In the study, Felix took the thin piece of telegraph paper.
Then his gaze quickly swept across the lines of deciphered text from New York.
Thomas Clark looked at Felix.
He noticed that this young man, who usually remained calm even if Mount Tai collapsed before him, actually tightened his grip slightly on the telegraph paper.
"What does it say, Felix?"
Thomas couldn't help but ask curiously.
He knew that the other party had had very good dealings with Prussia.
Felix didn't answer immediately.
After reading the entire telegram word by word, he placed it on the coffee table, looking thoughtful.
He looked up and took a deep breath, a chilling sneer slowly curling at the corners of his mouth.
"Thomas. You just said that if I force Ulysses's hand, he would use the anti-monopoly report to make us perish together?"
There was a suppressed joy in Felix's voice.
"But now... he might not even have the chance to take us down with him."
Felix pointed to the telegraph paper.
"Top-secret intelligence sent back by the foreign manager of the Metropolitan Trading Company in Berlin. The Chancellor of the German Empire, Otto von Bismarck, has sent a special envoy named Ludwig Fischer. This envoy is already on a steamship crossing the Atlantic Ocean and will arrive in New York in half a month."
Thomas's brow furrowed even deeper.
"Bismarck? That Iron Chancellor who just trampled the French underfoot at the Palace of Versailles? Why would he send a special envoy to New York to find you? To buy arms?"
"If it were just to buy arms, I wouldn't need to sit here and talk to you about the president."
Felix leaned back against the sofa, his posture becoming extremely relaxed.
"The telegram says that Bismarck received intelligence that Washington is preparing an anti-monopoly investigation against me. The German Emperor also knows I'm facing political trouble in America. So, he has offered me a check that is almost impossible to refuse."
Felix repeated the core content of the telegram to the vice president word by word.
"The German Empire is willing to open all its doors to General Electric and the American Telephone and Telegraph Company (AT&T). They promise that if I am willing to set up my European headquarters in the Ruhr industrial region and move my manufacturing plants there, they will provide a twenty-year tax exemption privilege."
"Furthermore, the German Empire government will provide funds to fully purchase my telephone exchange system and lay out a military and government communication network for all of Germany. They are using the national power of an empire to invite me to Berlin to be a monopolistic oligarch."
Thomas Clark abruptly stood up from the sofa.
He moved so suddenly that he even knocked over the wine glass next to him. Amber whiskey spilled onto the expensive Persian carpet, but he didn't care at all.
"My God..."
Thomas's breathing became hurried.
As the number two figure in America, he understood the weight of this intelligence all too well.
"What are they trying to do!"
Thomas paced back and forth in the study, his mind rapidly calculating the geopolitical logic behind this.
He admitted he was a bit panicked.
"Old Morgan used the British Empire's cessation of underwriting railway bonds to intimidate Ulysses. Ulysses is afraid of losing British capital, so he raised the guillotine against you."
Thomas stopped walking and pressed his hands on the coffee table in front of Felix.
"But now, Bismarck has entered the game. The German Empire became Europe's most powerful industrial behemoth after the Franco-Prussian War. If General Electric's technology and Metropolitan's capital really transfer to Berlin, then America will lose more than just a businessman. We will completely miss out on this new industrial revolution centered on electricity and communications. And Germany, with your technical support, will crush the British factories into dust!"
Felix picked up his wine glass and gently swirled the liquid inside.
"So, Thomas. Do you understand what kind of card I'm holding now?"
Felix stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the night scene of Washington D.C.
"Old Morgan's threat will only result in America building a few fewer railroads. But my threat is to let America fall behind Europe forever for the next fifty years."
Felix turned around, his eyes filled with absolute dominance.
"Isn't Ulysses afraid of foreign emperors? Isn't he wary of the British Empire's financial sanctions? Then let him see what happens if he truly drives the Argyle Family away—how the Black Eagle of Germany will tear the Union Jack to shreds in the skies of Europe."
"This telegram is my best bargaining chip for seeing him at The White House tomorrow. It came just in time..."
