95. This Is a Trial
Austria, egged on relentlessly by the Papal States, had no choice but to launch a Crusade. The nations bound by the Tripartite Alliance could only marvel at France's grand design.
"France has played its hand masterfully."
Frederick II of Prussia gave high marks to France's aid to the Papal States.
"Europe's common currency is now fully unified under the franc. They're dead set on free trade, it seems."
Thanks to the three billion francs France had provided, the Italian Peninsula and Austria were experiencing an economic boom. But Frederick II focused not just on the revival itself, but on the fact that it stemmed from the franc. Moreover, the aid had passed through the Papal States, giving it impeccable legitimacy.
"So, France orchestrated the last economic panic...?"
Some officials spun conspiracy theories about the liquidity injection, but they were quickly shot down.
"Wasn't that scam just exploiting unlimited liability on bonds? It was bigger than before, sure, but investigations showed it was a dime a dozen. The South Sea Bubble in Britain in 1720, the Mississippi Bubble in France in 1712. Anyway, thinking about it gives me a headache—drop it."
Dismissing the theories, Frederick II colored in a portion of Prussia's guaranteed territories on the map.
"Poland's joining the Crusade?"
"We've confirmed mobilization at the provincial noble level. Not sure how many, but around fifty thousand at least."
"That's a lot."
Frederick II colored in all of Prussia's share.
"Send a secret missive to the Russian ambassador."
He proposed to Russia a Second Partition of Poland—ceding to them as much territory as Britain had guaranteed itself in the alliance—following the 1771 partition. Of course, this move was swiftly detected by Britain's nascent intelligence agency, the Secret Service Bureau—SSB.
The ministers connected to Lord North accepted Prussia's brazen betrayal with equanimity.
"They've handed us one justification, at least."
Contrary to expectations—or perhaps exactly as expected—Britain easily relinquished East Poland-Lithuania. For Britain, the top priority was always the Indian subcontinent. Continental expansion was an outdated ambition from centuries past. With the time and money to swallow a scrap of European land, they could devour a chunk of India. East Poland held no cost-effective appeal.
"So, what should we demand from Prussia to benefit Britain?"
Lord North consulted colonial secretaries, naval officials, and others involved in the affair.
"How about lodging a protest for now and tabling it as debt?"
"Sound idea. But in ten years, Prussia will brush it off as ancient history."
After a brief hours-long meeting, they reached a conclusion.
"Let's formalize a moderate non-interference declaration for the colonies. France seems to want that too."
The fire we'd lit under Austria was burning bright. Europe could be left alone for now.
"Your Majesty, this is Mont Blanc's internal analysis. The European balance is fully stabilized—no issues for the next century."
"Is that so."
Not at all. On the surface, with territories neatly divided, it looked stable. But it was hegemony enforced by France's overwhelming power—hardly true stability. An extremely precarious balance.
Britain, guaranteed the Indian subcontinent, would rake in fortunes from plantations, raw materials, and light industry. Unlike the original history's scattered colonies, it would become the Empire of the Sun and Moon, spanning the homeland and India.
But France gripped the path to those British colonies tight—from the Cape of Good Hope in southern Africa to the future Suez. France could levy tolls on British merchant and warships under the guise of resupply. And if we dug the Panama Canal ourselves someday, no European power could leave the continent without paying France.
Thus, the 19th-century order would be a bipolar system: colonial superpower Britain and gateway keeper France. Prussia alone would be left floating awkwardly. That's why I gave it vast lands. Blocked from sea routes by Scandinavia, Denmark, and Britain, Prussia was destined to become a land power giant.
And if the 19th century stretched into the 20th? If Prussia unified the German regions and renamed itself Deutschland? If domestic development exhausted all jobs for the young?
Then Germany would grow restless. Youth brim with passion and drive, burdened with a mission to leave their mark on the world. They dream of boasting to their great-grandchildren on their 70th birthday about what they built in their youth.
But when that chance vanishes—when nothing remains, when they believe their parents' generation stole it all, when better tomorrows seem impossible and only worse ones certain—then war would come.
This is a trial. A trial I'm imposing on my descendants. A silent pressure not to rest on tolls, to eye Britain and dig the Suez to squeeze them now. After my death, to dig Panama and rival them. Instead of bequeathing the Arabian Peninsula as inheritance—oil is fish for today, petrochemicals untapped potential even if less than Britain's—teach them to fish themselves for a better life. No, they'll have no choice but to live better. Youth carry that mission to leave a legacy; to earn approval from their empire-building grandfather and internal-combustion-inventing father, they'll invent petrochemicals.
Overcoming this trial, France would luxuriate in arts and leisure. But a single trial is too easily slacked off. So I've prepared another: Prussia, become Germany. A land army colossus dwarfing France—the final trial for my nation, my bloodline. To the struggling Germans: survive, don't die, pursue a better life.
I know the future, so I cross swaying bridges without doubt. But my descendants don't. Without knowing the path, they'll wander far more than I. And in that wandering, they might advance one step beyond the pathfinder.
"We'll take our eyes off Europe for a bit. Time to manage the ceded Nueva España."
France in June 1782. The wounds of the Hundred Days' War and the Paris Insurrection were slowly healing. Rather, pent-up consumption suppressed since the Thermidor Reaction during the war now erupted in a thirst for splendor and beauty.
One beneficiary was Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart. The 26-year-old young court kapellmeister loved Versailles' relatively flat bureaucracy—save for the king. If he wanted a private concert, royal servants handled preparations; report to Louis XVI, pay a cut of profits as tax, and secure any venue at any time. France was a composer's paradise.
Clap clap clap!
Mozart savored each sold-out concert. The thrill of people in world-center France flocking faster, in greater numbers, to buy tickets for him. And their willing investment of time and money filled him with satisfaction.
After each show, Mozart mingled with the elite audience.
"Haha, you're too kind. I'm merely a composer graced by His Majesty's favor."
Most were rote flattery, but Mozart sensed something in the empty praise. He composed from that something, performed it, and felt it anew in the applause—a virtuous cycle.
"Haha. Cough! Cough! Pardon me."
"Are you all right?"
Lately, though, a fly in the ointment marred his satisfaction.
"Summer's almost here, yet everyone's coughing. Well, mornings have been chilly lately."
It was June, the season of spring-to-summer, so he favored green for life's imagery in backdrops. But in halls with that green wallpaper, audiences coughed incessantly.
"Must be that. Anyway, I do love the concert hall's backdrop."
Of course, their status prevented overt complaints.
But a problem was a problem.
"Isn't it? Designed by a young man named David—promising talent."
Mozart resolved never to use green wallpaper again. Distraction from his music was intolerable.
That was why Mozart came to hate green.