Three o'clock in the afternoon, the top-floor office of the Empire State Building.
William Coleman pushed the door open and walked in.
The president of Lex Steel still maintained his engineer's demeanor.
"Boss, you wanted to see me?"
Coleman walked to the desk, pulled out a chair, sat down, and pushed the report toward Felix.
"This is the production summary for Lex Steel for this quarter. The four large Bessemer converters under our name are currently operating at a ninety-two percent utilization rate. All rail orders for the Pennsylvania Railroad have been delivered on schedule. The first batch of special structural steel required for the Argyle's Building has also rolled off the line."
Coleman's report was clear and organized, speaking entirely in numbers.
Felix didn't look at the reports.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together.
"I am not worried about production or technology; Lex has the best blast furnaces and the purest ore in all of America. William, you have done a very good job in that regard."
"But I didn't call you here today to hear about production figures."
Coleman was a bit confused about what his boss meant.
"Boss. If it's not a production issue, is there a problem with logistics scheduling? When Carnegie hit us with a price war before, we relied on the railroad and the Metropolitan Trading Company's inland river transport network to successfully lower the logistics cost per ton of steel. That was the core of our counterattack."
"William, that is exactly why I called you here."
Felix stood up and walked to the front of the desk, looking at Coleman.
"You are a top-tier metallurgical engineer."
Felix's tone suddenly turned stern.
"But you are now the president of Lex Steel, holding the heaviest sword of the entire Argyle Family. You cannot always be thinking about how to build fortresses and how to defend against the opponent's attacks!"
Coleman looked at Felix, somewhat at a loss.
"But Boss. Didn't we win that time with Carnegie?"
"We won because I cut off Carnegie's capital chain and logistics directly. It wasn't because your defense was so outstanding!"
Felix criticized him bluntly.
"William, the marketplace is not a laboratory. In a laboratory, you can win as long as your data is better than others. But in the marketplace, others will use every dirty trick in the book to smash your blast furnaces. Now, Cavendish has already merged several independent steel mills in Ohio and Illinois into the Federal Steel Company. Old Morgan's funds will be in place at any moment."
"If they announce tomorrow that all their rails will be sold at prices lower than cost, just like Carnegie did before, what do you plan to do? Continue sitting in Pittsburgh, relying on railroads and river transport, calculating logistics costs?"
Listening to Felix's words, a thin layer of sweat broke out on Coleman's forehead.
He was used to playing by the rules and indeed lacked aggression when facing this kind of unreasonable capital strangulation.
"I... I would apply for subsidies from you and fight a price war with them," Coleman offered the most conventional response.
"I already opposed this method when dealing with Carnegie before."
Felix's expression wasn't very good.
"Using Lex's main brand to fight a price war with a bunch of garbage factories? That would only lower the profit margins of our entire operation and damage Lex's brand image in the high-end structural steel market."
"Forget it, let me teach you what it means to attack."
Felix took a map out of his drawer and threw it directly in front of Coleman.
On the map, several branch factories under the Federal Steel Company were circled in red.
"This time, don't wait for them to attack; you must take the initiative."
As he spoke, Felix's finger tapped heavily on the map.
"Within a fifty-mile radius around these factories, there are bound to be some small, half-dead iron smelting workshops."
"Immediately send people to buy these workshops with cash. Do not use the Lex Steel brand. Register a few separate brand subsidiaries. For example, use shell names like 'Ohio Valley United Ironworks' or something similar."
Coleman looked at the map, his mind struggling to keep up.
"Boss. Why buy these workshops? Their equipment can't produce qualified steel at all."
"I don't need them to produce good steel; I only need them to act as mad dogs."
A look of capitalistic ruthlessness shone in Felix's eyes.
"You should have heard Jones and the others mention that when I first started, my industry was just the Food Company's canned goods. At that time, a shoddy imitator appeared and sold at a low price, so I turned around and established another brand to fight a price war with it. Relying on the strength of the supply chain, I crushed it."
"It's the same now. Doesn't the Federal Steel Company want to fight a price war? Then you use these newly registered sub-brands to produce the most inferior wrought iron rails and iron ingots. Sell them directly into their core markets at prices thirty percent lower than Federal Steel."
"You can use poor iron ore and Lex's scrap steel to re-refine them, relying on our own supply chain to crush them!"
"Smash the local floor price completely; make sure the Federal Steel Company's salesmen can't find many buyers in the market."
Coleman's eyes widened.
"But Boss, those subsidiaries will suffer extremely heavy losses."
"Idiot! That little loss is a mere drop in the bucket compared to the high profits of Lex's main body. This is called a firewall—using cannon fodder to deal with cannon fodder."
Felix glared at him and continued to throw out other ideas.
"It's not just about price; you can also dismantle them from the inside."
