to directly reach the Vatican's financial director."
"Prepare one million dollars' worth of gold."
"Mind you, actual physical gold, no bank drafts. Secretly ship it into Rome via our merchant fleet in Genoa as a special religious donation from the Argyle Charitable Foundation to the Holy See."
Templeton clicked his tongue.
A million dollars in gold was enough to make any religious leader see a miracle from God.
After all, when indulgence vouchers can be sold, what can't be sold?
"With this gold, plus Queen Isabella II's handwritten letter, I think it will be enough."
Felix's voice echoed in the office, carrying the arrogance of treating divine authority as a commodity to be bought and sold.
There was no reason Napoleon could take the crown from the Pope's hands to crown himself, yet the Pope wouldn't grant them face when paid handsomely, right?
"But there are conditions!"
"When our army lands in Spain, the Pope must issue a pastoral letter to all the bishops in Spain."
"Declaring Amadeo I a sacrilegious usurper and Isabella the legitimate queen under God's protection, calling on all Spanish Catholics to lay down their arms and welcome the Queen's return."
Felix leaned back in his chair, picking up his cigar with a playful tone:
"Queen Isabella II thinks she knows the rules of Europe. Then let her see how Europe's rules are rewritten when gold comes raining down."
"Understood, boss."
"I will personally arrange things on the Vatican side. The Cardinal of New York will be more than happy to act as the middleman; after all, he can take a handsome commission from it." Templeton closed his notebook, his face full of confidence.
In the face of money, the doors of St. Peter's Basilica were no harder to knock open than a bank in Boston.
"Mm. Edward, draft a reply telegram according to the terms I just stated and send it to Antoine in Paris."
"Tell him this is my final offer."
"No rebuttals accepted. Give Queen Isabella II twenty-four hours to consider it. Sign, take the money, and put her son on a ship bound for New York."
"If she doesn't sign, doing it under the name of Orléans isn't impossible either."
"Yes, Boss."
Frost immediately turned to prepare the cipher telegram.
...
In the townhouse on the banks of the Seine River, Queen Isabella II was unable to calm her mind.
She gripped the delivered transcript of the reply telegram tightly.
Due to excessive force, the thin slip of paper had already been crumpled out of shape in her grip.
As for Antoine?
He was sitting on the sofa opposite her, unhurriedly sipping coffee.
Having gotten over his initial shock, the old duke had now degraded into an executor of Felix's will.
Seeing his shrewd sister-in-law suffer a setback, he even felt a twisted sense of pleasure in his heart.
"One million..."
"Paid over ten years?!"
Queen Isabella II's voice shrilled with fury as she raised her head and glared daggers at Antoine.
"What do you take me for?"
"A factory girl living on a monthly wage?!"
"And why must Alfonso be sent to New York as a hostage?"
"Forbidden to leave until Isabella is crowned? What if you reach Madrid and forget about us entirely?!"
Cough, cough. Antoine was shouted at so violently he nearly choked on his drink.
He could only set his cup down and offer placating words.
"Your Majesty, please watch your phrasing."
"He will not be a hostage; he will be furthering his studies at Argyle University. Many distinguished professors and scholars teach there, as you must know."
"As for whether we might renege..."
"Did you not read the subsequent clauses? The ninety-nine-year full trusteeship agreement for Cuba requires Alfonso's personal signature in the parliament at Madrid before it takes effect."
"Without Alfonso's signature, Felix's interests in Cuba cannot be fully legitimized."
"Therefore, until the agreement takes effect, Alfonso will be safer in New York than anywhere else in the world."
Beside them, Prime Minister Cánovas took the telegram transcript and read through it carefully.
When he reached the final clause—urging the Pope to stab Amadeo I in the back amid the fighting—Cánovas's expression changed.
He looked up at Queen Isabella II, his lips trembling.
Queen Isabella II, naturally, had seen that line as well.
It was the passage in the entire telegram that chilled her to the very marrow of her bones.
After all, if someone could pay the Pope to stab Amadeo in the back, they could just as easily betray her.
