"Reporters?"
Renault's heart skipped a beat.
"Mr. Cánovas, I have important diplomatic business to discuss privately with Her Majesty..."
"Nothing is more important today than the decision of the House of Bourbon, Commissioner."
Cánovas didn't give Renault a chance to speak alone at all, turning slightly and making a gesture of invitation.
"Please, the ceremony is about to begin."
Renault followed behind Cánovas into the villa's grand hall.
The hall was crowded with people.
In addition to thirty or forty well-dressed European old nobles and French Royalist parliamentarians, more than a dozen newspaper reporters holding shorthand notebooks stood at the very front of the hall.
The air was filled with the scent of cigars and high-end perfume.
Renault saw that several core bigshots of the Legitimists in the French parliament were actually standing in the front row of the crowd, conversing in low voices.
This made him forcefully swallow back the speech he had originally prepared.
Driving people away in front of so many Royalist bigshots would probably cause him to lose his official position tomorrow.
That would never do!
At this moment, a sound of footsteps came from the second-floor stairway.
The hall instantly fell silent.
Queen Isabella II was wearing a grand black velvet court gown today, wearing a huge pearl necklace around her neck, which she had just redeemed from the pawnshop using the one-hundred-thousand-dollar draft given by Felix.
Flanking her on both sides were two gray-haired old men.
The one on the left was the exiled prince of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, and the one on the right was the representative of the Duke of Parma.
These two branch patriarchs of the House of Bourbon, who originally couldn't even scrape together enough money to buy a carriage, suddenly received an anonymous donation of fifty thousand pounds from Argyle Imperial Bank in London last week.
Having accepted favors and thus feeling indebted, they were here today specifically to back up Queen Isabella II.
Queen Isabella II walked to the second-floor stair landing, stopped, and looked down at everyone in the hall from a condescending height.
Her gaze swept across the reporters and finally paused for a moment on the face of Police Commissioner Renault in the corner.
She felt somewhat surprised in her heart, but her expression remained completely unperturbed.
After all, she hadn't done anything harmful to France, so she wasn't afraid of being watched by government officials.
Then she folded her hands in front of her.
Prime Minister Cánovas walked up a few steps and handed a gold-stamped red folder into her hands.
The reporters in the hall immediately raised the pencils in their hands.
"Respected clansmen, noble friends of France, and press officers of the journalistic world,"
Isabella's voice echoed in the hall.
"Four years ago, a group of perfidious traitors launched a mutiny in Madrid, forcing me to leave my country."
"During these four years, I have prayed to Almighty God every day for the sufferings of the Spanish people. Facts have proven that the Savoyard invited from Italy has not brought peace to Castile, but instead plunged the country into the flames of war and division."
Police Commissioner Renault stood behind the crowd, his brows knitted into a knot.
He had a premonition that what was about to be said was definitely not what President Thiers wanted to hear, but he was squeezed in the middle by dozens of surrounding Royalist nobles, unable even to take a single step forward.
"I am old, and these four years of exile have ruined my health."
Queen Isabella II picked up a handkerchief and pressed it affectedly at the corners of her eyes, though there wasn't a single tear.
"I know deeply that I no longer have enough energy to lead the suffering Spanish people out of the darkness."
She took a deep breath and opened the red folder.
"Therefore, under the joint witness of the clansmen of all branches of the House of Bourbon, I, Queen Isabella II of Spain, hereby solemnly declare to the entire world:"
"From this day on, I formally renounce all legitimate rights to the Spanish throne. I shall abdicate all legitimate royal rights of Castile, León, Aragón, and all overseas territories, entirely and without reservation, to my own niece, Isabella de Orléans!"
Gasp...
A buzz of discussion instantly erupted in the hall.
The pencils in the hands of several foreign reporters moved swiftly across the paper, their tips nearly piercing the paper surface.
The French Royalist parliamentarians present looked at each other in dismay.
Prior to this, the Anjou Branch (Legitimists) and the Orléans Branch of the House of Bourbon were like sworn enemies as incompatible as fire and water.
Yet today, Queen Isabella II, as the highest representative of the Anjou Branch in Spain, actually passed the throne publicly to the daughter of the Orléans Branch!
What was going on?
The Prince of the Two Sicilies standing beside Queen Isabella II took a step forward, cleared his throat, and said in a loud voice:
"Ahem... Representing the Italian branch of the House of Bourbon, I fully recognize this sacred heritage! Her Highness Isabella possesses the bloodlines of both the House of Orléans and the House of Anjou, and can be said to flow with the purest blood of the House of Bourbon. Her father, the Duke of Montpensier, is currently in southern Spain, fighting to restore legitimacy!"
"My God, they have merged..."
A Paris-based correspondent for The Times whispered to his companion, 'That battle in Cádiz was truly planned by them together.'
Queen Isabella II closed the folder and continued:
"As for my son, Alfonso, Prince of Asturias, he is currently pursuing academic advanced studies at Argyle University in the United States of America."
"In the future, after the new Queen Isabella ascends the throne, Alfonso will be enfeoffed as the Grand Duke of Cuba, ruling the fertile island of Cuba on behalf of the House of Bourbon. I call upon all Spanish soldiers and officers loyal to the Bourbon royal family to immediately turn their guns around, lay down their weapons, and welcome your legitimate Queen back to court!"
Having said this, Queen Isabella II handed the folder back to Cánovas, nodded slightly to everyone in the hall, and turned around, walking back to the room on the second floor supported by her maid.
She didn't give anyone a chance to ask questions at all.
Let alone giving French Police Commissioner Renault time to deliver a verbal warning, the French Royalist nobles in the hall immediately broke into warm applause.