"The Federal Steel Company has just been reorganized; they must be in urgent need of skilled steelworkers and blast furnace foremen, and they will be expanding recruitment. Go check how much they are paying their workers."
Felix stared at Coleman.
"When their factory training is done and they are about to start operations, you send people to poach them directly. If they offer two dollars a day, you send people with cash to the gates of their factories. Tell those skilled workers that these subsidiaries will pay three point five dollars a day."
"Use slightly higher wages to poach all their skilled workers; this way, they will certainly find it difficult to find suitable workers in the short term. This will also give the subsidiaries the upper hand."
Coleman was stunned by his boss's business tactics.
Although he was an upright engineer, he wasn't stupid.
He could see how lethal this combination of moves was.
"Dumping inferior steel to crash the market, poaching with high wages to cut the ground from under them," Coleman muttered to himself.
"Actually, it's not just this," Felix leaned back in his chair.
"You can also buy out the transport railcars from the coal mines around them so they can't ship their coal. Buy out the capacity of their limestone suppliers so they don't have flux."
"These are all things that have been used before, but I have to say, they are very useful for a company like ours with a mature supply chain."
"As long as they are normal business tactics and don't cause too many casualties to attract the Federal Government, use whatever methods work."
Felix's gaze pierced straight into Coleman's heart.
"Remember, William. From today on, don't be an engineer who only knows how to look at thermometers. Become a wolf king leading a pack to tear at its prey, and besiege the Federal Steel Company alive within their own factory walls. Suppress their survival space; Lex has been operating in the United States for so many years, don't tell me you don't have the capability!"
Coleman took a deep breath.
He could see that his boss was somewhat dissatisfied with him.
After all, Lex Steel had been expanding slowly over the years, relying on sister companies and the favor of the government.
It seems the boss is not satisfied with the speed of Lex's expansion over these past few years.
Perhaps the boss is right; the marketplace is a battlefield.
Kindness to the enemy is cruelty to the tens of thousands of workers at Lex Steel.
Coleman stood up and straightened his back, his eyes burning with fighting spirit.
"I understand, Boss."
"I will make sure that as soon as possible, not a trace of their coal smoke can be smelled in the air around those steel mills. I will oversee the battle personally. In this war, Lex Steel will absolutely not retreat a single step."
Seeing this, Felix nodded with satisfaction.
"Go, I await your good news."
New Jersey, Lex Steel.
William Coleman pushed open his office door and strode toward the large drafting table.
His movements lacked their usual deliberation, replaced instead by a fierce, decisive energy.
Clearly, Felix's reprimand had ignited the aggression deep within Coleman.
"Jack, come here."
Coleman called out to the corner of the office without turning his head.
Jack Thornton, the Chief Special Field Supervisor of Lex Steel, heard the president call him, immediately snubbed out his cigarette, and strode to the drafting table.
"Mr. Coleman, what are your orders?"
Thornton looked at the industrial map spread out on the table, showing the border between Ohio and Pennsylvania.
"We have a new opponent."
Coleman's finger jabbed heavily at several red dots on the map.
"According to the boss's intelligence, funds have been injected into the Ohio Valley Steel Works and the Susquehanna Iron Works. They have now merged into the Federal Steel Company and are preparing to snatch our railway orders with new equipment and low prices."
Thornton was indifferent; after all, Carnegie Steel had tried this before.
But hadn't Carnegie Steel become Lex Steel's little brother now?
"Sorry, Mr. President, but to be honest, those guys on the verge of bankruptcy won't get far even with British money. Well, perhaps we could ask our brother companies to cause some trouble for their transport lines?"
"Shit, if we run into a competitor, we go asking brother companies for help? Does Lex Steel have no pride? Do I still need face? Are we incapable of dealing with a competitor on our own? It seems the boss was right; Lex Steel has become too complacent!"
Coleman raised his head, his presidential aura fully exposed.
"This time, we will lead the attack ourselves."
Coleman picked up a red and blue pencil and drew several circles around the various branches of the Federal Steel Company.
"Jack, take the people from the finance department and go to these circled areas immediately. There are many pig iron workshops there that haven't been able to secure orders."
"Buy all these workshops. Remember, do not use the name of Lex Steel. Go to Delaware and register several separate shell companies, like 'Ohio Valley United Iron Works.' As long as the name sounds plausible, that's fine."
This made Thornton frown slightly.
"Mr. Coleman, why buy those broken workshops? Their old reverberatory furnaces can't even smelt basic wrought iron evenly. That quality of scrap iron doesn't even reach one-tenth of the factory standards of Lex Steel. If we put such things on the market, it will ruin our reputation."
"Didn't I just say, there's no need to hang the Lex Steel sign."
Coleman threw the pencil onto the desktop, annoyed.
