Chapter 101
Chapter 101
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 101
Chapter Title: Coronation (2)
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The Austrian army marching into Paris naturally had a profound impact on the diplomats from various countries still lingering in the city.
“Quick! Gather the confidential documents first! Burn anything we can’t take!”
“Those fucking French idiots—how the hell did they let the enemy reach their capital in just six weeks?”
“All that bluster about being Europe’s strongest power.”
The fall of a nation’s capital to an enemy was no ordinary affair.
In principle, foreign diplomats in Paris should have their personal safety guaranteed, but that all depended on Austria’s whims, didn’t it?
Especially for the Ottoman embassy, whose relations with Austria were far from cordial—they were in a frenzy preparing for evacuation.
For all they knew, Austria might promise protection while slyly sending soldiers to seize their documents.
The Spanish embassy, which had recently warmed up to France again, also decided on an abrupt withdrawal.
“Tsk tsk, what a commotion. That’s why they should’ve handled diplomacy better on a normal day.”
Of course, amid all this chaos, not every nation had lost its composure.
There was the mighty British Empire, renowned across Europe for masterful diplomacy, impeccable character, and making no enemies.
James Waldegrave, Earl of the British embassy, leisurely sipped his afternoon tea while watching the panicked diplomats from other countries.
It was obvious that Europe’s future balance hinged on how harshly Austria squeezed France.
The nation that gathered intelligence fastest and responded quickest would best exploit the coming shifts.
Fleeing in fear would only slow their info flow and leave them lagging behind.
Of course, that was just talk—James himself would’ve packed up and bolted if Britain and Austria were sworn foes or if Britain were some weakling state.
The reason he held firm in Paris was his calculation that Austria had no reason to antagonize Britain.
What had they even done? Mocked the Habsburgs a bit during the cowpox fiasco?
Sure, they were researching cowpox laws and quietly tweaking them for their own use, but that was all trivial stuff anyway.
“My lord! We’ve got it! A summary of the agreement between Austria and France!”
“Oh! Excellent. They reached a deal faster than expected. Looks like Louis XV was itching to get back to Paris.”
He needed to check just how much Austria was gouging out of France.
If France truly shrank to a second-rate power, it’d benefit Britain—but it risked Austria dominating unchecked.
Some argued Austria was content playing in continental sandboxes, but people’s moods changed like after a bathroom break, didn’t they?
Parliament judged that dominating the continent would inevitably turn Austria’s gaze outward, and James agreed.
“If France suffers too brutally, we’ll have to rally international opinion for mediation... Hm?”
Reading the agreement’s first page, he tilted his head.
“Lorraine and Bar already went to Austria, fine. Alsace... most areas up to Strasbourg and bordering Basel ceded to Austria too. Unavoidable, I suppose.”
This left France losing nearly all of Alsace and Lorraine, but since France had ignored the Treaty of Lorraine first, Britain couldn’t intervene.
“Tariff privileges and cooperation for the Ostend Company in French India... reparations of 200 million over ten years? That’s it?”
It was surprisingly lenient. Objectively harsh, but given the war’s cause and current reality, Austria seemed overly merciful.
Britain’s own estimate had pegged minimum reparations at 300 million livres.
“Unless Fleury used hypnosis... Ah, there’s more on the back. Just a few extra lines...”
James froze, paper in hand.
“My lord? That shocking?”
Those who hadn’t read it yet peeked and gaped.
“A triumph in Paris... and a King of Germany coronation in Versailles?”
The shocking phrase practically screamed “Is this real?” James briefly wondered if they’d been fed fake news.
But then.
“A triumph will be held in Paris, followed by the coronation in Versailles Palace’s Hall of Mirrors. We sincerely hope Your Excellency will grace us with your presence.”
Moritz, the Paris occupation commander, confirmed it personally, turning suspicion to fact.
James dashed a report to London. Parliament, bickering wildly between Lords and Commons, fell silent in an instant.
It was that absurd.
“A King of Germany coronation in Versailles?”
“Does Austria want to make France an eternal enemy?”
Suspicions of Austrian deception faded when Hanover confirmed the official decree naming Franz Stefan as King of Germany. Parliament shifted to analyzing motives.
Not just Britain—other nations erupted in heated debates over what was unfolding.
Opinions varied, but the Netherlands largely breathed relief.
“France won’t collapse from this, right?”
“Of course not. It’s a blow, but it’ll fuel even more hatred toward Austria. This is massive humiliation.”
“Is Austria dead set on mocking France?”
“More like Charles VI and Franz are drunk on victory.”
“Fair point. Unprecedented triumph, plus crushing elector rebellions and seizing their lands and titles—they must feel like real emperors.”
Showing the world France fully humbled while flaunting imperial authority—that seemed the intent.
The Netherlands saw it that way, but Britain had dissenting voices.
“Austria probably wanted to squeeze harder but judged foreign intervention too risky.”
“So they took just enough to avoid meddling, padding the rest with imperial prestige?”
A clever angle, in its way.
Yet all nations agreed on one thing.
“France and Austria have crossed the point of no return.”
No one doubted this unchanging truth.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Dong! Dong! Dong!
With majestic drumbeats, the procession began to the tune of the military band.