In their view, since the two branches of the Bourbons in Spain could merge for restoration, perhaps the Count of Chambord and the Orléanists in France could also reach a compromise.
Commissioner Renault squeezed out of the crowd with a livid face, strode out of the villa, and climbed into his carriage.
"Return to Versailles! Fast!"
Renault roared at the coachman.
This news didn't even need to wait for tomorrow's newspapers to be printed. In less than half an hour, reporters from The Times and Reuters had already rushed into the Paris telegraph office, sending this explosive abdication manifesto to every corner of Europe.
That evening, Whitehall Street in London.
Heavy fog shrouded the River Thames, and the light of the gas lamps on the street couldn't even illuminate five paces away.
British Foreign Secretary Earl Granville sat behind a wide desk, holding a transcript of the telegram just delivered by Reuters in his hand.
Sitting opposite him was a meticulous, well-groomed old Englishman, the head of Barings Bank, that old rascal Charles Sterling.
"Charles, take a look at this."
Earl Granville handed over the telegram and motioned for him to take a good look at it.
"It was sent from Paris half an hour ago. Queen Isabella II has abdicated the throne in favor of Antoine's daughter. What's even more interesting is the sentence that follows: her son, Alfonso, is currently studying at Argyle University in New York and is going to be some sort of Grand Duke of Cuba in the future."
Charles Sterling took the telegram.
When he saw Argyle University, his originally calm face twitched for a moment, and his fingers holding the paper turned white with exertion.
Damn Argyle!
The disastrous failure on the Argentine railway bonds a few months ago caused Barings Bank to lose nearly ten million pounds in reserves, and it was still barely surviving on loans from the Rothschild Family.
The surname Argyle was Charles Sterling's greatest nightmare in this lifetime.
"It's him..."
Charles Sterling squeezed out two words from between his teeth.
"I knew it!"
"Those gatling guns and breech-loading cannons that suddenly popped up on the Seville Plain were definitely not given by the Germans! It's Felix Argyle, that bandit from New York!"
Earl Granville picked up his teacup and took a sip.
"Our military attaché in Madrid has also sent a report. At the end of last month, five ocean-going freighters flying the British flag docked at the Port of Cádiz."
"We checked the registry, and those five ships belong to a shell company under the name of the Earl of Ashburn. And last year in the City of London, the Earl of Ashburn guaranteed Argyle's Patriot Investment Company."
Charles Sterling abruptly stood up and took a few steps around the office.
"Your Lordship, your Foreign Office must intervene immediately!"
"That American madman not only snatched our beef and railways in South America, but I also heard he bought the Suez Canal shares from the House of Bourbon, and now he has actually reached his hand into mainland Europe!"
"He's trying to use dollars and gatling guns to prop up a puppet in Madrid that obeys America!"
"Calm down, Charles."
Earl Granville put down his teacup.
"This is not America. How could a young woman just casually become a queen?"
"However, Amadeo I in Madrid is indeed struggling to hold on. The Spanish ambassador to Britain has already been waiting outside my office for three hours, crying out for us to provide military loans and new weapons."
"Then lend it to them!"
"Barings Bank can take the lead in issuing five million pounds in war bonds for the Madrid government in the City of London!" Charles Sterling said, gritting his teeth.
"As long as we can drag Argyle's investments to death in the quagmire of Spain, I am willing to lose my last penny! We must also send the Royal Navy to blockade the Port of Cádiz and cut off their ammunition supply line!"
Earl Granville shook his head.
"The Royal Navy cannot directly participate in the war."
"Antoine now has Queen Isabella II's official abdication edict. Legally speaking, this is a Spanish Civil War of royal succession."
"If we directly send warships to bombard Cádiz, those rising royalists in France will seize the opportunity to stir up trouble, and even Russia and Germany will gossip."
"What's more, those ships are flying our British merchant flag."
"Then we are just going to watch him swallow Spain?" Sterling grew somewhat anxious; he certainly didn't want to see Felix grow stronger.
"Of course not, relax."
Earl Granville stood up, walked over to the large map on the wall, and pointed his finger at the location of Gibraltar.
"The British Empire will never allow a powerful government to appear behind Gibraltar, especially one controlled by American capital."
"We can approve the Madrid government's arms procurement request and sell twenty thousand Snyder breech-loading rifles and fifty Armstrong cannons in the inventory of the Royal Arsenal to Amadeo I on deferred payment."
"As for the war bonds you mentioned, your City of London can operate and negotiate with Spain on your own in this regard."
Speaking of this, Earl Granville turned around and looked at Sterling.
"By the way. A very interesting piece of news also came from Rome today. Three days ago, a merchant ship from New York unloaded a batch of heavy wooden boxes at the Port of Genoa in Italy, which were escorted personally by the Vatican's Swiss Guard into Rome. I suspect that American is knocking on the door of St. Peter's Basilica with gold."
Charles Sterling gasped.
"He wants to bribe even the Pope?!"
"Probably. If it's true, then Amadeo I will find it even harder to stay in Spain." Earl Granville's tone was flat; clearly, this news was not hard for him to comprehend.
"Go prepare the bonds, Charles."
"Let's also send some guns to the Carlist rebels in the north. Since that American wants to control Spain, we will thoroughly stir Spain into a complete mess so that he can't even gnaw on the bones."
...
Rome, Vatican Palace.
Ever since the Kingdom of Italy's army breached the gates of Rome and dismantled the secular rule of the Papal States two years ago, the eighty-one-year-old Pope Pius IX declared himself the "Prisoner of the Vatican" and had never stepped half a step outside the gates of the Vatican Palace since.
