Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Playing with Fire
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France's major daily newspaper, Le Petit Parisien, had a correspondent in Berlin named Pierre le Martin, and he was feeling down in the dumps.
He'd been picked as the Germany correspondent because he could speak German, but Pierre just couldn't adjust to this gloomy country that seemed to rival England in the gray skies.
He missed the warm climate and wine of his hometown Bordeaux.
But the only way back to France was to rack up some achievements and get promoted.
And for a journalist, that meant covering a world-shaking scoop.
But there weren't any major incidents in Germany right now.
It was boringly peaceful—hardly the word you'd associate with these war-loving Germans.
For a reporter always thirsting for a big story, it was the worst possible time.
Until that incident blew up.
[Attempted Kaiser Assassination in Bremen! Was the Culprit Another Anarchist?]
The anarchists, journalists' best friends, had struck again.
As a Frenchman, Pierre was a bit disappointed that Wilhelm II had emerged unscathed, but that wasn't the point.
The man who saved the Kaiser from assassination turned out to be a yellow-skinned boy named 'Hans Choi' of all people.
How could he miss a scoop like this?
Pierre stomped the ground in regret that day, realizing he was stuck in Berlin instead of Bremen.
But that wasn't the end of it.
For some reason, Wilhelm II had brought this 'Hans' boy into the palace, and the press's attention was laser-focused on Hans Choi.
But not just Pierre—no journalist could get near Hans Choi.
Because Hans was none other than at the New Palace in Potsdam.
The imperial residence where Kaiser Wilhelm II and his family lived.
No matter how bold a reporter, no sane person would try to cover the notoriously conservative German imperial family—especially in Europe.
Not unless they wanted to vanish without a trace, courtesy of those infamous Prussian secret police.
But today, Pierre witnessed what felt like a miracle, as if the goddess of fortune had descended upon him.
He'd gone to a soccer match to blow off steam since there were no good stories, and there—purely by chance—he spotted Hans Choi sitting next to the Crown Prince in the VIP box, watching the game.
Who else could it be but Hans Choi, the yellow-skinned boy right beside the Crown Prince himself?
It was 100% him, no doubt.
The Crown Prince Wilhelm coming to a soccer match wasn't a scoop—everyone knew he was a passionate soccer fan in France too—but Hans Choi changed everything.
The boy who saved the Kaiser, shrouded in mystery until now.
This was the real deal.
Click!
Pierre, in the stands, whipped out the camera he always carried like a pro and snapped a photo of Hans Choi watching the soccer match with the Crown Prince from the opposite VIP box.
'Not enough...'
Pierre got greedy.
He wanted an interview—even just a few words from Hans Choi.
But with his status, getting into the VIP box was impossible, no matter how he sliced it.
As he racked his brain for a way in, he spotted Hans Choi leaving the box and heading somewhere.
'Chance!'
Pierre grabbed his gear and hurried after Hans Choi.
Soon enough, he saw Hans enter the bathroom.
Pierre tucked his camera into his pocket, pretended to be a regular guy, and followed him in.
But Pierre had no idea.
That he'd run smack into Hans, who was just coming out.
Thud!
"Huh?"
The moment Pierre saw Hans Choi, his reporter instincts kicked in—he snapped the shutter without thinking.
He realized his mistake only after Hans yelped from the camera flash.
"Ah, aaah! S-s-sorry..."
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!"
"Pardon? No, I... Aaaack!"
Pierre tried to apologize in a hurry, but a Prussian secret policeman waiting outside tackled him to the ground with a devilish glare, faster than he could blink.
"What kind of creep just snaps someone's photo out of nowhere?"
"Th-that's..."
A moment later.
Hans Choi, having come to his senses, looked down at the terrified Pierre with a chilling expression no child should have.
As Pierre hesitated to answer, Hans pointed at the man holding him down.
"You'd better answer straight. The guy grabbing you is Prussian secret police."
"S-s-secret police?!"
He was done for.
Realizing his life was truly over, Pierre spilled everything about himself, trembling.
He didn't want to be dragged to some dark corner and tortured.
But Pierre didn't notice.
The strange smile creeping across Hans's face as he heard Pierre's identity.
'How can I use this guy?'
I pondered that as I looked down at this 'French reporter' blubbering tears and snot beneath me.
What kind of country is France?
After their humiliating defeat in the Franco-Prussian War, they've been sharpening their blades for revenge—Germany's number one enemy, no doubt about it.
And unlike the six-week disaster of the second go-round, in World War I, they played the Entente's MVP, blocking the German Empire's ambitions.
For me, trying to keep the German Empire alive, they're the enemy that must fall.
But if I play this hack right, I could stir up chaos in France.
France's current leader is Émile François Loubet, the seventh president of the French Third Republic.
He's the one who pushed aggressive church-state separation, establishing France's unique secularism, laïcité.
But his real big achievement, in my book, is the 1904 Entente Cordiale with Britain.