That American, thousands of miles away, was audacious enough to bribe the Pope.
"How could he have so much money to buy off the Vatican... Pope Pius IX couldn't possibly agree to such an absurd demand, could he...?" Queen Isabella II brooded anxiously.
"There is a saying in New York: if money hasn't solved the problem, it only means not enough money was offered."
"Mr. Argyle has run out of patience for word games with you. This telegram is an ultimatum."
Antoine pulled a pocket watch from his vest and checked the time.
"The Metropolitan Trading Company's passenger liner, the SS Atlantic, departs from the Port of Le Havre for New York tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock."
"If you agree to these terms, draft your abdication declaration and personal letters to the Spanish generals tonight and hand them to me. Have Alfonso pack his bags; an escort will accompany him."
"And if I refuse to sign?"
A flicker of defiance lingered in Queen Isabella II's eyes.
"Refuse?"
Antoine put away his pocket watch, the warmth vanishing from his eyes.
"Then I will head straight to the bank and freeze the hundred-thousand-dollar draft I handed you yesterday."
"Within three days, every newspaper in Paris will expose how you squandered the national treasury in Madrid with your lovers. The French government will expel you within a week. And I will travel to Spain myself."
"The choice is yours, Your Majesty."
"Either let Alfonso spend some time in New York before living out his days in Cuba as a wealthy Grand Duke while you retire comfortably in Paris with a million dollars,"
"or mother and son can go sleep under the bridge arches of the Seine River."
Having said his piece, Antoine turned toward the door without sparing her another glance.
"Remember, I will arrive at eight tomorrow morning to collect the documents. I trust Alfonso's bags will be packed by then."
The young Alfonso stood beside his mother, pale as he looked toward Cánovas and the few other veteran ministers.
"Your Excellency, what should we do? I don't want to go to New York—it's a den of thieves!"
Cánovas took off his glasses, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and sighed heavily.
"Go pack your bags, Your Highness."
Cánovas's voice sounded as if he had aged ten years.
"We have no cards left to play for now. That American has cut off every retreat."
"Besides, this was originally Her Majesty's scheme anyway, even if things have strayed somewhat from the course. On the whole, it is still progressing smoothly."
Isabelle kept her eyes closed in silence.
After all, shipping Alfonso off to New York had never been part of her calculations, and more critically, the other side actually intended to bribe the Pope, vastly boosting Isabella's legitimacy.
It seemed that stabbing them in the back immediately after the war was out of the question.
We shall see—she would seize her opportunity sooner or later!
It was just a bitter shame that the two-century-long rule of the House of Bourbon-Anjou had come to an absolute end.
...
Inside the Argyle's Building.
"Boss, Queen Isabella II has signed all the documents. The secret letters to the generals in southern Spain have also been dispatched through covert channels. Alfonso boarded the SS Atlantic yesterday afternoon and is expected to reach New York in two weeks."
Frost reported, standing attentively before the desk.
"In addition, word has arrived from President Templeton."
"The Cardinal of New York is prepared to set out for Rome bearing our proposals, and the million dollars in gold is currently being loaded onto the vessel."
"The Cardinal exchanged telegrams with the Vatican's treasurer yesterday, and the response hinted that the Lord blesses generous believers."
Felix stood by the window, cradling a steaming cup of black tea.
Beyond the glass, the blizzard over Manhattan had subsided.
Winter sunlight broke through the cloud layer, bathing the metropolis of steel and stone in a brilliant, dazzling glare.
"It seems the legalities in Europe are well in hand," Felix murmured, taking a sip of tea.
"Next, it is time for the real actors to take the stage."
Felix turned around to face Frank Cole, President of Vanguard Arms, and Bill Carter, President of the Metropolitan Trading Company, who were standing nearby.
"Frank, Bill. Has that shipment of 'agricultural machinery' finished loading?"
"Fully loaded, Boss!" Bill answered loudly.
"The Earl of Ashburn's five British-flagged ocean freighters are already berthed at the New Jersey docks."