"The only task for these factories is to produce low-quality steel. Then, dump it into their territory at prices thirty percent lower than the Federal Steel Company."
Thornton understood immediately.
"You mean, we use these garbage workshops to muddy the waters? To completely crash the market floor price?"
"Exactly. Wherever the Federal Steel Company goes to promote, our shell companies will go and offer lower prices. We should make it so their salesmen can't even sell a single piece of iron."
"But that's for later; there's no rush for that."
Coleman looked straight into Thornton's eyes.
"What the Federal Steel Company lacks most right now isn't money or machines. They ordered the latest Bessemer converters from Europe, and the equipment will arrive at their factory within half a month."
"But machines are just a pile of dead iron. Without experienced furnace foremen and skilled metallurgical workers, those converters won't be able to produce qualified molten steel."
Coleman lowered his voice.
"So... go to Cincinnati and contact those prestigious foremen at the Ohio Valley Steel Works. No matter how much Federal Steel is paying them, we will offer double."
"Bribe them, and then secretly connect with all the skilled workers in the factory. Don't let them resign immediately. Make them wait—wait for the day the new European machines arrive at the factory and they are ready to light the furnaces."
Thornton's eyes lit up; he fully understood the brilliance of this plan.
"Wow~ Just when they need people the most, have all the skilled workers resign en masse. Leave them hanging in front of the new machines, just like planting a bomb."
"Correct." Coleman nodded.
"Of course, if there are any other good ideas within the company, feel free to report them at any time. Go ahead."
"Understood. I'll take my team and catch the train to Cincinnati tonight."
Thornton picked up his briefcase and walked quickly out of the office.
Three days later.
Ohio, Cincinnati.
In an underground tavern filled with the smell of cheap beer and heavy tobacco.
Workers were shouting loudly.
In a dim corner at the very back of the tavern.
Tom Harris, the chief furnace foreman of the Ohio branch of the Federal Steel Company, was holding a wooden beer mug, with his deputy, David Miller, sitting next to him.
"Motherfucker~ Those British bastards are simply unreasonable."
Harris spat on the ground in frustration.
"The agent sent today ran into the workshop and started bossing everyone around. Do they think steelmaking is baking bread? He doesn't understand how high the sulfur content is in the ore here, yet he insists on us speeding up the casting speed."
David took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth.
"Tom, just bear with it. At least they paid the wages they owed us for three months. I heard the new converters from Europe will arrive in a few days. With new machines, maybe our lives will be a bit better."
Harris was even more annoyed when he heard this.
"New machines? Those are man-eating machines. The British said that once the new machines are installed, they won't need so many foundry workers. They plan to lay off nearly half the people. Sooner or later, us old bones will be kicked out by them too."
Just as the two were complaining, a man wearing a plain coarse cloth jacket walked to their table.
It was none other than Jack Thornton.
"Hello, you two~ The beer here is too weak. Why don't you let me treat you to some real Bourbon whiskey?"
Thornton pulled out a chair and sat down directly, placing an unopened bottle of high-quality whiskey on the table.
However, Harris looked at the stranger vigilantly.
"Why? Who are you? We don't know you."
"Who I am isn't important. What's important is that I know your worth is far more than two dollars a day."
Thornton pulled the cork out of the bottle and filled the empty cups in front of them.
"Tom Harris, the best furnace foreman in the Ohio Valley. I hear you can judge the carbon content just by the color of the flame. David Miller, your deputy, they say you can hear if the blower is malfunctioning even with your eyes closed."
Thornton leaned back in his chair comfortably.
"You are risking your lives in this crappy factory, but the pay from the boss is simply an insult to your craft."
Harris didn't touch the glass, probably understanding the visitor's intent.
"I get it. Which factory did you come from to poach us?"
Thornton pulled two thick envelopes from his chest pocket and pushed them directly in front of Harris and David.
The envelopes were unsealed, revealing stacks of brand-new greenback dollars inside.
"Here is five hundred dollars—five hundred in each envelope!"
Thornton lowered his voice, full of temptation.
"That's right, I started a steel company. It's less than thirty miles away, and it needs skilled workers like you. As long as you switch jobs, your daily wage will be five dollars, and there will be profit sharing after a year."
David's eyes went straight when he saw the thick stack of banknotes.
That was five hundred dollars; he wouldn't be able to save that much money even after working for three years.
Harris pressed down on David's hand as he reached for the envelope.
He was a veteran of the industry.
"A five-dollar daily wage? God never promised such a free lunch. What do you want us to do?" Harris stared at Thornton.
"It's simple." Thornton picked up his glass and took a sip.
"Take the money first. You don't need to resign now; just keep working at Federal Steel."
"But, when that batch of new converters shipped from Europe arrives, is installed, and is ready for the ignition ceremony, you and all the skilled workers you can bring along must slam your resignation letters onto that British agent's desk, then leave immediately to report to my new factory."
