While Arthur Lionheart traversed the Atlantic and played his subtle, double-edged game between North and South America, another drama unfolded across the Channel.
In Paris, within the gilded halls of the Tuileries Palace, King Louis-Philippe clutched a freshly arrived copy of The Times. His artificial teeth almost cracked beneath the fury of his jaw.
The front page, with its bold, triumphant type, reproduced Queen Victoria's "holy" address on the abolition of slavery.
"Hypocrites!" he burst out, hurling the newspaper to the floor. "Brazen, sanctimonious hypocrites!"
He thundered at his Foreign Minister.
"For centuries those Englishmen grew rich—obscenely rich—trafficking in the very slaves they now condemn! And now, simply because their Industrial Revolution no longer requires such labour, they emerge wearing the robes of moral saints?"
"And they dare to call the American South 'a disgrace to civilization'? Absurd! Ridiculous! I wager that behind closed doors they still bargain for cotton with those same slaveholders!"
The Foreign Minister stood motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. The King had been in a foul temper for weeks.
Ever since word spread across Europe that Arthur Lionheart, in the Far East, had used that terrifying ironclad—the Queen of Vengeance—to annihilate the Tenshukaku of Edo Castle with a single bombardment, forcing the Japanese Shogunate to capitulate instantly…
Every monarch in Europe had fallen into a shared terror of insufficient firepower.
And none more than France.
For a nation long proud of its armies and its wooden fleets—symbols of command over the continent—it was a humiliating revelation. Their proud navy now appeared little more than floating kindling when compared to Britain's steel monstrosities.
Worse still was the news from Prussia.
France learned—first with disbelief, then indignation—that the Prussian king had dispatched an enormous "study mission" to London to "learn from experience." And the leader of this mission was none other than the Prussian Crown Prince himself.
What was this treachery?
France was still contesting Britain for European leadership, yet Prussia—her would-be junior partner—had leapt ahead to court the British?
It was intolerable.
The French, forever conscious of their prestige, felt a sudden and overwhelming panic. Isolation loomed over them like a cold fog.
"No," Louis-Philippe muttered as he paced before the throne, his features drawn with frustration. "This cannot continue. We cannot allow Britain to seize every advantage. And we will certainly not permit Prussia to outpace us in courting them."
He halted abruptly and fixed his Foreign Minister with a sharp look.
"Adolphe!"
Prime Minister Adolphe Thiers bowed. "Your Majesty?"
"I command you—immediately—assemble a delegation of the highest French calibre! You shall lead it yourself to London."
"You have one task!" The King's eyes shone with anxious determination. "At any cost, you must secure a 'global technological partnership' between France and Britain."
"Whether it concerns those damnable ironclads, or that infernal device for communicating across distances—the telegraph—or even their methods of training troops… we want everything they possess!"
"Lower yourself if you must," he hissed. "Lower than dignity allows. Bring our finest palace chefs, our most celebrated dancers, the most fashionable couturiers of Paris. Tell that young Prince Arthur Lionheart—so fond of attention—that if he cooperates, the full splendour of French art, cuisine, and fashion shall forever welcome him."
"In short, we must once again become Britain's closest and most indispensable ally upon the European continent."
And so, propelled by pride wounded into "sour grapes" and by an ever-growing fear of being abandoned by The Times, Prime Minister Thiers assembled a lavish delegation—a veritable procession of French cultural stars—and departed for London.
The Courtship of Arthur
When Arthur Lionheart received the French delegation at Buckingham Palace, he nearly laughed aloud.
Standing before him was the compact, sharp-eyed figure of Thiers—a man destined in history to switch loyalties repeatedly before being crushed by Bismarck. Arthur could not help but feel a curious amusement.
And Thiers, obeying the King's command to "bow to the dust," performed his role with painful enthusiasm.
He showered Arthur and Queen Victoria with extravagant praise.
First, he extolled the Queen's "peerless moral leadership" on the abolition of slavery, hailing her as "the moral exemplar of Europe's sovereigns."
Then he turned his theatrical reverence toward Arthur.
"Oh, my dear Prince," he exclaimed in a tone fit for opera, "your victory in the East is more brilliant than Napoleon at Austerlitz! Your wisdom surpasses that of Cardinal Richelieu! Your poetry is more romantic than Monsieur Hugo himself!"
"France is honoured—deeply honoured—to share an age with you and Her Majesty."
Even Arthur, seasoned as he was, felt warmth creep into his cheeks. My friend, he thought, if Napoleon or Richelieu heard you, they might rise from their graves to strike you down.
At last, after half an hour of florid flattery, Thiers unveiled his true purpose.
"Your Highness, Your Majesty," he said with solemn earnestness, "France has ever regarded the British Empire as her most respected and trusted partner upon the continent. To preserve peace and balance in Europe, and to prevent—well, the militaristic ambitions of certain nations"—he meant Prussia—"we seek the broadest and deepest strategic cooperation with your esteemed empire, in matters industrial, military, and beyond."
"We understand," he added, "that knowledge and technology are priceless. France is prepared to pay any… reasonable sum Britain deems appropriate."
Arthur listened, delight blooming within him.
His display in Japan—the thunderous destruction of Edo castle—and his warm reception of the Prussian delegation had worked exactly as intended.
He called it the catfish effect.
Once Prussia began eagerly learning from Britain, France panicked—terrified of being left behind—and came to him on its own knees.
Now Arthur alone held the initiative. He could sell technology at different prices to different nations. He could give France a reduced, "blunted" version of the ironclad, while offering Prussia a more advanced breech-loading cannon—creating a delicate balance of terror from which Britain, always one generation ahead, could act as the "impartial," yet utterly dominant, arbiter of Europe.
This was the highest refinement of continental equilibrium.
"Prime Minister," Arthur said gently, "your sincerity touches me deeply. Cooperation is, of course, possible."
"However…" His smile sharpened just slightly. "As for the matter of 'price'… perhaps there are more imaginative forms of payment—arrangements mutually advantageous to both our nations."
"For example—issues concerning the Mediterranean… or, shall we say… Egypt?"