The War of Pretexts
"So, how much money do we have left?"
Vittorio Emanuele II said in a trembling voice.
"We've been virtually bankrupt for the past three months already. Even the Rothschilds in London announced this morning that they can't extend any more loans."
Cavour knew the situation was dire too.
"Goddamn Jews."
Vittorio spat out the curse roughly.
"What about France? What did that little Napoleon say?"
"He's parroting the clauses of the Plombières Agreement like a parrot. France will only intervene if Austria attacks first."
Bam!
Vittorio slammed his fist on the desk.
"All the blood we shed in Crimea was for nothing! Austria's still buddy-buddy with Russia, and the British are talking about European peace while basically siding with Austria. What are we? Just supposed to keep playing the clown buried in debt?"
Cavour let out a deep sigh.
The original plan had been perfect.
Borrow the power of Britain and France to unify Italy.
Austria, unable to withstand pressure from the two Western powers, would betray Russia in the end.
But for some unknowable reason, Austria had sided with Russia, and the great powers—no longer wanting major losses—had signed new treaties with each other and ended the war.
"Prime Minister, be honest with me. If we disband the army now and pretend nothing happened... what happens to this country?"
Cavour made a cold judgment.
"Bankruptcy would be declared immediately. Our bonds would become worthless scraps of paper, and the unpaid army would turn into a mob of rioters."
And there was an even bigger problem.
"Mazzini and his followers will rise up again, claiming the royal family has no interest in Italian unification."
Vittorio sank deep into his chair.
"Hoo, damn it all. We have to take Milan somehow. Hell, Venice too..."
"Veneto is impossible without foreign help. It was already divided into three factions, and then the Austrian Empress stirred things up."
"Right, damn it. If it weren't for that woman."
Vittorio's eyes sharpened.
Cavour felt a bitter taste on his tongue.
"Reports say the Venetian citizens are completely swept up in their 'Queen of Venice' fantasy. The Empress restored their pride, after all."
"They fell for something as trivial as a festival?"
"Crowds are simple. Bread, circuses, and a dash of respect. Besides, the republicans are treating our House of Savoy like just another occupying force. If we march in now, we won't get a liberator's welcome—we'll be branded invaders. We have to shelve Veneto for the time being."
"All that's left is Milan, then."
Vittorio ground his teeth, glaring toward the Ticino River on the Lombardian border.
"But France won't move unless we're attacked first. Austria's no fool—they won't strike at us sitting idly by, right?"
Cavour's glasses glinted in the light.
"The Austrian Emperor is young and has a strong sense of pride."
"So?"
"We need to prick that pride."
"You have a way?"
"Leave it to me."
The world's newspapers were all fixated on Milan.
"Clear them away."
The maids swiftly removed the papers. In their place lay another letter.
NeNe really is super grateful, huh.
'To you, it was probably just a fun adventure. Franz and I didn't have some fated love, but I could become a fine empress. That fact crushes me.'
That's what NeNe had said when we met while she was pregnant with her first child.
Honestly, I wasn't in my right mind back then either...
The reason I'd gone to Bavaria myself—and why Joseph had sent me to reconcile with his sister NeNe—was part of it.
Now I had to give Joseph a gift in return.
"Not sure if it'll help."
Before me lay a thick letter of credit stamped with the crest of the Thurn und Taxis family.
Not exactly handed to me by NeNe—it was practically a massive dowry sent to the imperial family.
Maybe that's one reason the Archduchess favors Charlotte over me? With eight siblings, she couldn't use it just for me.
"The recent railway construction and Ringstrasse projects have left finances in dire straits. His Majesty will surely appreciate Your Majesty's heartfelt concern for the empire."
Esterházy... my worry was a bit different.
"They might get cocky with all that extra cash and launch an attack."
If it were France or Prussia, I'd confidently say go ahead and attack...
"Right. I need to write a letter."
"I'll write to His Majesty the Emperor."
Hmm, how to start?
I couldn't do cutesy nicknames like Joseph did—they were too cringey.