Harris quickly calculated the consequences of this move in his mind.
"Leave en masse on the day of the ignition? You're trying to completely cripple that new factory. Without us veterans, if those newly hired people dare to force the furnace, the molten iron could blow up the entire workshop!"
At this point, Harris was visibly startled.
"That's not something you need to worry about." Thornton smiled.
"How do you choose? Stay here, collect a dead-end wage of two dollars, and wait to be laid off by the British? Or take this money, bring your crew, and earn a high salary of five dollars? In America, loyalty can be measured in dollars. If the pay is high, you can go anywhere."
David tugged at Harris's arm from the side.
"Tom, he's right. The British don't treat us like human beings at all, so why shouldn't we earn this money? The brothers under us are roasted until their skin peels off in front of the furnaces every day; don't they deserve to earn five dollars?"
Harris looked at the stack of banknotes, then at David's eager eyes.
He knew that the circle of skilled workers in the factory was very small.
As long as he nodded, he could take all the backbone workers of the entire workshop with him.
Harris gritted his teeth, released his hand from the envelope, and stuffed it into his jacket.
"Deal."
After saying this, he picked up the glass of whiskey and downed it in one gulp.
Thornton smiled with satisfaction and raised his glass.
"Pleasant cooperation, Gentlemen, to high salaries."
...
Austro-Hungarian Empire, inner city of Vienna.
Beneath a gray sky, a fine freezing rain was falling, and pedestrians on the street wrapped their thick coats tightly around themselves as they hurried along.
In front of the slightly aged three-story mansion rented by Duke Antoine, a convoy consisting of five heavy carriages slowly came to a halt.
On the carriage cabins, the huge blue logo of the Metropolitan Trading Company was printed.
The oak doors of the mansion were pushed open.
Antoine's butler, Pierre, opened a black umbrella and hurried down the steps.
The door of the carriage at the very front of the convoy opened.
Marcus Vance, the manager of the European branch of the Metropolitan Trading Company, wearing a windbreaker and stepping in shiny leather shoes, stepped down.
"May I ask if this is Duke Antoine's residence?"
Vance looked at Pierre, his tone polite but businesslike.
"Uh... yes, sir. I am the Duke's butler, Pierre. May I ask who you are?"
"Marcus Vance, manager of the European branch of the Metropolitan Trading Company. I am here to visit His Grace on behalf of the New York headquarters." Vance handed over his business card.
Pierre looked down at the business card, his eyes flickering slightly.
The Metropolitan Trading Company was the property of that Argyle in America.
He immediately stepped aside.
"His Grace is in the drawing room on the second floor. Mr. Vance, please follow me."
Vance turned his head and waved to the coachman.
"Unload the cargo from the back and move it into the mansion. Be gentle, don't break the wine bottles."
Pierre watched as crates of high-grade Cuban cigars, Bordeaux red wine from southern France, and bags of the finest anthracite coal were unloaded from the carriages.
His breathing became somewhat rapid, and he hurriedly instructed the only two servants present to show the coachmen the way.
For the past half year, the Duke's household expenses had been extremely tight, and the firewood burned in the fireplace was of the lowest quality; they hadn't seen such top-tier supplies in a long time.
The second-floor drawing room.
The light from the fireplace was somewhat dim.
Duke Antoine sat on a single sofa, holding a newspaper in his hand. The Duchess, Louisa, sat nearby mending a cloak.
The life of exile had forced this former noble lady to pick up a needle and thread.
Pierre pushed open the door.
"Your Grace, Mr. Marcus Vance of the Metropolitan Trading Company is here to see you."
Antoine abruptly put down the newspaper and stood up.
Louisa also stopped her needlework, her eyes filled with anticipation.
They both knew what the Metropolitan Trading Company represented.
It was Isabella's only reliance in New York, and it might also be the biggest financial backer for the restoration of the House of Bourbon.
"Ahem... please come in."
Antoine straightened his clothes.
Vance walked in and bowed slightly.
"Your Grace, Your Ladyship, I pay my respects to you."
Then, he took a kraft paper envelope from his inner pocket and handed it to Antoine with both hands.
"This is a token of appreciation that my boss personally instructed the European branch to deliver via a special telegram from New York. On the carriages outside, there are also some winter supplies and daily necessities. Mr. Argyle hopes that you and Her Ladyship can live more comfortably in Vienna."
Antoine took the envelope.
He unsealed it and pulled out a paper stamped with a seal.
It was a cashier's check from the National Bank of Austria.
Antoine's gaze fell on the number, and his breathing paused for a moment.
One million dollars.
Equivalent to over five million francs.
This amount of money was enough to buy several of the most luxurious palaces in Vienna.
It was enough for all the exiles of the Orléanists to live a decent life.