In the side hall decorated with huge religious murals,
Pope Pius IX was dressed in a white papal robe, sitting on a high-backed chair covered in red velvet.
He was old, and his face was covered with age spots, but those eyes still exuded the shrewdness and stubbornness unique to a religious leader.
Kneeling before him was Cardinal McCloskey of the Archdiocese of New York, who had rushed all the way from America, looking travel-worn.
In a corner of the side hall, Vatican Treasurer Cardinal Antonio was standing beside a large opened wooden box.
The wooden box was lined with straw, and on top of the straw, dozens of glittering standard gold bricks were neatly stacked.
On each gold brick, the steel seal of Argyle Empire Bank was embossed.
There were nineteen more such large wooden boxes out in the hallway.
Total value: one million dollars.
"McCloskey, stand up and speak."
"Your knees have suffered the sea breeze on the cold Atlantic Ocean for half a month, and they cannot take this cold marble floor."
Pope Pius IX spoke, his voice somewhat hoarse, as he raised his right hand wearing the Fisherman's Ring to give a gesture of support.
McCloskey smoothly stood up from the ground, slightly lowering his head to explain to him.
"Thank you for the Holy Father's mercy."
"This is a meager token of appreciation presented to the Holy See by the believers in America, especially the Argyle Charitable Foundation."
"Mr. Argyle was deeply grieved to learn that the Holy See suffered rude treatment by the secular regime in Rome. He hopes that this batch of gold can help the Holy See maintain its daily operations and spread the glory of the Lord."
Pope Pius IX glanced at the dazzling chest of gold in the corner, feeling a rush of emotions in his heart.
In the past, he probably wouldn't have spared a second glance at such a sum.
Unfortunately...
Ever since losing the tax revenues of the Papal States, the Vatican's finances had been stretched thin, forcing them to pinch pennies even when dispensing allowances to foreign missionaries.
This one million dollars in gold was truly a godsend.
"It seems Mr. Argyle is indeed a generous man," Pope Pius IX said slowly.
"By the way, I have heard of the St. Vincent's Hospital and those orphanages he built in New York. He is a Catholic, is he not? Yet, some say he is a capitalist who worships nothing but machines and banknotes, suddenly sending so much gold to the Vatican. Cardinal McCloskey, what is packed inside is likely more than mere piety, isn't it?"
Cardinal McCloskey retrieved a wax-sealed letter from his sleeve and presented it with both hands.
"The Holy Father's insight is keen. Mr. Argyle is of Irish descent and a devout Catholic. He has a close friend in Europe, who is none other than Duke of Montpensier's daughter, Her Royal Highness Isabella. Furthermore, this is a personal letter entrusted to me by Her Majesty Queen Isabella II, currently in exile in Paris, to deliver to you."
An attendant nearby received the letter, broke the wax seal, and handed it to the Pope.
Pope Pius IX picked up a magnifying glass and read through the contents of the letter carefully.
In the letter, Queen Isabella II elaborated on her decision to abdicate in favor of her niece, fiercely denouncing the reigning King Amadeo I of Spain for his crimes of indulging the Liberals, suppressing the Catholic Church, and confiscating ecclesiastical property.
After finishing the letter, Pope Pius IX rested the paper on his lap.
"The House of Savoy is indeed a den of bandits. Vittorio Emanuele II robbed me of Rome in Italy, and now his son Amadeo Is seizing church lands in Spain."
"They are both enemies of the Holy See."
"Your Holiness speaks the absolute truth!"
Cardinal McCloskey struck while the iron was hot.
"Presently, the Duke of Montpensier has led a righteous army to land at Cádiz and has defeated Amadeo's forces in Seville."
"Her Royal Highness Isabella is a devout Catholic."
"Through Mr. Argyle, she makes a solemn pledge to the Holy See: once crowned in Madrid, the new government will not only immediately return the monasteries confiscated by the Spanish Liberals over the past four years and restore Catholicism to its absolute status as Spain's sole state religion, but the Argyle Empire Bank will also provide the Vatican with an annual charitable donation of one hundred thousand dollars!"
In the corner, Cardinal Antonio, the treasurer, began breathing heavily.
One hundred thousand dollars every year!
That was more than the combined tithes of several dioceses in the past!
Pope Pius IX closed his eyes, his fingers gently stroking the armrest of his chair.
Although the Carlists in northern Spain were also fanatical Catholics, they were nothing more than a bunch of hopeless provincial aristocrats.
After fighting for so many years, they hadn't even captured a single decent city. Antoine, on the other hand, was backed by an American capitalist titan armed with limitless wealth and modern weaponry.
Who could win.
Who could bring the greatest benefits to the Holy See.
The answer was clear at a glance.
"As for certain rumors regarding Her Royal Highness Isabella in America..."
Cardinal McCloskey cautiously added.
"In truth, she and Mr. Argyle entered into a canonical union in a private chapel in New York, secretly officiated by my own hand. That child, Philip de Bourbon, is a legitimate heir fully blessed by God."
Cardinal McCloskey lied without batting an eye.
Regardless, in New York, the church registry was entirely at the beck and call of a cardinal like him; he could backdate entries however he pleased.
Pope Pius IX opened his eyes, his cloudy gaze showing not the slightest desire to discern truth from falsehood.
In the face of a million dollars and the monumental interest of restoring church privileges in Spain, what did a marriage certificate matter?
Indulgences could be granted even for murder and arson.
"The Lord forgives all transgressions of mortal men, so long as they harbor a devout, repentant heart."
Pope Pius IX slowly raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over his chest, his voice turning majestic.
"Antonio, go draft a papal encyclical. Address it to the Archbishop of Toledo and all dioceses across Spain."