"Ten thousand Vanguard Model 70 rifles, thirty water-cooled gatling guns, ten seventy-five-millimeter breech-loading rifled cannons, along with three million rounds of ammunition and ten thousand artillery shells. All sealed tight under tarpaulins and covered completely with wheat and flour bound for Europe."
"What about the personnel?" Felix looked toward Frank.
"Two thousand of the sharpest, most seasoned gunmen handpicked from Cygnus Mining, the Southern Development Company, and our veterans out West."
"Every one of them has boarded disguised as ordinary deckhands and laborers, led personally by Victor Sullivan, the former deputy commander of the Shadow Force," Frank reported.
"As for the remaining three thousand men, Antoine's veterans will receive them at Spain's Port of Cádiz, arming themselves on the spot as soon as the weapons arrive."
Felix walked over to a map of Europe, gently pressing his fingertip against the location of the Port of Cádiz in southern Spain.
"Tell Sullivan to put in a good performance once he reaches Spain."
"Those Spanish government troops marching in infantry squares and those Carlist rebels charging behind crucifixes will be nothing more than sitting ducks before gatling guns and rapid-fire artillery."
A cold glint flashed in Felix's eyes.
"I want him to push from the Port of Cádiz all the way to Madrid within a year, and run Amadeo I straight back to Italy."
"This day next year..."
"I want to see Philip become the legitimate heir to Spain."
A cold wind swept across the river's surface,
causing the floating chunks of ice to collide with one another and emit dull groans.
A steam train pulling a private carriage belonging to the Argyle Family was cruising smoothly toward New Jersey.
Inside the carriage, brass heating pipes radiated steady warmth, shutting out the bitter cold beyond the windows.
Peter Jenkins, general manager of the Standard Oil Company, sat on a dark velvet seat holding a thick stack of documents.
Yet his eyes did not seem to rest on the papers; instead, he gazed through the train window at the increasingly desolate landscape outside.
John D. Rockefeller sat across from him.
The branch manager, who held sway over the refining industry in the Midwest, maintained his usual rigid posture.
"Junior, what the boss told us is truly exciting," Peter said, delight evident in his voice.
"A carriage that doesn't need horses."
"It's simply fantastic!"
"Just burning the light waste distillate that we dump into the river every day can make it run. If such a thing really exists, Standard Oil's market will expand at least tenfold."
"Still, I can't shake the feeling that it sounds too much like science fiction."
"Do you think the people in the laboratory can actually build a monster that only exists on paper?"
Rockefeller looked at Peter, his grayish-blue eyes showing little emotional fluctuation.
In his view, whenever the boss spoke of something, it was practically a foregone conclusion.
This wasn't a personality cult; it was a conclusion derived entirely from years of verification and proven realities.
After all, what the boss spoke of wasn't completely without precedent—take the steam engine, for example.
There were even steam-powered carriages, rare though they were.
Not because they were precious, but because they were too cumbersome, had terrible range and ride quality, and weren't very safe.
Thus, nobles and the wealthy didn't care for them, while commoners couldn't afford them anyway.
"Peter, since the boss mentioned this to us, it means the Central Laboratory has already made substantial progress."
"Besides, isn't our trip to New Jersey today meant to see firsthand how far its development has come?"
Turning his head to watch the trees receding past the window, he continued:
"I hear that Mr. Tesla is making rapid progress. The development and deployment of the Alternating Current grid might be even faster than we anticipated."
"Once the gas companies in major cities are fully acquired and overhauled, electric lights will probably spread like wildfire."
"We don't have much time."
"After all, alongside Standard Oil, General Electric is also buying up shares in municipal gas companies across other cities."
Indeed.
To prevent Standard Oil from dragging its feet during acquisitions of municipal gas companies and delaying General Electric's streetlamp retrofitting projects in major cities,
Felix had General Electric step in as well—though without overlapping, as their territories had been clearly demarcated.
It was all for the sake of healthy competition.