"This..." Antoine looked at Vance, his voice dry.
"This money... does Mr. Argyle have any conditions attached? Is this an advance payment for those railway concessions in France?"
Vance shook his head, a professional smile on his face.
"There are no conditions attached, Your Grace. The boss stated very clearly in the telegram that this is purely a 'living allowance.' He simply hopes that Miss Isabella's family does not suffer in Europe. This money has nothing to do with the political interests of the House of Bourbon in France."
Louisa's eyes instantly turned red upon hearing this, and she walked to her husband's side to look at the check.
"He treats us like family..." Louisa covered her mouth, and tears fell.
"Antoine. It seems that Isabella is doing very well over there, and that man cares about her."
A complex warmth surged in Antoine's heart as well.
Since his exile, he had grown accustomed to the cold shoulders of those cold-blooded European bankers.
Yet this American businessman, far across the ocean, had offered one million dollars just to make his life—as a "convenient father-in-law"—a little better.
Such opulence and straightforwardness were truly impossible to refuse.
"Mr. Vance, please sit."
Antoine put the check away, his tone filled with sincere gratitude.
"Pierre, go pour some tea for Mr. Vance."
Just as Pierre was about to go pour the tea...
The Count of Paris, Louis-Philippe Albert, strode in, his coat still wet from the rain outside.
"Uncle, I heard that the Metropolitan Trading Company's convoy is parked outside."
He saw Vance standing in the center of the living room at a glance.
He walked over quickly, his gaze bypassing Vance to look directly at the envelope in Antoine's hand.
"Did that American finally pay up? How much? Did they ship any weapons? Did they send any military advisors?"
Philippe spoke extremely fast, throwing out a series of political and military questions.
Antoine frowned as he looked at his fanatical nephew, trying his best to keep his tone steady.
"Philippe, calm down. There are no weapons or military advisors."
"None?" Philippe was stunned.
He turned to look at Vance, his expression turning ugly.
"Then what is with those carts of coal and red wine outside? Are you trying to brush us off like beggars? We need munitions, breech-loading rifles and artillery that can equip two legions! What exactly is your boss doing? Didn't Isabella make it clear to him?"
Facing this irrational Bourbon heir, Vance's expression remained unchanged.
After all, he wasn't a lackey of the House of Bourbon.
"Apologies, Your Excellency, Count. I do not know what you are talking about."
"The only order my boss gave me was to deliver this check to Duke Antoine as a subsidy to improve family life. The Metropolitan Trading Company is a legitimate business institution and does not handle bulk weapons or the dispatch of military advisors."
"One million? A living subsidy? Family?"
Philippe's eyes turned red instantly.
He snatched the envelope from Antoine's hand and pulled out the check to take a look.
Then he slammed the envelope onto the coffee table.
"Bastard! This is an insult to the House of Bourbon!"
Philippe roared in shame and anger.
"What does he think this is? A pension for down-and-out relatives?"
Getting more and more agitated, Philippe pointed at Vance.
"Go back and tell Argyle that the House of Bourbon does not need his family handouts. We want war funds for the restoration! Are you trying to fob us off with this one million? Are you treating us like beggars!"
Vance looked at Philippe, who was in a state of frenzy.
"Tsk~"
He couldn't be bothered to argue with this exiled noble who had no real power but was full of delusions.
He bowed slightly to Antoine and Louisa.
"Your Grace, My Lady. My mission is complete, so I will take my leave. If you have any needs in your daily life, feel free to send someone to find me at the Metropolitan Trading Company branch."
After speaking, Vance walked straight out of the reception room.
Pierre hurriedly followed to see him out.
The reception room door closed, leaving only heavy breathing in the room.
Philippe stared fixedly at the one-million-dollar check on the coffee table.
That piece of paper, representing a huge fortune, now looked like a loud slap in the face to his proud House of Bourbon.
Turning around, he grabbed his hair tightly with both hands.
"He never intended to be our political ally at all!"
Philippe stopped in front of Antoine, his voice furious.
"One million, he gave you one million! To burn coal, to drink red wine! This is telling you that Isabella is only worth this price! He has no intention of supporting us in fighting our way back to Paris!"
Louisa could not listen anymore.
She walked to the coffee table and carefully tucked the check into her pocket.
"Enough, Philippe!"
With a protective look in her eyes, Louisa glared at the Count of Paris without flinching.
"Since Argyle is willing to give us one million dollars as a subsidy, it proves that he cares about Isabella. He cares about her feelings."
Louisa gritted her teeth, tears welling up in her eyes.
"My daughter has finally found a stable life in that villa in New York. She doesn't have to follow us around in exile, living in fear anymore. This money is his guarantee for Isabella. It is not funding for you to buy guns and cannons to fight a Civil War!"
"What a foolish perspective!" Philippe rebuked unceremoniously.