“Waaaaah!”
Throngs of soldiers surged forward like a tide, their cheers echoing across the square amid the crowd’s roars.
This bizarre sight of Paris citizens cheering the Austrian occupation force was, naturally, by design.
“What’s with them? Why are they screaming like that?”
“We don’t get triumphs like this anymore. It’s exciting, that’s all.”
“Even after losing the war? Have they no pride?”
“You didn’t hear? Shout hard here, and they give free bread and cowpox shots.”
“Why tell me now, you bastard! Long live Prince Franz! Long live! Long live the Austrian army!”
Coming to Paris drove it home again: early 18th-century France was worlds apart from the 21st century.
More precisely, pre-Revolution France and post-Revolution were like night and day, even within the same century.
This France wasn’t the one sneering, “We chopped the king’s head, the queen’s head, the nobles’ heads—think we’ll listen to you? Pfft.”
Grumbling inwardly about the old regime’s mounting flaws but too timid to voice it—that described most pitiful folk here.
To them, daily bread mattered far more than national pride or diplomacy.
News of the Austrians alone spiked Paris grain prices like peak Bitcoin; unable to endure, citizens tore down guard posts and torched barracks, demanding surrender.
Seizing on this, I announced free bread and priority cowpox shots for cheering citizens during the triumph. It worked better than expected.
Scream a bit, get today’s meal free?
To Paris folk tormented by nightmare bread prices days ago, this was like a honeyed part-time gig you’d sprint to barefoot.
“Waaaaah!”
“Heh heh, not as good as Vienna, but Paris isn’t bad.”
Whether lining up part-timers or wedding guests, as long as the picture looked pretty, that was enough.
Father-in-law beamed with historic joy: first Holy Roman Emperor to coronate in Paris, and a smashing success.
But the real highlight was next day’s coronation.
Versailles Palace, Hall of Mirrors.
Obvious, but my first time here too.
As time passed, sunlight filtered through the windows, gliding across the floor.
Seventeen mirrored walls, glittering chandeliers, and ranks of Austrian guards and imperial attendants lining both sides.
Charles VI surveyed it all, emotions swelling, murmuring in a choked voice.
“Good thing I didn’t hand down the King of Germany title.”
“Wasn’t it that you couldn’t?”
“Same difference.”
Separate from the Pragmatic Sanction making Theresia Habsburg heir, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Germany followed imperial law: men only.
Strictly speaking, I inherited in her stead, but no one cared now.
This coronation’s vigil saw Mainz’s archbishop consecrate the regalia one by one.
Sword, spear, orb, scepter, crown.
Regalia laid out, bells tolled—the main ceremony began.
“Proxies for absent electors, take your seats.”
First, the entrance procession.
Proxies for electors who voted yes to my ascension, plus archbishops, filed in and sat.
Empty Palatinate and Bavaria seats predictably draped with large black flags.
I got wanting solemn splendor, but wasn’t this screaming “Traitors’ seats empty here”?
I’d pointed it out beforehand, but Father-in-law insisted it added atmosphere.
Everyone’s glances at the voids confirmed it—atmosphere aplenty, leaning spooky.
Soon hymns swelled; as I advanced to center, Mainz’s archbishop approached.
“Ecclesiam defendam, leges imperii observabo.”
I shall defend the Church and observe the laws of the Empire.
The oath completed, pledging duties as next Holy Roman Emperor.
“By the will of the Emperor, electors, and all imperial nobles, we recognize Franz Stefan as King of the Germans.”
Mainz’s archbishop placed the crown on my head—new King of Germany born.
I took my seat beside Charles VI; the master of ceremonies signaled.
Boom boom boom!
One hundred one shots.
Deafening blasts from Versailles gardens halted all room air in a heartbeat.
Smoky haze and rattling windows set mirrors quaking—a spectacle in itself.
“Congratulations, Prince Franz!”
“May the Empire’s future brim with glory.”
Envoys from each nation approached, offering felicitations in turn.
Most eyed humiliated France’s reactions, but exceptions always existed.
“Holding a foreign—not French—coronation here feels fresh, novel even. Haha!”
“...Pardon?”
Even silent Moritz gaped—the source? Britain’s James Waldegrave, of course.
“Isn’t it? Coronations vary by nation. For the Holy Roman Empire’s next emperor to be crowned in Versailles—most impressive.”
Fair enough; when would Britain get another shot at punching a voiceless, pummeled France?
Cardinal Fleury, already sour-faced at a distance, crumpled further.
“Our nation permitted this solely to bury old grudges and aim for a shared future...”
“Indeed, indeed. France’s bold decision astounds. We applaud your magnanimity—letting us witness such a first.”
Britain’s provocation, smooth as breathing!
Devastating effect.
Britain had no love for France either.
After all their mediation in the last war, France punched first and got its capital stripped bare.
James wasn’t idly prodding Fleury—he sneered, “Your idiocy drags us down too.”
I’d pondered pitting them harder, but no need—this moment proved it.
Scratching the chief mourner at a funeral... different league indeed.
Thus ended the peaceful, elegant coronation—about three days later.
Louis XV’s invitation arrived in Paris: “Come see my face before you leave.”