Thomas took out a handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
He found that all his previous political calculations seemed so pale and weak in the face of absolute industrial and technological monopoly.
"Then what do you plan to do next? Felix," Thomas asked.
"The impeachment hearing tomorrow doesn't need to be canceled; proceed with preparations as usual. Put the maximum pressure on Secretary Boutwell."
Felix thought for a moment and said, then straightened the hem of his suit.
"But the joint letter to force his hand is no longer needed. That's too crude and undignified."
Felix pulled the short note Grant had sent him out of his pocket.
"Didn't Grant ask me to come to Washington in person? Tomorrow morning at ten, I will appear at the door of the Oval Office on time."
"I will personally place this telegram from Berlin on his desk. Then I will tell him that if he wants that anti-monopoly assessment report, he can sign it at any time. Because my Argyle Family's Atlantic Steam Power Company already has a fleet ready to head for Hamburg."
Felix walked to the study door and grasped the brass handle.
"I think at that time, President Ulysses S. Grant will not only have to get on his knees and beg me to keep the factories in New York, but he will also need to personally dig out Old Morgan's roots in Wall Street for me, one by one."
Felix pushed open the door and walked out without looking back.
"It seems Grant will have to back down this time..."
Thomas looked at the empty doorway and whispered to himself. He picked up the remaining whiskey in the glass on the table and downed it in one gulp.
The study door closed behind Felix, and the gas wall lamps in the hallway emitted a steady glow.
Anna stood at the top of the stairs, watching Felix approach.
"The old man didn't lose his temper, did he?" Anna asked.
"Even if he did, it wouldn't change the current state of Washington." Felix walked to her side.
"Thomas is a sensible man; he knows how to play the cards in his hand. He'll handle the pressure from The White House."
Anna nodded and turned to lead the way.
"Come on, the dining room is downstairs. The chef roasted some veal, and there's the mashed potatoes you like. Caesar was starving, so I had the nanny feed him some oatmeal first."
The two of them walked down the oak staircase.
On the long dining table in the first-floor dining room, a white linen tablecloth was laid out. Candles burned in silver candlesticks, and two sets of cutlery were neatly arranged.
Felix pulled out a chair and sat down, with Anna sitting to his right.
A servant brought in the sliced roast veal, poured some Bordeaux wine, and then silently retreated, closing the dining room door.
Felix picked up his knife and fork, cut a piece of beef, and chewed it.
"It tastes good."
Felix swallowed the food and picked up his wine glass.
"It doesn't compare to the chefs at the top of New York's Empire State Building, but it'll do." Anna cut the potatoes on her plate.
"Those old guys on Capitol Hill have been getting greedier lately. I took twenty thousand from the interest of the million-dollar trust fund you set up for Caesar to grease the palms of two Senate committee chairmen. They helped you suppress the proposal to restrict the cross-state laying of telegraph lines."
"Twenty thousand isn't enough. Next month, I'll have Templeton transfer another hundred thousand into your private account." Felix took a sip of red wine.
"Old Morgan's agent, Cavendish, is throwing money all over Washington; we can't afford to look stingy with cash. For the politicians who take the money but don't deliver, I'll have the Intelligence Department send dirt on them to the newspapers. For those who do, you need to make them feel like the Argyle Family's vault is bottomless."
Anna swallowed her mashed potatoes.
"That Cavendish is a troublesome Englishman; he knows how to flatter those congressmen's wives. At the French Minister's reception yesterday, he even tried to test my boundaries."
"He won't live much longer."
Felix's knife and fork paused for a moment.
"I'm going to see Ulysses tomorrow. As long as I win over the President, United Trust Bank will become a sitting duck on Wall Street. When the time comes... I'll keep all of Cavendish's and Old Morgan's money in America."
The two discussed a strangulation plan involving tens of millions of dollars as calmly as if they were talking about tomorrow's weather.
This was the unspoken understanding between them.
No nonsense, only the exchange of interests and the consolidation of power.
Dinner was finished quickly.
Felix put down his napkin.
"Take me to see that little future tyrant."
Anna stood up.