At first, I thought someone ghostwrote his letters.
"To my Joseph."
Not writing "To His Majesty the Emperor"—that was progress.
That was my self-justification.
"From Bavaria, I send a small gift for you. It's from Duchess Helene, who insisted it be used for our empire's future. I hope this letter of credit lightens the heavy burden on your shoulders, even just a little. Yosha, I have one request. I don't want to see this money vanish in gunsmoke. I know about the noisy rumblings from the south. But Joseph—barking dogs don't bite. Even if they scratch at your noble pride, it's just proof they're backed into a corner. Eagles simply soar in the sky, biding their time patiently. Your patience will be our victory. Please don't waste your dignity on their petty provocations. Your Sisi."
Not bad.
I might actually have a talent for writing.
Ida showed me the letter she'd drafted.
"Your Majesty?"
"...You wrote it well."
"I merely recorded Your Majesty's words."
"Eagles simply gaze down nobly from the heavens, conserving their talons for the most certain moment."
I didn't remember saying that.
Guess I have no talent for writing after all...
"Ida, how old are you this year?"
"Nineteen."
Of course... she'd been with me since she was fifteen.
To enter the empress's service at that age, she must have had some talent.
They say a dog in a school for three years recites poetry; a maid in the empress's palace for four years writes better than the empress herself.
Hmm... France will probably join the war anyway.
Napoleon had that showy personality I'd seen in Paris.
How could I phrase it so Joseph wouldn't feel his pride wounded while alerting him to France's intervention?
"Chief maid. Does the Archduchess avoid discussing military matters with His Majesty as well?"
"Her Highness the Archduchess, as the greatest elder of the House of Habsburg, worries only for the empire's well-being. Unfurling maps and moving troops is the sacred domain of men who wield swords."
As expected.
"So she never says a word about the war itself?"
"Not the war per se, but about His Majesty's honor and the will of God. She offers prudent counsel and ceaseless prayers that he choose the right path. Your Majesty is the mother of this vast empire, not a schemer."
Hmm, what to do.
Joseph was prideful.
If I said, "France will definitely join, so don't!" he'd subtly try to prove me wrong.
He'd gotten better lately, but during our honeymoon, he had a bit of an inferiority complex about his mother.
"Ida, I want to share my assessment of Napoleon from the Paris conference with His Majesty."
Confirming she'd prepared fresh stationery, I dredged up my memories.
Napoleon III—he was like a performer, really.
I recalled him from Paris.
The way he fiddled with his mustache, his exaggerated gestures, knowing how to whip up crowds with a photographer in tow.
"A man desperate to resemble his great uncle, Napoleon I."
That's why war was essential for him.
The Crimean War had been like that, and this Italian war would be his spotlight too.
"What he wants isn't war. He wants to be the hero stepping into a scene where a great empire bullies a small state."
Now, rephrase this into words Joseph would like.
"Ida, write this down."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"That man wears an emperor's crown, but at heart, he's a gambler."
Reminded me of that Austrian who flunked out of the Vienna art academy. He had a mustache too.
"He's betting now, waiting for you to lose your composure. What he fears is silence. As Your Majesty knows, he's an emperor propped up by popular support."
I spilled out the thoughts bubbling in my mind.
"The moment we cross the border first, we'll become the villain stepping onto his scripted stage. But a stage without a villain bores the audience, and a lone actor left on stage becomes a laughingstock."
Ida paused her pen briefly, lost in thought, then resumed writing.
She showed me the finished letter.
"The master of Paris inherited a great name but ceaselessly craves others' applause to bear its weight... Please, do not become a mere supporting role in that clown's vulgar play."
A refined way of saying we must get hit first if we don't want France intervening.
Now with money secured and advice sent, no rush, right?
"Send it as is."
Esterházy took the letter, melted the sealing wax, stamped it with the empress's seal, and dispatched it to Joseph.
I'd done everything I could. Between me and the Archduchess's bureaucrats, whose advice would Joseph prefer?