For Felix had far greater ambitions for this move than merely changing the streetlamps in major cities.
The train blew its whistle and began to decelerate.
On the horizon ahead, an industrial complex emerged.
That was the site of the Argyle Family Central Laboratory.
Six massive red-brick buildings rose from the ground, surrounded by high walls and barbed wire.
Several thick smokestacks belched black smoke into the gray sky, a testament to the thriving vitality within.
The train came to a halt at a dedicated platform.
As Peter and Rockefeller stepped off the carriage, the biting wind immediately caught the hems of their overcoats.
Two security team members carrying Vanguard Model 70 repeating rifles walked over.
After checking their passes, the guards opened the heavy iron gate and escorted them into the facility.
Numerous steam pipes crisscrossed the facility's grounds, with high-pressure white steam occasionally hissing shrilly from leaky valves.
"Take us to the power testing area in Building Three,"
Peter told the security guards.
They crossed the open space between two buildings.
Along the way, numerous individuals clad in white lab coats or coarse work garments could be seen bustling about in haste.
Some were engineers poached from Europe at great expense, while others were homegrown mechanical prodigies.
In this compound, the sole religion was blueprints and data.
Building Three had only two floors, but it covered a massive area.
It had few windows, and rows of massive ventilation fans were mounted on the roof.
Pushing open the soundproof metal door,
an overwhelming odor of volatile waste fluids hit them, stinging their eyes.
Accompanied by the deafening roar of machinery.
"Good God, what on earth is going on here?"
Peter covered his nose with a handkerchief and grumbled.
Even Rockefeller frowned.
He was very familiar with the smell—it was the exact scent of the light liquids processed daily at the refineries.
Hearing the commotion, an engineer with a grease-smeared face hurried over, holding a wrench in his hand.
He was also the head of the Engine Testing Department, Dr. Carl Vance.
"Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Rockefeller of Standard Oil? Good day, Gentlemen."
Because of the loud noise, Dr. Vance had to raise his voice to be heard.
"Welcome to the power testing area. Director Reese mentioned you'd be arriving today. Please follow me—what you're here to see is in the blast-proof room at the very back!"
Seeing how straightforward the man was, Peter and Rockefeller exchanged a glance, shrugged, and promptly followed him.
Passing workshops packed with metal components,
they arrived at a room in the deepest section partitioned off by thick concrete walls, with a very thick pane of glass installed across its front.
Peter and Rockefeller stood before the glass, peering inside with curiosity.
Anchored in the center of the room was a metal beast covered in pipes and gears.
It looked like an iron canister magnified dozens of times, connected to various copper pipes and a massive flywheel.
"So this is that... machine?"
Peter blinked and asked curiously.
"Yes, indeed. By our count, this is our fourth-generation experimental prototype," Dr. Vance explained beside the glass.
"Don't underestimate it!"
"We inject an atomized mixture of that light waste distillate and air into this metal cylinder, then ignite it with an electric spark."
"According to our design, the tremendous expansion force produced by the explosion pushes the internal piston downward. The piston connects to a crankshaft, converting this violent linear force into rotational power."
As Dr. Vance spoke, he picked up an intercom nearby and instructed the operators inside.
"Open the fuel supply valve and prepare for the ignition test!"
Hearing the order, two operators inside wearing thick goggles quickly turned open the brass valve.
A stream of liquid flowed through a transparent glass tube into the machine.
"Step back a bit, it's going to be very loud,"
Dr. Vance cautioned them.
Subconsciously, both took half a step back.
Inside the blast-proof room, an operator hauled hard on the starter crank.
"Bang!"
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Dull, explosive detonations burst forth inside the enclosed space, resounding from the metal canister.
Even the glass began to vibrate.
Accompanying the deafening noise, the huge flywheel began to spin furiously.
Its speed grew faster and faster.
Thick black smoke and sparks spewed from the exhaust pipe, and pungent fumes filled the blast-proof room in an instant as the ventilation fans kicked into high gear.
"Do you see that? It's spinning on its own!" Dr. Vance shouted, waving his wrench.