"Inform the faithful of Spain that Amadeo of Savoy is an usurper harboring heretics."
"And Isabella de Bourbon is the legitimate monarch blessed by God. All Catholics must submit to God's will and assist the legitimate royal house in restoring order to the realm."
"At once, Holy Father!"
Cardinal Antonio was overjoyed and immediately bowed to prepare the documents.
Two days later...
When the Vatican's papal encyclical reached Spain via clandestine channels and was proclaimed aloud by priests during Sunday Mass in churches across the nation, the entire situation in Spain transformed.
Several regional military commanders who had previously been sitting on the fence immediately broke away from the Madrid government upon seeing Queen Isabella II's abdication decree and the Pope's endorsement, hoisting the banner of the House of Bourbon atop their city walls.
The government soldiers, comprised of devout peasants, began deserting and mutinying en masse after hearing the priests declare that fighting for Amadeo would damn them to hell.
Meanwhile, the arms shipment promised to Amadeo I by the British was still being loaded onto ships at the docks of the River Thames estuary.
In central Spain, along the main railway trunk line toward Madrid.
Victor Sullivan's armored train was belching thick black smoke, hurtling northward at thirty miles per hour.
In the towns and railway stations along the route, Sullivan didn't even need to fire a single shell.
More often than not, the moment the locomotive came into view, local garrisons were already lined up on the platforms carrying white flags alongside the Bourbon royal banner to welcome them.
Duke Antoine stood on the observation platform of the lead carriage, feeling the cold wind in his face. Seeing the Spanish peasants kneeling by the railway tracks crossing themselves and the government officers saluting deferentially, he felt entirely on cloud nine.
Turning his head, he called out loudly to Sullivan, who was wiping down his revolver:
"This feeling is wonderful..."
"Mr. Sullivan, I never thought conquering a country could be so easy!"
"Córdoba has surrendered, and Toledo has surrendered as well."
"That Italian fellow Amadeo must be pissing his pants in the Royal Palace of Madrid right now!"
Listening to the old duke's blather, Sullivan slotted bullets into the cylinder one by one, snapped it shut with a click, and glanced up.
"Duke, don't celebrate too early."
"It's not that we are fighting too fast; it's that the boss's dollars and gold travel faster than any locomotive."
In contrast to the delighted Antoine, a certain king within the Royal Palace of Madrid was extremely displeased at this moment.
Crash!
A bone china coffee cup bearing the coat of arms of the House of Savoy shattered against the oak floor, brown liquid splashing everywhere.
King Amadeo I's chest heaved violently. Resting his hands on the edge of the desk, he glared at Prime Minister Zorrilla and Minister of War Córdoba standing across from him.
Spread across the desk were pamphlets just confiscated from Madrid Cathedral, printed with transcripts of Pope Pius IX's encyclical.
"That damned wretch locked up in the Vatican! How dare he?!"
Amadeo snatched up the pamphlet, crumpled it into a ball, and slammed it furiously to the floor.
"My father dismantled his Papal States! He didn't dare make a peep in Rome, yet now he dares stick his nose into the Spanish succession! Calling me a protector of heretics who stole the throne? Just how much money did he take from the Bourbons?!"
Zorrilla took half a step back to avoid the porcelain shards and said in a low voice,
"Your Majesty, now is not the time to investigate why Pius IX has lost his mind. This morning, after priests read this encyclical outside their barracks, two infantry regiments in Toledo and Aranjuez refused orders to advance southward. When their regiment commanders went to suppress them, several fanatical believers shot and wounded them. Both regiments have now raised the white lily flag."
"Mutiny? They haven't even marched a hundred miles! I haven't even seen a shadow of the rebels, and our own men revolt first?"
Amadeo drew his sword from his waist and hacked at the corner of the oak table, leaving a white gouge.
"Where are the British? When on earth are the twenty thousand Snider rifles and fifty Armstrong cannons promised by Earl Granville going to arrive?!"
"A telegram just arrived from London this morning." Zorrilla pulled a slip of paper from his pocket.
"Subscriptions for Barings Bank's five-million-pound bond issue have only just begun, and the British arms dealers demand payment upon delivery. The earliest shipment of five thousand rifles and ten artillery pieces was loaded onto ships on the River Thames just yesterday. Transported by sea to the Port of Santander, it will take at least another eight days."
"Eight days?"
"In eight days, Antoine's train will probably have pulled right into the Madrid railway station!"
Amadeo tossed his sword onto the table and turned his gaze on Córdoba.
"Fernando, tell me, just how many troops wielding those new weapons does Antoine have under him? Give me the real numbers! Don't feed me the nonsense concocted by those deserters!"
Córdoba wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Your Majesty, according to verified reports from officers who fled back and our informants in Córdoba, the core rebel force genuinely equipped with those multi-barrel machine guns, breech-loading steel cannons, and repeating rifles is actually... only about two thousand men. And judging by their accents, they are all cutthroats hired from the Americas or Britain."
"How many?"
Amadeo froze, stepping forward two paces.
"Only two thousand men?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. All the rest are rebel recruits gathered along the way from Cádiz, still wielding obsolete muskets."
Amadeo let out an angry laugh, thrusting a finger toward Córdoba's face.
"Two thousand mercenaries! Just two thousand men scared you into such a state? When Manuel lost eight thousand men in Seville, I thought Antoine had conjured an army of a hundred thousand out of thin air!"
"But Your Majesty, their firepower is simply too overwhelming. They can fire thousands of rounds in a minute..." Córdoba argued.