"He's in the nursery on the second floor. He should be playing with that pocket watch you gave him right now."
The two went back upstairs and pushed open the nursery door.
The room was covered with a thick wool carpet, and a crib made of pure copper stood against the wall.
Two-year-old Caesar was sitting on the carpet with the nanny beside him. Caesar was clutching the matte iridium pocket watch, trying to bite the miniature silver train that was running inside it.
Seeing Felix enter, the nanny immediately stood up and respectfully retreated outside the door.
Felix walked to the edge of the carpet and crouched down.
"You can't bite metal; it'll break your teeth."
Felix reached out and snatched the priceless pocket watch from Caesar's mouth.
Caesar froze, and seeing his hands empty, his mouth puckered as he prepared to cry.
"Don't cry."
Felix's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an instinctive deterrent power.
Caesar's cry caught in his throat as he stared back at Felix with his dark eyes.
Anna walked over and crouched down next to Felix.
"You're too harsh with him; he's not even three yet."
Anna gently patted her son's back.
"He doesn't need tears."
Felix held the pocket watch and wiped off the drool with his thumb.
"In this country, crying doesn't buy sympathy. It only buys the mockery of your opponents."
Felix rewound the pocket watch and placed it on the carpet.
The little train began to run again with a "tick-tock, tick-tock" sound.
Caesar's attention was immediately drawn back to it.
He reached out with his chubby hands and crawled across the floor after the little train.
Looking at his godson crawling on the carpet, a rare flash of softness appeared in Felix's eyes.
This was not a facade; it was the instinct of shared blood.
"He seems healthy," Felix remarked.
"The Clark Family's doctor comes to check on him every week." Anna looked at Felix.
"You said you'll help with his education in New York? He can't live in Washington forever. There are only politicians here, no factories."
"When he's five," Felix said, looking at the pocket watch.
"When he's five, I'll send someone to pick him up and take him to the estate on Long Island. There are stables there, and private tutors."
Felix stood up and walked to the nursery window.
"New York is too chaotic right now; I'm cleaning up some reckless European capital. Once I've scrubbed the floors of Wall Street clean, I'll let him go back and step on them."
"You're very tired today," Anna said softly.
"Just a bit irritated by that old soldier, Ulysses." Felix didn't push her away.
"Let's go to the bedroom."
"There are no telegraph machines or ledgers in this house. Tonight, you don't need to think about Old Morgan. Get a good night sleep."
Felix turned around, looking at Anna's face, which was full of ambition.
Felix strode out of the nursery, clearly somewhat impatient.
"By the way... I have to go to The White House at ten tomorrow morning, so there's not much time for sleep."
Anna let out a light laugh.
The gaslight in the hallway stretched their shadows.
In this capital filled with political calculations and monetary deals, the second floor of this estate had temporarily become a sanctuary isolated from it all.
As Felix set foot on Washington soil, events were unfolding across the ocean in Europe that were also related to him.
France, Paris.
Prussian troops have withdrawn from Paris and retreated to the northern border.
But Paris did not find peace after they left.
The short-lived Paris Commune had just been brutally suppressed by the Versailles army of the Thiers government.
Paris today is a scene of devastation.
The once bustling Rivoli Street is now filled with the ruins of buildings destroyed by artillery shells.
Even the trees along the street were cut down and used as firewood.
There was no other way; Paris had been besieged for too long, so they had to make use of what they had.
Even the surface of the Seine River is littered with trash and scattered planks.
The air still carried the lingering smell of gunpowder and the acrid smell of burning corpses.
Suburban Rue Saint-Honoré, European office of Metropolitan Trading Company.
This three-story gray brick building miraculously survived the war, although the bulletproof wooden planks outside the gate have been removed.
Two members of the Vanguard Security team stood at the doorway, carrying Vanguard Type 65 rifles.
In the office on the second floor.
Samuel Bowen sat in a large leather chair, checking the Metropolitan Fleet's shipping manifest for the month.
The door was pushed open...
Victor Dubois of Standard Oil walked in, carrying a French newspaper.
