Chapter 44
Chapter 44
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 044
Chapter Title: 18th Century Diplomacy (2)
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That evening, after the preliminary negotiations wrapped up without a single gain...
"Damn it... This isn't how it's supposed to go."
A sentiment far too extreme for a man of the cloth erupted from the cardinal's office.
No, if he weren't a cleric, he might have unleashed a full string of curses.
"Why the hell does that guy have to throw sand in the perfectly cooked stew! A man who's about to join the imperial family—what does he have to cling to so desperately that he comes all the way here to stir things up?"
If François Étienne hadn't shown up, the preliminaries likely would have proceeded just as Cardinal Fleury had anticipated.
Even if Austria waved the authority of the Habsburg court around, France was the host of the talks, with no less than the prime minister and cardinal himself leading as representative.
So it wasn't unreasonable for France to state its position first and elevate the royal prestige—but François Étienne's arrival as Austria's delegate had thrown the entire protocol into chaos.
There had been similar uproar during the Treaty of Utrecht, but nothing quite this chaotic.
"That François... He said he wanted to stay close to the homeland, so is Count Polignac's report wrong again this time?"
No one else posed as much of a problem, but the intelligence on François was such a jumbled mess that forming any solid assessment was nearly impossible.
Just as he wondered if he'd been fooled again...
"Your Eminence, Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz, valet to His Highness François, requests an urgent audience."
"Hm?"
After spouting all that nonsense earlier to disrupt things, now he sends a valet?
It smelled suspicious, but there was no harm in hearing him out.
Besides, they were the ones in a hurry.
With permission granted, the door opened, and a young man who still looked like a student bowed deeply and respectfully.
"Greetings. I am Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz, second son of Count Kaunitz and attendant to His Highness Franz. It is an honor to meet you, Your Eminence."
"I see. Did His Highness François send you?"
"Yes. In truth, His Highness is currently speaking with the secretary but slipped away secretly due to lack of time, so if I may be so bold, I'll get straight to the point. First, he says the events at the meeting just now were not his true intent."
"...Not his true intent?"
"Yes. To be recognized as a member of the imperial family, His Highness is aligning himself fully with the court's will. Thus, he must appear as the staunchest anti-French hardliner of all."
Count Polignac had relayed similar reports, so the cardinal nodded for him to continue.
"Hence, in official settings, he has no choice but to echo Secretary Bartenstein, His Majesty's proxy. But His Highness has already coordinated with the secretary, so if Your Eminence agrees, we can move forward immediately."
"Is that so? What exactly do you want?"
"He proposes yielding the choice to your side. Since we can't take everything, how about each picks one? His Highness suggests that in exchange for Austria stating its position first, France takes the seat of honor in the conference hall—wouldn't that be a clean resolution?"
"As host nation, you're willing to cede the head seat in the hall. A reasonable compromise."
So all that boasting earlier about his own greatness was just an act to show that the court's will was his own?
Whatever the case, if it meant the talks could proceed properly, the cardinal was inclined to go along.
The proposal wasn't outrageous, and it preserved their dignity adequately.
"And what about the rowdy Spaniards and British?"
"For them, we could treat all equally and have the three nations—Austria, France, and the Netherlands—convince them to enter simultaneously. Since it's a peace conference between Britain and Spain, it looks better dramatically if they enter together, and if we condition it on prominently including their major objectives in the preamble, they shouldn't object."
"...That could work. Tell him I'll consider it positively."
After all, what they wanted was just a slight boost to their prestige, so slipping such language into a joint agreement signed by all five nations would leave them pretending to be satisfied.
Kaunitz bowed, claiming lack of time, and promptly left the office.
Watching his retreating figure, Cardinal Fleury felt a flicker of relief, but the tangle in his mind only grew more knotted.
"François Étienne... Just what kind of man are you, really?"
Could he trust those words about acting to please the Habsburgs?
Or was this another layer of theater to deceive France?
The more he pondered, the thicker the fog grew, clarity slipping further away.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ After all the twists and turns, the day of the conference finally arrived.
The long corridor of the Archbishopric of Soissons echoed with the footsteps of valets.
Even from a safe distance, the roar of the crowd's cheers rang out clearly.