"The barrels are made of iron! Don't they melt if they fire that much? How many rounds can their train possibly carry? A million? Two million?" Amadeo roared, eyes bloodshot.
"Around Madrid, together with the troops just transferred from Valencia, we still have a full thirty-five thousand regular soldiers!"
"Thirty-five thousand men! Even if each threw just one stone, they could crush those two thousand foreigners into mincemeat!"
Amadeo strode over to the map, seized a red-and-blue pencil from the desk, and slashed a heavy X across the Tagus River Valley, thirty miles south of Madrid.
"Córdoba, immediately send your military police and barrier troops to every barracks and lock up every single chaplain! If any soldier dares conceal the Pope's pamphlet, or any officer dares utter Isabella's name, shoot them on the spot without trial!"
Amadeo turned around, issuing orders while panting heavily:
"Move all thirty-five thousand men to the Tagus River Valley and blow the railway to pieces! I don't care how far their cannons reach or how fast their machine guns crank. Have the troops surround them from all sides! Even if ten thousand men die, plug their muzzles with corpses if you must, but that damned train has to be reduced to scrap iron!"
Looking at the king behaving like a rabid tiger, Córdoba opened his mouth. He wanted to say that this wasn't how modern warfare was waged—that the French had thought the same two years ago at Sedan, only for their emperor to be captured by the Germans.
But seeing Amadeo's bloodshot eyes, he could only lower his head.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I will arrange the barrier troops at once; the army will march out first thing tomorrow morning."
Córdoba saluted and hurried out of the study.
Only Amadeo and Prime Minister Zorrilla remained in the room.
Amadeo picked up the pitcher of cold water from the desk and gulped down several mouthfuls straight from the spout, icy well water trickling down his chin and into the collar of his uniform.
"Your Majesty, relying solely on the army to fight head-on is far too risky."
Zorrilla picked up the pamphlet from the floor, patted off the dust, and placed it on the desk.
"Since Antoine's two thousand mercenaries are using American weapons, their ammunition and supplies must be coming by sea through the Port of Cádiz. As long as the Port of Cádiz continues to steadily supply them with brass cartridges and artillery shells, no matter how many soldiers we throw in, it won't be enough."
"What about our navy's ironclads? Send them to blockade Cádiz!" Amadeo wiped his mouth.
"The naval sailors at the Port of Cartagena also mutinied yesterday over back pay and the papal encyclical. The captains don't even dare stoke the boilers now, for fear that the sailors will sail the ships over to defect to Antoine."
Zorrilla shook his head, stepped forward two paces, and lowered his voice.
"Your Majesty, there is only one person right now who can immediately dispatch warships to cut off the sea route to Cádiz, and deal with that old man in the Vatican."
Amadeo paused.
"You mean... my father?"
"Yes. The King of Italy, His Majesty Vittorio Emanuele II." Zorrilla gazed at Amadeo.
"The House of Savoy went through great pains to place you on the Spanish throne. If you are bombarded back to Rome by the House of Bourbon and a band of foreign mercenaries, not only will you lose face, but the Italian royal family will become the laughingstock of all Europe."
"Furthermore, Pius IX's audacity in issuing an encyclical to interfere in Spain is clearly an act of vengeance for Italy's annexation of Rome two years ago. Whether in public interest or private duty, your father cannot simply stand idly by."
Amadeo sat back in his chair with a furrowed brow. "When I came to Madrid, I told my father that I would not rely on the Italian army, lest the Spaniards call me a foreign puppet..."
"What time do you think it is, Your Majesty!" Zorrilla's tone grew stern.
"If you don't call for aid now, you won't even be able to remain a puppet!"
"Please send a private, encrypted telegram to Rome immediately. As long as the Italian Navy's ironclad fleet arrives in the waters off Gibraltar under the guise of assisting the Spanish government with anti-smuggling operations, Antoine's supply lines will be severed!"
"Furthermore, the city of Rome is currently held by your father's troops. All he needs to do is send two battalions of Italian soldiers to march past the Vatican's gates, and Pope Pius IX will shut his mouth at once and retract that damned encyclical!"
Amadeo stared at the knife scratch on the table for a full half-minute before abruptly reaching over to pull paper and pen toward him.
"Phew... You're right. Let's deal with Antoine first!"
Amadeo took up his fountain pen, the nib scratching rustlingly across the paper.
"I'll send a telegram to my father right away."
"As long as he is willing to deploy the navy and army to help me weather this crisis, I can give Italy half of Spain's trade privileges in Morocco in North Africa, as well as several Mediterranean coaling ports!"
...
The Quirinal Palace had originally been the summer residence of successive popes. Two years ago, after the Italian army captured Rome and drove the Pope to the Vatican on the west bank of the Tiber, it became the royal palace of King Vittorio Emanuele II of Italy.
Afternoon sunlight streamed onto the terrace.
The fifty-three-year-old Vittorio Emanuele II sat in a wicker chair, holding a piece of deerskin and wiping down his beloved double-barreled shotgun.
He sported two exaggerated, upward-curling mustaches and possessed a burly frame, making him look less like a king and more like a hunter who had just descended from the Alps.
Holding the newly deciphered telegram, Italian Prime Minister Giovanni Lanza hurried through the corridor and stepped onto the terrace.
"Your Majesty, an urgent coded telegram from Madrid. Drafted by His Highness Amadeo himself." Lanza handed the telegram over.
Emanuele II paused his hand, laid the shotgun across his lap, took the telegram, and scanned it.
His upturned mustache twitched twice with his breath.
"Two thousand mercenaries armed with American machine guns and artillery have cornered him so badly that he's offering me North African ports in exchange for reinforcements?"
Emanuele II slapped the telegram onto the stone table with a snort.