"Samuel, the Thiers government has issued a notice of reconstruction in Versailles."
Dubois threw the newspaper on his desk, his tone not very friendly.
"They need large quantities of steel, timber, cement, and food. The granaries in Paris are empty. People are starving to death every day at the City Hall relief center."
Upon hearing this, Bowen put down his pen.
"Hmph~ Everything they need is available on the Metropolitan Trading Company's cargo ships, but how are these Frenchmen going to pay for it?"
Bowen let out a cold laugh, clearly not caring much.
"Their national treasury was emptied halfway by the boss using 100,000 cans of food, and the remaining gold is to be used to pay war reparations to the Prussians."
Dubois sat down on the sofa opposite.
"The franc is now worthless, practically worthless. Rothschild is driving down the price of their bonds issued in London. They're broke."
Just then, a dispute arose from downstairs.
A few minutes later, a security guard quickly walked up the stairs and knocked on the office door.
" Manager Bowen, there are three Frenchmen outside. The one leading them is Lyon Favre, the Deputy Minister of the Treasury Department of the French Republic. He wants to see you."
Bowen and Dubois exchanged a glance.
"Oh, then let them come up," Bowen said.
A moment later, Leon Favre walked into the office.
He was short and stout, wearing a black dress that was clearly made before the war and now seemed a bit too big. His face was sallow, and his eyes held a deep weariness and anxiety. Two aides followed behind him carrying briefcases.
" Mr. Bowen, Mr. Dubois."
Favre bowed slightly, his attitude far more humble than that of the arrogant imperial envoys during the war.
"Please have a seat, Minister Favre," Bowen gestured to the sofa.
"The roads in Paris are very difficult to navigate now. You've come all this way; what advice do you have?"
Favre sat down on the sofa, and his entourage placed his briefcase on the coffee table.
"Ahem~ It's like this, Mr. Bowen." Favre rubbed his hands together.
"As you know, France has just experienced a catastrophe. The government of the Republic needs to rebuild Paris, restore the textile mills in Lyon, and rebuild the bombed railways."
"We all know that the Metropolitan Trading Company has more than a dozen cargo ships fully loaded with goods docked in the ports of Le Havre and Marseille. Those wheat, kerosene, and steel rails are exactly the lifeblood that France needs most right now."
Favre looked at Bowen.
"So...we want to buy all these supplies. And we hope Mr. Argyle can increase his investment in France. We welcome General Electric to lay the power grid in Paris. We also welcome American capital to help us recover."
Bowen leaned back in his chair.
" Mr. Secretary, the Metropolitan Trading Company is open for business. We can sell you all our supplies as long as the prices are right. As for investing in laying the power grid, I think the boss should agree that General Electric poles can be installed on the Champs-Élysées at any time, as long as you can pay the initial installation fee."
Bowen tapped on the table.
"But the key question is, what will you use to make payments?"
Favre swallowed hard.
" The French government can issue special reconstruction bonds with an annual interest rate of six percent, secured by national tax revenue."
Dubois chuckled.
" Mr. Secretary, don't try to fool us with those worthless pieces of paper. You don't even know where you 're going to scrape together the 5 billion francs in reparations from Prussia. What credibility does your national tax revenue have at the moment?"
Dubois stood up and walked over to Favre.
" You should have heard of Mr. Argyle's rules. We do not accept fiat currencies from defeated nations. We only accept gold, silver, or collateral with real value."
Favre's face turned red, and he gritted his teeth.
" Mr. Bowen, the remaining gold in France cannot be touched. It is our last line of defense for maintaining national dignity."
Favre gestured to his entourage to open his briefcase and take out a thick document.
"Besides purchasing supplies, I have something even more important to discuss with you today. We want to talk about the things that Napoleon III's envoy mortgaged to Imperial Bank in New York a few months ago."
Bowen's eyes sharpened instantly.
Favre opened the document.
"Duty-free rights to three deep-water ports in French Indochina (including Vietnam). Mining rights in Algeria, North Africa. And railway construction rights with a 99-year lease."
Favre stared at Bowen.