"She has the blood of the Bourbon flowing through her veins; she was born to sacrifice for this family. If we cannot get the military funds for the restoration from Argyle, then even if she lives well in that villa, she is still a sinner against the House of Bourbon!"
Duke Antoine slammed the armrest of the sofa heavily, stood up with a livid face, blocked his wife, and stared directly at Philippe.
"Philippe, watch your attitude when speaking to your elders."
"Isabella has already done enough. She went to America all alone and traded her body and dignity for this money. This one million is enough for us to pay off our debts in Vienna and enough for us to live decently for the next ten years."
Antoine's tone became heavy.
"Restoration? Look at the current situation. Although Thiers is unpopular, the foundation of the Republic is becoming solid. Bismarck is watching like a tiger in Berlin. Without the strong intervention of external forces, what do we have to fight with? Relying on those remnants holding muzzle-loaders?"
Antoine pointed to the gray streets of Vienna outside the window.
"Argyle is a smart businessman; he sees things more clearly than we do. He knows the risk of investing in a Civil War is too great. Giving only living expenses is his bottom line; he doesn't want to get involved in the political whirlpool of Europe."
"Doesn't want to get involved?"
Philippe let out a hysterical sneer.
He walked up to Antoine, his eyes bloodshot, exuding the aura of a nearly insane gambler.
"Uncle. Do you think he really only wants to develop in America? Since he can negotiate a thirty-million-gold deal with Bismarck, he is not someone who is afraid of trouble. He definitely just thinks the chips we offered are not heavy enough and not worth his bet!"
Philippe paced around the reception room and finally stopped in front of the fireplace.
An extremely dangerous plan was brewing in his mind.
"If Isabella cannot make him willingly pay up," Philippe's tone became cold, "then we must use other means to force him."
Antoine's heart tightened.
"What are you trying to do? Philippe. Don't do anything stupid; Argyle is not someone we can threaten casually."
"I am not threatening him, I just want to cause him some trouble." Philippe turned his head and looked at his uncle.
"I heard that Old Morgan in London is looking everywhere for people who can deal with Argyle."
"Since Argyle is unwilling to be an ally, why don't we go talk to Old Morgan? Although the House of Bourbon has no money in Europe, we still have an intelligence network and many old nobles who are loyal to us in the shadows."
"We can package up Felix Argyle' background in Europe, his shady dealings with the Thiers Government, and even the scandal of him hiding a Bourbon princess in his New York villa, and sell it all to Old Morgan."
Louisa turned pale with fright.
"You are crazy! If such a scandal gets into the American newspapers, Isabella's reputation will be completely ruined, and the Thiers Government will also cause trouble for Argyle!"
"As long as we can get Old Morgan's pounds, what does the rest matter?" Philippe said mercilessly.
"This is war, Aunt. We are waiting to die in Vienna; we might as well stir the water completely. Only by letting Argyle feel the pressure from the Thiers Government might he compromise."
Duke Antoine looked at his nephew in disbelief. For that ethereal throne, he was willing to disregard his own cousin's life and even planned to trade with that blood-sucking London oligarch.
It was terrifying.
"I absolutely will not allow you to do this!" Antoine roared.
"If you dare to drag Isabella into this kind of dirty transaction, I will immediately publicly announce that the Orléanists are withdrawing from the Bourbon Alliance! I would rather be a commoner for the rest of my life than let you use my daughter's life to trade for a crown."
The uncle and nephew were at daggers drawn in the reception room.
The smell of gunpowder in the air was so thick it was almost explosive.
Philippe gritted his teeth, preparing to say even more vicious words to fight back.
Just at this moment.
Two extremely restrained knocks came on the heavy oak door.
"Knock, knock."
The arguing stopped abruptly.
Antoine and Philippe turned their heads to look at the door at the same time.
The door was gently pushed open a crack, and the butler, Pierre, stood outside.
His face looked a bit strange, carrying undisguised tension and awe.
"Your Grace, Your Excellency, Count."
Pierre bowed slightly, his voice appearing somewhat abrupt in the quiet corridor.
Antoine frowned.
He rarely saw his steady butler show such an expression.
"What is it? Pierre. Didn't I say today we are not receiving any guests for the salon?"
Pierre swallowed his saliva and stepped aside half a body's width.
"Sir." Pierre lowered his head.
"A guest has come to visit."
"Who is it?"
Antoine's voice was filled with suppressed anger; clearly, the argument just now with his nephew Philippe had left him extremely agitated.
"Your Grace."
"I don't know, but he presented a special pass from the America Metropolitan Trading Company and... he holds the family's dedicated secret telegram verification code. He said he represents the supreme will of New York."
Upon hearing this, the uncle and nephew, who had been at each other's throats, instantly quieted down.