"No external heating, no burning coal—it runs purely on the power generated by internal combustion! Its rotational speed and power are far greater than a steam engine of comparable size!"
Watching the roaring machine, Peter's heart pounded wildly.
The thing actually worked!
If this were mounted on wheels, horse-drawn carriages might genuinely become a thing of the past.
Shock flashed across Rockefeller's eyes as well, but he didn't let the spectacle before him cloud his judgment.
He was a man who paid meticulous attention to detail.
Staring at the machine, he sensed that something was slightly off about the flywheel's rotation.
And the machine soon confirmed his suspicion.
A few minutes later, the situation inside the blast-proof room abruptly shifted, and the roaring machine let out a screech of grinding metal.
Immediately afterward, violent tremors racked the entire assembly.
"Bang!"
A blast even heavier and duller than the previous ones rang out.
A jet of high-pressure gas burst from the side of the cylinder, snapping the copper tubing right off.
The machine emitted an unnatural groan as the flywheel rapidly decelerated, finally grinding to a dead halt after puffing out a cloud of dense smoke.
The operators in the blast-proof room scrambled forward to shut the fuel valve and sprayed fire extinguishers over the smoking parts.
The smile froze on Peter's face.
His eyes went wide as he stared at Dr. Vance.
"Why did it stop all of a sudden?"
Dr. Vance sighed, his earlier excitement supplanted by resignation.
Setting down his wrench, he turned to face the two top executives of Standard Oil.
"Just like that, it stopped."
"I'm sorry. This is already the sixth time this prototype has broken down due to damaged components."
"Gentlemen, scientific experimentation is never a magic trick."
"It is a road strewn with thorns."
Only the ventilation fans were still buzzing in the power test area, working hard to pump out the pungent thick smoke from the explosion-proof room.
Rockefeller watched the operators clearing away the machine debris inside and turned to look at Dr. Carl Vance.
"Dr. Vance, what on earth went wrong just now?"
Dr. Vance shook his head and pointed through the glass at the still-smoking metal cylinder.
"There are many problems, Mr. Rockefeller."
"First is the issue of fuel."
"That light waste liquid sent over, its volatility and deflagration properties are far too uncontrollable."
"This makes it very difficult for us to master the precise air-fuel mixture ratio in the cylinder. Sometimes the explosive force is too weak to push the piston; other times, the explosive force is too fierce, directly blowing up the sealing gasket of the cylinder."
Dr. Vance tapped on the glass with his finger.
"Secondly is the ignition timing."
"We need to generate an electric spark at the extremely precise moment when the piston reaches its highest point."
"Being a tenth of a second early or late will cause the machine to vibrate violently or even reverse and shut down."
"The mechanical timing device we currently use is still very crude and completely unable to meet the requirements of such high-speed operation."
Listening to these complex technical terms, Peter frowned and interrupted the explanation.
"Doctor, I don't understand these technical details very well."
"Just tell me this. Fix all the malfunctions of this machine and shrink it down so it can be mounted on a carriage. And allow ordinary people to smoothly drive it onto the streets of New York without carrying a wrench and a fire extinguisher."
"How long will that take?"
Dr. Vance looked at Peter with some hesitation.
He turned his head to glance at the pile of scrap metal in the explosion-proof room, seemingly making an evaluation in his mind.
"Mr. Jenkins, when the Boss provided me with research funding, he asked the exact same question." Dr. Vance sighed.
"I cannot give you a false promise."
"To solve the cylinder sealing problem, find high-temperature resistant metal materials, develop a stable spark plug ignition system, and resolve the carbon deposition problem after that waste liquid burns."
"This requires thousands of failed experiments."
"Under the current level of metallurgy and machining precision, we might need one to two years to produce a reliable prototype that can run stably for more than ten hours."
"And that is merely a laboratory prototype."
Dr. Vance looked at the two of them and gave his conclusion.
"If this machine is to be standardized for mass production and pushed to the market for commercial sales."