"These things were mortgaged to you by that damned dictatorial emperor to buy an ironclad warship and supplies. This seriously damaged the national interests of the Republic of France. Now that a new government has been established, we need the tax revenue from these colonies to repay Prussia's debts."
"Therefore, we are demanding the redemption of these mortgaged concessions."
Bowen listened quietly, picked up the glass of cold water on the table, and took a sip.
"Redeem?" Bowen put down his water glass.
" Mr. Secretary, what do you wish to use to redeem your bonds? Those worthless paper bonds with six percent interest that you just mentioned?"
Favre took a deep breath.
"We can grant Metropolitan Trading Company tax breaks in France. We can grant General Electric an exclusive lighting license in Paris. As long as you return control of the colony, the French market will be completely open to you."
Bowen looked at Favre with the eyes of someone looking at an idiot.
"Minister Favre, do you think that we American businessmen can't even do the most basic arithmetic?"
Bowen stood up.
"The French domestic market? A market full of ruins, where ordinary people can't afford bread, and the government lives on borrowed money? You're trading this mess for concessions in Asian and African colonies that can generate millions of dollars in stable profits every year?"
Bowen rested his hands on the desk, looking down at the French minister.
"Please go back and tell Thiers that those mortgage documents are currently locked in New York." Inside the Imperial Bank's underground vault. White paper with black lettering, stamped with the seal of France.
"The tax exemptions and other privileges of those colonies now belong to the Argyle. They are not for sale, exchange, or refund."
Favre suddenly stood up.
"This is robbery! That's overseas territory won with the blood of French soldiers. You're taking advantage of our misfortune! What if we don't recognize that mortgage agreement?!"
"You can choose not to admit it."
Dubois interjected coldly from the side.
"But the Metropolitan's armed merchant ships have already entered Saigon port in Indochina, and our mercenaries have taken over the customs there. If your French governor in the area dares not recognize the New York agreement, our gatling guns will teach them a lesson about the spirit of contracts."
"You're declaring war!" Favre trembled with rage.
"No, no, no, we're just businessmen collecting debts," Bowen corrected him.
" Mr. Secretary, put away your ridiculous national dignity. The only thing you can do now is to face reality."
Bowen took a pre-prepared contract from the drawer and tossed it onto the coffee table.
The contract slammed onto the coffee table with a dull thud.
Favre looked down at the document printed in both English and French.
"What is this?" Favre asked.
"Perhaps it's your lifeline to survive." Bowen sat back in his leather chair.
"Actually, the boss gave us a bottom line in New York. We will not give back the colonial rights in France once we have them. But if you really need resources to rebuild Paris, then the Argyle Family can provide you with a new path."
Bowen pointed to the contract.
"Why don't you open it and take a look, Mr. Secretary?"
Favre hesitated for a moment, then gestured for his entourage to pick up the contract.
He turned to the first page.
As his gaze swept over the area, fine beads of sweat appeared on Favre's forehead. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably.
" Metropolitan Trading Company, in conjunction with Imperial Bank... invested US$20 million... to acquire full ownership and 50-year operating rights of three major railway arteries in southern France... "
Favre's voice was hoarse as he read out the terms of the contract.
" General Electric invested five million US dollars... to acquire the exclusive rights to lay underground pipelines in the three cities of Paris, Lyon, and Marseille, as well as a 100-year exclusive electricity supply franchise..."
Favre slammed the file shut and threw it back onto the coffee table.
"This is impossible! This is absolutely impossible!" Favre roared.
"You not only want our colonial privileges, but you also want to strip France of all its infrastructure. If even the railways and the city's power are controlled by you Americans, France will become a complete shell. You want to turn us into an economic colony of America!"
Dubois walked to the window, pushed it open a crack, and pointed to the devastated streets outside.
" Mr. Secretary, look outside. France is now just an empty shell."
Dubois's voice shattered the other person's illusions.
" The Prussians took Alsace and Lorraine, your coal and iron centers. Without those mines, even if you own your own railways, what will you use to power your boilers? What will you use to build your rails?"