"I told him back then that those proud, lazy Spanish donkeys were simply impossible to manage, and that he would be far better off staying in Turin to hunt! Now look at him—cornered and beaten right outside his doorstep, crying for his papa."
Standing beside him, Lanza pushed up his glasses.
"Your Majesty, His Highness Amadeo's current situation is indeed precarious. Antoine of Orléans not only obtained the instrument of abdication from Queen Isabella II, but he also has massive foreign capital backing him."
"More importantly... the Vatican issued an encyclical the day before yesterday, openly calling on the Spanish people to overthrow your son's rule."
Hearing mention of the Vatican, Emanuele II's face darkened, and his fingers tightened around the shotgun's barrel.
"Pope Pius IX, that stubborn old fool."
Emanuele II stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace, looking out toward the massive dome of St. Peter's Basilica across the distant Tiber.
"I left him the Vatican Palace and offered an annual subsidy of 3.2 million lire from the national treasury, which he refused. Now he takes dirty money from foreigners to undermine my son!"
"What an absolute bastard!"
"Our Intelligence Department has already investigated it thoroughly," Lanza reported in a low voice.
"A week ago, Cardinal McCloskey of New York came ashore at the Port of Genoa with twenty crates of gold and headed straight into the Vatican. It was sent by a major capitalist in America's New York named Alan Argyle. Pope Pius IX took the American gold, and only then did he issue that encyclical."
"Americans? New York?"
Emanuele II turned around, his brows knitting together. "Why on earth are the Americans, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, meddling in Spain?"
"For Cuban sugar, or for Spanish minerals—who knows. Whenever those American parvenus smell profit, they'd try to buy the moon itself." Lanza spread his hands.
"Your Majesty, the British Ambassador to Italy also came to see me this morning. The British are rushing arms shipments to His Highness Amadeo, but their merchant ships need time."
"The British proposed that if Italy is willing to deploy its navy to intercept American supply ships off the waters of Cádiz, their fleet in Gibraltar can provide us with coal supplies and intelligence support."
Stroking his upturned mustache, Emanuele II paced back and forth across the terrace twice.
"Amadeo said in the telegram that he is willing to grant us trade privileges in Morocco and berthing rights on Menorca in the Balearic Islands?" Emanuele II stopped and asked.
"Yes, Prime Minister Zorrilla has signed it as well." Lanza nodded.
"Your Majesty, although Amadeo is your son, this is a transaction between two nations. If we can seize this opportunity to secure the use of a naval base on Menorca, we can completely gain the upper hand over the French in the western Mediterranean. It's actually a very good deal."
"It's only natural for a father to collect a little interest while helping his son in a fight."
Emanuele II grinned and patted the shotgun in his hands.
"Go issue the order to the Navy Department!"
"Have the ironclads Roma and Venezia stationed at the Port of La Spezia, along with four cruisers, weigh anchor and set sail tonight."
"Head straight to the waters off Spain's Port of Cádiz. Any merchant ship flying an American flag or suspected of ferrying arms to the rebels—no matter the circumstances—is to be seized immediately and brought back to Genoa!"
"What if a ship is flying the British flag?" Lanza reminded him.
"London said that American is very cunning; he previously used shell companies belonging to the British Earl of Ashburn."
"Aren't the British providing us with intelligence? Have them report the names of Ashburn's ships themselves, and seize them all the same!"
Emanuele II waved his hand dismissively, then pointed toward the distant St. Peter's Basilica.
"As for that old man in the Vatican..."
A sinister sneer appeared on Emanuele II's face.
"Deploy the 12th Infantry Regiment to seal off every single entrance to the Vatican Palace."
"Starting today, aside from water deliveries, not a single sack of flour or barrel of red wine is allowed in."
"Cut all their telegraph lines to the outside world!"
"And tell that old man that if he doesn't issue a public statement in the European newspapers within three days declaring that earlier encyclical on Spain to be a forgery, I'll have the combat engineers tear down the Vatican's walls and confiscate all twenty crates of gold from America as contraband to enrich Italy's national treasury!"
Lanza felt his throat go dry. "Your Majesty, if we do this, the churches in France and Austria will likely protest..."
"Protest what?"
"The French can't even tighten their own belts, and the Austrians have long had their spines broken by the Prussians!"
Victor Emmanuel II grabbed his shotgun and strode toward the study.
"Do it!"
"Tell Amadeo to hold the line against Antoine with those thirty-five thousand men! Once my ironclads cut off the rebels' supplies, let's see what those two thousand Yanks use to shoot!"
The order was swiftly dispatched from the Quirinal Palace to all parts of Italy.
In less than two hours, two thousand fully armed infantrymen of the Kingdom of Italy marched into St. Peter's Square, encircling the Vatican Palace tightly with abatis and bayonets.
Several purchasing priests who had just gone out to buy veal and sausages were detained on the square, carts and all, by the Italian soldiers.
Meanwhile, at the naval port of La Spezia, thick black smoke billowed from the funnels of two ironclads displacing nearly six thousand tons as anchor chains rattled upward, and they steamed at full speed toward the Strait of Gibraltar.
In this war instigated by Wall Street capital, the old royal houses of Europe finally bared their fangs to defend their own interests.
At the same time.
Across the Atlantic Ocean in New York, a completely different scene unfolded.
Upper Manhattan.
On Argyle University's campus of several hundred acres, the snow had not yet completely melted.
Between the red-brick lecture halls and laboratory buildings stood freshly erected wooden utility poles, with black insulated cables as thick as bowls crisscrossing overhead.