A sharp light suddenly erupted in the eyes of the Count of Paris, Louis-Philippe Albert.
He shoved aside the chair blocking his path and strode to the door.
"The supreme will of New York? Is it someone sent by Argyle?"
Philippe's voice trembled with excitement.
"Quick! Let him in, immediately!"
Antoine also realized the gravity of the situation.
If it were just to deliver living expenses, the European regional manager named Vance would have already come.
Now that another secret envoy with a verification code had arrived, it meant that Argyle was finally ready to discuss real business.
"Pierre, take him to the secret room on the first floor. We will meet him there."
Antoine was, after all, seasoned and shrewd; he knew such a meeting could absolutely not take place in an ordinary drawing room.
Ten minutes later.
In a soundproof secret room beneath the mansion, the gas lamps on the walls emitted a dim, yellowish light.
Antoine and Philippe sat on one side of a long oak table.
The heavy iron door was pushed open.
A man wearing a dark gray overcoat and a black bowler hat walked in.
His footsteps were extremely steady, making no unnecessary sound.
He removed his hat, revealing an extremely ordinary face—one that could never be found again if thrown into a crowd.
But those eyes were like a hawk stalking in the night, exuding an unsettling penetrating power.
"Your Grace, Count."
The man nodded slightly, pulled out the chair opposite them, and sat down naturally.
There was no trace of the obsequiousness typical of the European lower classes when facing the nobility in his demeanor.
"Who are you?"
Philippe stared fixedly at the man, his hands pressed onto the tabletop.
"You may call me Echo."
The man briefly stated his codename.
Hearing that Echo did not give his real name, both men understood that Felix was not only doing business in the open but had also planted an intelligence network in the heart of Europe.
"So, an intelligence operative."
Philippe sneered and sat back in his chair.
"What is the meaning of Argyle sending you to see us? Isabella should have already conveyed all the terms we offered to him. Concessions across France, plus collateral from the Central Bank! If he didn't want them, he could have just refused directly. What is the meaning of sending two batches of people?"
Echo looked at this somewhat emotionally out-of-control heir to the French throne, pulled a steel-gray cigarette case from the inside of his overcoat, took out a cigarette with no brand, struck a match, and lit it.
"Count, I hope you understand one thing."
Echo exhaled a puff of blue-gray smoke.
"My boss is a pure businessman; making direct contact with you is already very risky."
"Risk? What risk!"
Philippe slammed his hand on the table.
"Thiers' Republic is in trouble right now. As long as Argyle' funds and repeating rifles are in place, the legions our House of Bourbon has befriended in the south can march into Paris immediately!"
"But the problem is not Thiers; it is you yourselves."
Echo unceremoniously interrupted Philippe's roaring.
He leaned forward slightly and said bluntly.
"The boss sent me here precisely to lay out and clarify some things that are difficult to discuss on the table. The boss has extremely serious doubts about the success rate of your House of Bourbon's restoration."
Duke Antoine's heart skipped a beat.
Suppressing his inner panic, he asked in a deep voice: "What does Mr. Argyle doubt? Does he think our appeal within the army is insufficient?"
"Of course not." Echo shook his head.
His eyes fixed on Antoine and Philippe.
"What the boss doubts is that 'Child of Divine Right' living in exile in Croatia, the Count of Chambord, Henry V."
Upon hearing this name, the atmosphere in the secret room became somewhat tense.
Echo flicked the ash from his cigarette.
"We have conducted extremely detailed due diligence in France. In the current French National Assembly, the Royalists do indeed hold the majority. You Orléanists and the Legitimists have also reached a so-called historic compromise: to let Henry V be king first, and after his death, pass the throne to you, Count of Paris."
Echo looked at Philippe.
"This plan looks perfect on paper. But the boss has raised a question, which I will now state clearly to you two."
Echo pressed out the half-finished cigarette in the iron tray on the table.
"I hear that Henry V is an extremely stubborn, extreme Legitimist. He has always publicly declared that he will never accept the Tricolor flag from the French Revolution and must restore the traditional white fleur-de-lis flag of the Bourbon Dynasty. Otherwise, he would rather not be king."
"Gentlemen, in this day and age, if he reaches the final moment of restoration and digs his heels in over a flag, clashing with the National Assembly until the negotiations collapse—and the National Assembly, in a fit of rage, turns completely to a republican system and kicks you out—then who do I go to to recover the funds my boss has invested?"
Philippe's face instantly turned ghastly pale.
He opened his mouth, but found his throat so dry he couldn't say a word.
"The flag issue."
This was the most fatal topic within the Royalist party.
They all knew of Henry V's stubbornness, but everyone tacitly chose to avoid it, fantasizing that at the final moment, the Count would compromise for the sake of the throne.
But now, this avoided issue had been placed directly on the table.