In this era without smartphones, games, or TV, the arrival of foreign dignitaries was the ultimate thrilling spectacle.
Guided by escorts along the lengthy hall, a booming voice soon resounded.
"His Highness Franz Stefan, proxy of the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire of Austria, enters!"
As the heavy doors swung open, I strode in without hesitation and took my assigned seat.
"Representing the Most Christian King of France, His Majesty the King, Cardinal Fleury enters!"
Fleury followed the announcement, giving me a slight nod before taking the agreed-upon seat of honor as per our deal.
His eyes betrayed deep fatigue, a testament to the mental toll so far.
And then, the highlight.
"Horatio Walpole, His Excellency the Plenipotentiary of Britain! Juan Bautista, His Excellency the Plenipotentiary of Spain!"
Perfectly matched in the number of valets and guards, even their pace, they entered shoulder to shoulder.
Don't laugh. This is one of the most solemn and crucial moments in the world.
Once the Dutch representative was seated, Cardinal Fleury announced the start with a grave tone.
"All are seated. Let the conference commence."
After all those preliminaries, one might hope the main talks would go smoothly... but no such miracle occurred.
"My nation seeks firm recognition of our succession rights to the Duchy of Parma in Italy. If Prince Don Carlos's rights are acknowledged, we shall engage sincerely."
Spain pressed hard for Parma.
"This war began from Spain's ambitions on Gibraltar. Moreover, Spain must acknowledge its ongoing interference with our Atlantic trade and implement corrective measures."
Britain repeated endlessly, like a broken record, that it was all the wicked Spaniards' fault.
"My nation is approaching this mediation in good faith. Thus, might Britain and France approve our Pragmatic Sanction?"
We, too, were maneuvering to secure a promise not to challenge the Pragmatic Sanction right away.
Yeah, we'll keep dragging our feet unless you recognize Maria Theresa as heir.
The Dutch and French hammered on stabilizing Atlantic trade, turning the talks into a hamster wheel of endless loops.
Remarkably, humanity had already mastered infinite energy in the 18th century—one that absolutely never ends.
No wonder multilateral conferences dragged on for two weeks to a month.
Everyone knew day one would end this way, so no one showed frustration.
To borrow an analogy, this was less a scripted play and more like WWE wrestling.
They hit a big move, we scream in agony and sell it, then counter; they take the fall dramatically.
Trading blows until the decisive moment, then wrap-up, and the ref calls it.
"My nation has lost countless soldiers and commanders in this war. This damage leaves an indelible scar on His Majesty the Emperor of Great Britain and his citizens!"
"Wasn't that because your encirclement failed and plague swept through?"
"Ah... My nation believes all agree that stabilizing Atlantic trade routes is paramount."
"For that, the Pragmatic Sanction must be approved."
Until that climactic moment, everyone just spouted their lines, waiting for someone to tire first.
A day or three of this, and we'd see progress.
Among us, my stamina was the best, so no complaints here.
The florid, formal language masked a brutal pride-fueled arm-wrestle beneath.
This hell had a long way to go.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Naturally, day one ended without resolution.
As Franz emerged, waiting Kaunitz bowed deeply.
"Your Highness, well done."
"Yeah, it was. Repeating the same lines thirty times left my jaw aching."
"...Frankly, I didn't expect it to be this bad."
"First days are always like this. Bilateral talks go much smoother, but throw in multiple nations, and it turns into chaos."
One-on-one, a hit to prestige stays private; in public, it's a slap across the face.
Like getting scolded in front of everyone—shame multiplies exponentially.
Anyway, barring surprises, real progress would start in two or three days.
But outside, an unusual number of guards caught my eye.
At first, I thought it a trick of the mind, but spotting the French royal banner fluttering confirmed it.
Good lord, no way?
Had someone from the French court come to spectate this dull affair?
"Why's the city suddenly so bustling?"
"Please wait a moment, Your Highness. I'll check."
Of course, it was probably nothing major.
As host, they had to pour everything into smooth proceedings, minimizing variables...
"Your Highness! His Majesty Louis XV has arrived in person."
...though occasionally, something this insane happened.
"...The King of France himself? Why?"
"Er... And the French minister just relayed that His Majesty King of France wishes to dine with Your Highness. Would you accept the invitation?"