A black four-wheeled carriage rolled into the campus along the swept stone path, stopping before a four-story building that bore a bronze plaque reading "First School of Physics and Electrical Engineering."
The carriage door opened, and fifteen-year-old Alfonso stepped down, wearing a thick camel-colored wool coat.
He had been in New York for nearly a week.
The Fifth Avenue townhouse where he stayed had everything: roast beef and French red wine at every meal, and even two Spanish-speaking maids to attend to him.
Yet whenever he stepped outside, four tall bodyguards with revolvers tucked into their waists shadowed him front and back.
Called study abroad, it was in reality house arrest.
A couple of days earlier, he had read the news in the paper about his mother, Queen Isabella II, publicly abdicating in Paris in favor of his cousin Isabella.
Even though he had known of his mother's plans in advance, he had still thrown a tantrum in the townhouse, smashing several vases.
The following day, the butler of the Argyle Family delivered an auditing pass for Argyle University, informing him that Mr. Argyle hoped he would study more modern science and read less useless European news, lest he end up unable to even read an account book after going to Cuba.
"This way, Your Highness."
The bodyguard captain following behind gestured politely, though his body half-blocked Alfonso's view toward the school gates.
Alfonso bit his lip, straightened the collar of his coat, and walked into the building.
In the Royal Palace of Madrid and during his exile in Paris, he had received a classical aristocratic education, studying Latin, theology, French literature, and horsemanship.
In his eyes, in a country like America that did not even have a king, so-called universities were merely vulgar places teaching people how to keep books and work iron.
Yet as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the first-floor lobby, a wave of heat accompanied by a humming vibration rushed over him.
From the ceiling of the hall hung two rows of glass bulbs emitting a soft, yellowish-white light.
The entire hall was as bright as day; even the patterns on the marble floor tiles in the corners were plainly visible.
Over a dozen young students clad in coarse gray jackets, holding slide rules and blueprints, were gathered around a man-high machine wound with brass coils, arguing loudly about something.
No one cared for etiquette; someone was even sitting cross-legged on the floor calculating formulas with a pencil.
"Make way! Watch out, it's hot!"
Two engineering students in leather aprons hurried past Alfonso, carrying a scalding-hot iron core fresh off a lathe.
Startled, Alfonso shrank aside, his back hitting the cold wall. The two students didn't spare a single glance at this legitimate heir of the Bourbon Dynasty's House of Anjou, rushing straight into the workshop at the end of the hallway.
"This is your university?"
Wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of ozone and machine oil in the air, Alfonso complained to the bodyguard captain beside him.
"This is nothing more than a blacksmith's shop. Where are the divinity school and philosophy department?"
"Argyle University has no divinity school, Your Highness."
A slightly raspy voice came from the foot of the stairs.
Alfonso turned his head.
He saw a slender young man with disheveled hair walking down the stairs holding a roll of blueprints.
The bodyguard captain immediately snapped to attention.
"Good morning, Mr. Tesla."
Nikola Tesla nodded and walked up to Alfonso, sizing up the European boy of his own age in his luxurious coat.
"You're the Spanish prince the boss shoved over here? Alfonso, right?"
Alfonso puffed out his chest and raised his chin, trying to assume the air of the Prince of Asturias.
"I am Alfonso de Bourbon. Are you a student here? In the presence of royalty, you should at least remove your hat or bow."
Tesla curled his lip as if he had just heard a joke.
"I suppose I count as a student. We're roughly the same age."
"Though I'm not wearing a hat, nor do I have time to bow to you. The boss doesn't allocate hundreds of thousands of dollars to my laboratory every year just for me to act in court dramas. Mr. Frost instructed me to show you around and let you see what real power is."
With that, without caring whether Alfonso agreed or not, Tesla turned and headed deeper into the hallway.
"Keep up. Don't go touching the wires along the walls. If you get charred to a crisp by ten thousand volts of high-voltage electricity, I'm not going to be responsible for writing an apology letter to Paris."
Alfonso's cheeks flushed with anger, feeling looked down upon by someone his own age, but sandwiched between the two bodyguards, he had no choice but to hurry after him.
Passing through a long corridor, Tesla pushed open a pair of large doors.
A thunderous roar instantly flooded their ears.
It was a laboratory as large as half a football field.
The floor was covered with thick copper busbars drawn from Montana copper.
In the center of the hall, a massive Alternating Current generator was spinning at high speed, with a steam engine beside it driving a flywheel, letting out a deafening roar.
At the other end of the generator, several huge Transformers submerged in oil drums were connected.
"Do you see it, little prince?"
Tesla shouted over the din, standing beside an iron railing.
"The current generated by that machine can later be sent directly through the copper wires outside to Lower Manhattan five miles away, powering the textile looms and printing presses there."
"The boss said that in another two years, all the gas lamps and Direct Current lights throughout New York will be replaced by my Alternating Current lights!"
Alfonso covered his ears, watching the blue-white electric arcs that occasionally leapt between the ceramic insulators, feeling an inexplicable pang of panic in his heart.
He didn't even understand where this feeling was coming from.
Yet he knew that in Spain, the most advanced factories merely used small steam engines to drive a few waterwheels; he had never seen a monstrosity like this that seemed capable of locking lightning inside an iron cage.
They hadn't been looking around for long when the small side door of the laboratory was pushed open.
Felix walked in, accompanied by Frost and Standard Oil's Peter Jenkins.
Alfonso's pupils contracted sharply.
Although he hadn't seen the man at the dock the day he arrived in New York, he had seen photographs of him countless times in Paris.
This was the American oligarch who had stunned his mother with a hundred thousand dollars and was now seizing cities and territories in Spain with machine guns and cannons.