Dubois turned around.
" Metropolitan Trading Company can transport Appalachia coal to France at the lowest possible price. General Electric can also help you build the world's most advanced Direct Current network. We can also get your textile mills back in operation and ensure your workers have bread to eat."
"The price is nothing more than a license on these few pieces of paper."
Bowen added from the side.
"It's clearly stated in the contract that the acquisition price of $25 million will not be paid to you in cash. We will settle the payment with an equivalent amount of food, kerosene, steel, and medicine. These supplies are enough for you to rebuild half of Paris. They should also be enough to stabilize the morale of your National Guard."
Bowen looked at Favre's desperate face.
" Mr. Secretary, let's do the math. Is it better to starve to death amidst the bombed-out, coal-free wreckage of the railroads, or to sign this contract, exchanging the concession for bread to last through the winter and the machinery to rebuild?"
" The Thiers government is teetering on the brink of collapse. If the civilians in Paris go hungry for another two weeks, they will raise the barricades again. Then, it won't be us who are sent to the guillotine. It will be you."
Favre slumped onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands and rubbing it in pain.
He was a shrewd financial officer, so how could he not know the stakes involved?
The conditions proposed by the Argyle Family were, in fact, even more vicious than Bismarck's war reparations.
Bismarck wanted money and territory.
What Felix wants is France's future blood vessels and nerves.
Once the railways and power grid are under control, every economic surge in France over the next fifty years will have to pay a cut to New York.
But they had to consider this cup of poisoned wine.
Because Prussians are lurking at the border, there is a constant possibility of domestic riots.
Without American supplies, the newly formed Third Republic might not survive the winter.
"Twenty-five million is not enough."
Favre lowered his hand, raised his head, and his eyes were bloodshot.
He gave up resisting and began to bargain like prey waiting to be slaughtered.
"The damage to Paris is too severe, and we still need to raise the first installment of 500 million francs to pay to the Prussians. We need to buy grain for the Metropolitan City, and we also need the Imperial Bank to lend us a bridging loan."
Favre gritted his teeth.
"We can grant you the concessions for the railroad and the power grid, but the total price must be increased to forty million US dollars. Ten million of that must be in cash in gold, and the remaining thirty million must be offset by goods. If you do not agree, we would rather borrow money from the Rothschild Family at high interest rates."
Bowen and Dubois exchanged a glance.
For $40 million, they secured century-old electricity concessions for the railway network and three major cities in southern France.
This deal is a good one for the growing Argyle family.
Bowen opened a drawer and took out a spare blank contract.
"Forty million dollars, that should be fine." Bowen picked up his pen. "But I have one condition."
Favre looked at him in despair.
"Any other conditions?"
"The French government must issue official documents acknowledging that the colonial concessions previously mortgaged to us by Napoleon III are entirely legal and valid. Furthermore, the French Navy and its garrison must cooperate with the Metropolitan Trading Company to take over the customs of those colonies."
Bowen's gaze left no room for refusal.
"By including this disclaimer in the memorandum of the new contract, we can prevent any future French government from trying to bring up past issues. If you agree, I can authorize the dock to begin unloading right now."
Favre closed his eyes.
He knew he was signing a contract that would sell out the country's future.
But he had no other choice.
"Prepare the ink, Mr. Bowen."
Favre's voice had completely lost its vitality.
"I will take the contract back to Versailles for discussion and try my best to get President Thiers to sign and affix the national seal. I hope your cargo ship can unload quickly; the crematoriums in Paris are almost full."
Half an hour later, Favre left the office with his entourage. Their steps were as heavy as lead.
In the office, Bowen picked up the draft agreement.
"Victor. Europe is completely rotten. But this stench of decay is exhilarating. However, I still need to ask the boss whether he should support it."
Bowen walked toward the telegraph room on the first floor.
"Go send a telegram to New York, using our secret transit point in London."
"Tell the boss that the French have bowed down. The colonial privileges have been preserved, and the railways in the south of France and the power grids in the three major cities have been secured. The amount he gave us is enough to buy half of Paris."