"Now?"
Royal dinners required meticulous coordination; such a direct overture was unexpected.
But when the King of France himself invites you to eat, no one in this era says no.
"Sure. Let's hear what he has to say."
"I'll stand by, then."
Louis XV, Louis XV...
Thinking of his past-life in-law stirred complicated feelings in Franz.
In his previous life, that'd be the in-law, but this time, no way was he sending a daughter to that royal house.
Hand over a precious daughter, only for the guillotine?
That alone soured any goodwill toward the French royals.
A father reading records of his beloved daughter—who wished only happiness—beheaded? Unimaginable unless experienced.
Louis XV wasn't even born then, so not his fault, but the systemic rot of the French court was undeniable.
Whew, deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Composing himself before the ornate door, a valet knocked and announced gravely.
"Your Majesty, the Prince François Étienne de Lorraine has arrived."
"Let him enter."
"Yes."
The door opened. The man rising from a plush chair extended a hand first.
"I've long wanted to meet you. Glad we finally have."
"The honor is mine, Your Majesty."
"I know protocol frowns on such familiarity, but I wanted to see you so badly I arranged this. Sit, let's talk."
A one-on-one with a king riding high on his regency's peak confidence.
No wonder the talks felt too easy...
Charles VI was father-in-law, no pressure, but this unpredictable intent brought subtle pressure.
"I've always thought to heed my experienced ministers' counsel. But thanks to you, I realized it might not always be the full truth. Reports keep clashing with reality, breeding doubt."
Louis XV's pointed gaze sent a chill down Franz's spine.
Did I slip up somewhere in handling things...?
Not green enough to show it, he deflected casually.
"Ah... I see. France's intelligence is world-class; must've been some confusion."
Intending to smooth it over, Louis XV blinked with an even subtler expression.
"Hahaha! Sharp words there. Didn't peg you for a satirist, but you wield it well?"
Praise twisted into offense—utterly baffling.
But Louis XV was equally baffled.
He knows our plants were played, yet says that? No—hinting he knows, roundabout?
To France, convinced of Cabinet Noir's supremacy, the prior fiasco was humiliating.
Polignac vowed to rebuild Vienna's network from scratch—unknown to Franz, naturally.
Ah, he thinks I'm slyly mocking their intel failures.
Sensing Louis XV properly stung, Franz quickly shook his head.
"No, no. Networks falter briefly, but damage is forever, no?"
"I half-doubted Polignac's report, but you're open indeed. Didn't expect such candor... Well, we both know the score, so let's speak plainly."
Still clueless what "candor," Franz nodded along.
Louis XV continued, genuinely amused.
"As you implied, we purged the useless spies snared by Austria's counterintelligence. Without the platinum affair, we might've missed it—so perhaps I owe you?"
"Ha... No need for that."
Now Franz grasped why the conversation had veered off.
What the...? Caught by counterintelligence? Purge what?
France's spies going quiet—had they reorganized on their own?
The council had fretted over their eerie stealth lately.
They'd actually vanished... shocking.
Regardless, his tongue bluffed ahead.
"T-Truly, I tipped the count off subtly. Couldn't be overt or I'd draw suspicion—told him to act fast."
"Ah... So he caught your signal right."
"Proves my friendship to France anew—I'm pleased. Hahaha!"
-Just as Polignac said. Sly fox with a black heart. Could wield Austria through him? Dig a bit more.
-They wrecked their own intel op? Jackpot. Report ASAP.
Louis XV elegantly lifted a Qing porcelain teacup, nodding.
"I hear you crave the Holy Roman throne above all. And I am King of France."
"Yes, foremost Catholic monarch."
"I hold no love for Habsburgs either. But you bear French royal blood, so not strangers to me."
By that logic, Habsburgs were kin too, but Franz stayed silent.
"Just curiosity today, but unexpectedly, a valuable bond forms. I'm pleased."
He nearly nodded reflexively, then caught Louis XV's cool gaze and stiffened.
Sweet words, but probing reactions as ever.
"Meeting Your Majesty like this feels like divine fate."
French royals unchanged, past or present.
That's why the guillotine claims you.
The lax talks needed a tension spike anyway.
Franz decided to duel masks.
He had plenty of cards.