He was also the reason Alfonso had ended up in this country.
Holding his silver-handled cane, Felix first glanced at the operating generator, then turned his gaze toward Alfonso standing by the railing.
"It seems our Grand Duke of Cuba has already begun his lessons," Felix said as he walked over, his footsteps steady even amid the roar of the machinery.
Alfonso clenched his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms—filled with both anger and panic.
He also felt an urge to confront him.
Yet remembering his mother's instructions before his departure, he forcefully suppressed the humiliation and rage in his heart, smiled faintly, and spoke in stiff English:
"Mr. Argyle. Your school... is very impressive."
"Far more interesting than the royal palace in Madrid, isn't it?"
"Young people should travel more and see distant sights to broaden their horizons."
Felix came to a stop before Alfonso. Standing a full head taller than the fifteen-year-old youth, his gaze bore down on him from above.
"After all, the stones in a royal palace only grow mold, but the copper and iron here change the world every day."
As he spoke, he fished out the solid-gold, ruby-inlaid lighter from his pocket.
His thumb rested on the flint wheel and gave it a gentle flick downward.
Click.
An orange flame danced inside the windscreen, looking brilliant and captivating.
Alfonso's eyes were instantly drawn to this exquisite little metal box.
Under the glaring electric lights of the laboratory, the solid-gold casing and two rubies gleamed enticingly, and it could even produce a flame on its own without matches.
Of course, Felix didn't smoke in the laboratory; he merely watched the flame burn for a few seconds before snapping the lid shut with a click.
With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed it.
The priceless solid-gold lighter traced an arc of golden light through the air toward Alfonso.
Alfonso instinctively reached out with both hands to catch it.
The weighty metal felt heavy, still carrying the warmth of Felix's palm.
"It's yours, a matriculation gift," Felix said calmly.
"It's a little novelty Mr. Jenkins's Standard Oil Company just produced. You'll find it useful when you smoke cigars in the Governor's Palace in Havana, Cuba."
Beside them, Peter Jenkins's mouth twitched in agonizing pain.
That was the one-of-a-kind, top-tier solid-gold ruby edition that David had spent three full days and nights hand-crafting specifically to honor the boss—yet the boss had just casually tossed it to this brat from Europe.
Talk about giving him too much credit!
Alfonso looked down at the solid-gold lighter in his hands, which was engraved with the letters "A.W."
He tried imitating Felix's earlier motion, flicking the wheel with his thumb.
With a click, a flame sprang up.
This delicate, luxurious object endowed with industrial power struck right through the fifteen-year-old boy's psychological defenses.
During his four years of exile in Paris, he had to check his mother's mood just to buy a new pocket watch.
"Thank you, Mr. Argyle."
Alfonso closed the lid and gripped the lighter tightly in his hand, his tone considerably softer than before.
"This is truly a wondrous creation."
"Study hard at the university, and spend more time looking into mechanical and chemical engineering," Felix said, turning to walk out.
"Fresh news will be coming back from Europe soon. Until then, don't make things difficult for your security."
Alfonso watched Felix's tall silhouette exit through the laboratory doors, then glanced back down at the solid-gold lighter in his palm.
The massive alternating-current generator inside the laboratory continued to roar, vibrating until the soles of his feet grew numb.
He suddenly felt that the plan his mother and Prime Minister Cánovas had devised in Paris seemed somewhat naive.
After leaving Argyle University, Felix's carriage did not head back to Long Island; instead, it turned straight south and dashed along Broadway, finally pulling up in front of the Argyle's Building.
In the carriage, Intelligence Department Director Timmy had already handed over an urgent telegram routed through London via an escort agent.
Felix strode into the ground floor of the building and rode the steam elevator directly to the tenth floor.
Pushing open the office door, he took off his coat, threw it onto the sofa, and walked over to a massive map of Europe.
"Timmy, recount the specifics from Rome and London again."
Timmy stood beside the desk and opened the black cipher book in his hands.
"Boss, two hours ago, the Earl of Ashburn in London and our informant in Genoa both sent urgent telegrams. Amadeo I has asked his father, King Victor Emmanuel II of Italy, for aid. He apparently also promised to cede Spain's trade privileges in Morocco and the naval base on Menorca to Italy."
He pointed a finger at the Italian Peninsula on the map.
"According to intelligence, Victor Emmanuel II has already given orders. Two of the Italian Navy's capital ironclads, the Roma and the Venezia, along with four cruisers, departed from the naval port of La Spezia last night. Their destination is Gibraltar and the open waters off Cádiz. It appears they intend to forcibly intercept and seize future supply ships bound for Cádiz at sea."
Standing nearby, Frost frowned.
"Our second cargo ship carrying five thousand rifles and two million rounds of ammunition just departed New Jersey three days ago. If the Italian ironclads bottle it up outside the Port of Cádiz, Sullivan's ammunition at the front will only last for two major battles at most."
"It's not just the navy."
Timmy turned a page and continued.
"Victor Emmanuel II also sent an army regiment to surround the Vatican Palace. They cut off food and water inside and severed the telegraph lines, trying to force Pope Pius IX to publicly declare within three days that the earlier encyclical supporting Isabella was a forgery. Otherwise, they'll send sappers to tear down the Vatican walls and confiscate the gold we delivered."
"Furthermore, regarding Madrid, Amadeo I has mustered all thirty-five thousand regular troops he could mobilize down to the Tagus Valley south of Madrid. He deployed gendarmerie squads to suppress mutinies and is preparing to wage a war of attrition with human-wave tactics against Sullivan's armored train. The first shipment of arms sold to them by the British is already being readied for transport to the Port of Santander in northern Spain."