"Considering the establishment of production lines and worker training, that would take at least an additional two years."
"In other words... three years, or even longer. And that is under the condition that everything goes smoothly."
"Three years?!"
Peter's expression was somewhat ugly, and his voice involuntarily raised a few notches.
"You're saying this thing needs at least three years to hit the market?"
"Yes, this is the most conservative estimate."
Dr. Vance nodded, not feeling that there was anything wrong with this timeline.
In engineering, spending a few years researching and developing a brand new power system is completely normal, right?
But to Peter and Rockefeller, this schedule felt like a heavy hammer, fiercely smashing against their chests.
Three years!
For laboratory scientists, it might just be a period of time used to correct data.
But for the ever-changing capital games in the business world, this was simply a death vacuum so long that it could cause someone to go bankrupt a hundred times.
Peter quickly clicked his abacus in his heart.
The research and development speed of Alternating Current over at General Electric was extremely fast.
With the support of the copper mines in Montana, perhaps within a year or two, the main roads of major cities like New York and Boston would all light up with electric lamps.
Those wealthy districts and commercial streets would immediately abandon kerosene.
Standard Oil's core profits would be slashed.
Yet the pie of internal combustion power painted by the Boss would still take three years or even longer to be served to the table.
A three-year gap.
What would Standard Oil use to maintain its massive cash flow?
Could it be that they could only watch helplessly as profits shrank, and then linger on their last legs by selling cheap kerosene to backward regions?
If that were the case, his status within the Argyle Executive Committee would plummet.
He might not even be as good as Gable and the four who had just become committee members, let alone Rockefeller, who wasn't even a committee member.
How could this possibly be allowed?
He, Peter, still wanted to expand Standard Oil, and then rely on his achievements to be promoted to a member of the Executive Committee board, upgrading Standard Oil into a president-tier company.
"Doctor, can't the speed be increased?" Peter asked.
Faced with the question, Dr. Vance was also helpless.
"We have already arranged three shifts to test day and night, Mr. Jenkins."
"Engineering bottlenecks cannot be immediately broken through just by increasing manpower."
In response to this, Peter had no choice but to drop the matter.
"Alright, I understand."
"Thank you for the demonstration, Dr. Vance."
"If there are any needs for funds or materials, please apply to the headquarters through normal channels."
"We should go, Junior."
The two turned around and left the power test area, walking out of Building Number Three, which was filled with thick smoke and pungent odors.
The cold wind outside was still howling.
The winter in New Jersey was so cold it made one somewhat numb.
They boarded the train returning to New York.
The carriage was very quiet.
Only the clacking sound of the wheels rolling over the rails could be heard.
The heat emitted by the heating pipes seemed unable to dispel the heavy feeling in their hearts.
Peter sat opposite Rockefeller, unconsciously toying with an empty water cup in his hand.
He said somewhat dejectedly:
"Junior, we are trapped."
"In three years, electric lamps will eat up our big city markets completely clean."
"Even if Alternating Current hasn't been improved well by then, Direct Current can still roll out across major cities."
"And this machine that explodes is simply impossible to be immediately used to fill the profit gap of the company."
"Our current situation is a bit passive."
Rockefeller looked at the wilderness flashing past outside the window, complex thoughts flickering in his grayish-blue eyes.
"Do you think we need to go find the Boss? Tell him what we saw today." Peter asked tentatively.
"What should we say?"
Rockefeller turned his head to look at this superior.
"Say that Dr. Vance's progress is too slow?"
"Or say that we need the Boss to order General Electric to stop the work in their hands and wait for us for three years?"
Rockefeller shook his head.
"Peter. You've stayed in this family for so long, don't you understand the Boss's personality yet?"
"The Boss only looks at results."
"Pointing out the direction of the future for us, that is strategic vision."
"But the Boss will never tolerate managers running back to the office to complain to him about difficulties during the execution process."
"If we go and submit a report empty-handed like this, the Boss will only think we are incompetent, thinking we can't even think of a way to get through this three-year transition period."