That deal turned Britain against us too—after France and Russia—leaving us diplomatically isolated, except for the crumbling Austro-Hungarian Empire we couldn't ditch.
But if I can sow chaos in French politics, I might delay that timeline.
And if it fails? No skin off my back.
I lose nothing either way.
"A reporter, huh? Which paper?"
"P-Parisien. Le Petit Parisien from France!"
Perfect.
Le Petit Parisien was one of France's big four dailies before World War I.
Plus, politically centrist—ideal for spreading my words in France.
"Let him go."
"Hm? But..."
"It's fine. He's no threat. Come on."
The secret policeman hesitated at my words but released the reporter.
The reporter scrambled away from the policeman, sighing in relief.
"Can I go now?"
"No. Since we've met like this, how about a quick interview?"
"Pardon? R-really?!"
The reporter lit up, unable to hide his excitement.
20th or 21st century, reporters are all the same.
The secret policeman eyed me suspiciously, like he was wondering what I was up to.
"...His Highness the Crown Prince is waiting."
"It's okay. Won't take long."
I flashed a reassuring smile.
The Crown Prince won't mind a little fun.
We left the cramped bathroom and headed to a quiet spot nearby.
Time for agitation and fabrication.
"Let's wrap this up quick—I wanna get back before the second half starts."
"Y-yes. Of course."
The reporter nodded, pulling out his notepad.
"Monsieur Choi, it's said you saved the Emperor's life by taking the assassin's bullet yourself. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Could you tell us why you did it?"
More normal than I expected.
But honestly, I don't know.
By the time I came to, it was all over. How should I know?
"Does saving a person's life need a reason?"
"Ah? Ha, hahaha. True, true. Oh, and your age...?"
"Born in 1892."
March 1901—nine years old.
I don't know my exact age, but since Viktoria Luise was born that year, and she's the closest match, I'm probably around there.
"Nine... Same as my nephew. Incredible. And after that, the Emperor brought you into the palace. How does it feel?"
"It's an honor beyond my station."
"Haha... I see. But as an Oriental, you must face troubles here, especially in the 'German Empire.'"
After all the boring setup, the real hook.
Flatter me a bit, get me to complain, then splash 'Exposing the Ugly Face of the German Court!' across France.
Not gonna happen.
I'm not that easy.
"It's fine. His Majesty the Emperor, Her Majesty the Empress, and the imperial family have always been kind to me. But senseless malice from people always exists. Like what happened to Captain Dreyfus."
"Pfft?!"
The moment 'Dreyfus' left my lips, shock bloomed on the reporter's face.
No Frenchman could be ignorant of that name.
The Dreyfus Affair.
The French government and military framed an ordinary officer, Captain Dreyfus, as a German spy just for being Jewish, sentenced him to life imprisonment, and ruined an innocent man's life—a symbol of anti-Semitism.
It plunged the French Third Republic into chaos from the late 19th to early 20th century, their great black mark.
"Th-the Dreyfus Affair is over, as far as I know."
"Yes. The current government granted him a special pardon two years ago to close the book. Pretty hypocritical, right? He's clearly innocent—should be a retrial, not some half-assed pardon. It's like covering your eyes and shouting 'I can't see you.'"
"Ha, haha. We have folks in France saying the same.
I wouldn't know if he's really innocent."
"Oh, Dreyfus is innocent. I heard it from a German officer involved."
"What? W-wait. A German officer tied to the Dreyfus Affair—don't tell me Schwart...?"
Shh.
I put a finger to my lips, as if to say keep quiet.
I know who he means.
Maximilian von Schwartzkoppen.
The German military attaché at the Paris embassy during the affair. French counterintelligence thought Dreyfus passed secrets to him, sparking the arrest—that's how it started.
The real spy was counterintelligence officer Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy!
And even after it came out, the French military never arrested Esterhazy.
'Schwartzkoppen returned to Germany and now serves with the guards in Potsdam.'
Conveniently.
Of course, I've never met him or even seen his face.
But it's enough bait to make this reporter believe I might've heard the truth from him.
"He doesn't want his identity exposed. You get that, as a reporter, right?"
"Y-yes! Of course."
"I heard it by chance in the palace, but he said, 'Dreyfus is innocent. I don't even know him.'"
"N-no way...!"
Actually, words attributed to Schwartzkoppen before his death in 1917.
"So the real culprit was Esterhazy?"
"Who knows. Maybe he was just a double agent, like he claimed."
"That's even worse! No secrets leaked, so the military framed Dreyfus on purpose!"
That's for you to figure out.
The truth doesn't matter.
What matters is the impact on the French public.
"Maybe the pardon was to cover it all up...!"
"Could be. Anyway, I gotta go."
"What?!"
"Crown Prince is waiting."
The reporter tried to grab me for more, but the secret policeman held him back.
He stood dazed for a second, then bolted off somewhere.
Smirk—
Plan going smooth.