Echo did not stop and continued.
"And the boss has deeper concerns."
"On Wall Street, when a partner knows that the enterprise they have spent their whole life fighting for is destined to be transferred for free to their rival, they will absolutely not risk their life for this enterprise. They would rather flip the table and let everyone die together."
Echo looked at Philippe.
"You must know that Henry V has no heirs; this is an open secret. Once the restoration succeeds, he is essentially baking a cake for you Orléanists. The Legitimists and the Orléanists have been fighting for so many years. Do you really believe that a Legitimist leader with no descendants would give up the royal dignity and flag he views as his life, just to fulfill the future of you Orléanists?"
"And if he doesn't compromise, the restoration will fail. The Orléanists will get nothing. For him, that might be the perfect revenge."
Echo stood up and adjusted his coat collar.
"My boss's meaning is very clear: if the House of Bourbon cannot even resolve its own internal succession and flag issues, the boss will not offend the future French government to invest in your House of Bourbon for a political alliance destined to commit suicide for the sake of dignity."
"The message has been delivered; I will return in one week."
"I hope that by then, you two gentlemen can provide a reply that guarantees my boss's funds will not go down the drain."
The Count of Paris, Louis-Philippe-Albert, sat blankly in his chair.
His gaze was hollow as he stared at the empty chair opposite him.
"No... this is impossible..."
Philippe muttered to himself, his voice weak with the collapse of his faith.
"Although Henry is stubborn, he is, after all, of the legitimate bloodline of the House of Bourbon. How could he be willing to give up the entire throne of France just to block the Orléanists from succeeding? It doesn't make sense; that is the throne!"
Duke Antoine sighed heavily and reached up to rub his throbbing temples.
"That is your logic, Philippe."
"But in the eyes of Argyle, it is the logic of human nature."
As he spoke, he raised his head and looked at his nephew, who had fallen into a state of obsession.
"Argyle is a genius who fought his way up in a place like New York and has already seen through the essence of power. Philippe, think about it carefully. The Legitimists and we Orléanists have bad blood in our bones."
"If it were you who sat on the throne, but you had no heirs. After you died, the country and the crown would fall into the hands of the cousin you hated most. And the only historical mark you could leave behind would be the Tricolor flag that once bowed to the Great Revolution. What would you choose?"
Antoine's voice became extremely heavy.
"That person is right. To destroy this throne in the absence of descendants and let the Republicans take power, completely cutting off the hopes of us Orléanists—this is the choice that best fits the psychology of a Legitimist like Henry V."
"Especially when there is no heir."
Philippe stood up abruptly and roared hysterically, kicking over the chair next to him.
"Then is all my effort during this time just a joke?! Was Isabella's sacrifice in New York all in vain?!"
"We will be mocked by all of Europe like stray dogs!"
Philippe's mental state completely collapsed.
All his ambitions and political plans were smashed to pieces by that American upstart named Argyle, using extremely simple logical deduction.
Antoine watched his nephew gradually collapse, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes.
There was sympathy.
But there was also a growing, clear sense of coldness.
"Alright, Philippe, you should go back first."
Antoine waved his hand, his tone surprisingly calm.
"Go back? What should we do now! What can we use to answer that person!" Philippe yelled at his uncle.
"Don't be anxious; that is only one possibility. First, write to those informants in Paris. Go and confirm Henry V's final attitude regarding the flag. If you cannot find a way to resolve this deadlock, even if you scream until your throat breaks in front of me, you won't be able to restore the monarchy!"
Antoine stood up and scolded him in the tone of an elder.
"Go back and wash your face with cold water; don't act like a gambler who has lost everything and is going crazy in front of your elders!"
Philippe gritted his teeth and looked at Antoine with complex emotions.
He knew his uncle was right; throwing a tantrum now was useless.
He had to find a way to break the deadlock.
Only Antoine remained in the secret room.
He bent down to pick up the chair that had fallen to the floor and then sat down slowly.
In his mind, he replayed the words Echo had said over and over again.
"If the House of Bourbon cannot even solve its own internal succession problem..."
This sentence was like a barbed hook, firmly snagging deep inside Antoine's heart.
His eyes gradually turned gloomy.
He stood up, left the basement, and walked straight back to the living room on the second floor.
The Duchess, Louisa, was sitting by the fireplace, lost in thought.
Seeing her husband enter, she quickly stood up.
"Antoine. What did that person say? Why did I see Philippe running out in such a rage?"
Antoine walked to his wife's side without directly answering her question.
He took Louisa's hands and looked at her with an extremely profound gaze.
"Louisa, do you remember your lineage?"
Louisa was stunned for a moment.
"Of course, I come from the Spanish House of Anjou. But what does that have to do with that American?"
Antoine pulled his wife to sit on the sofa.
He kept his voice extremely low, as if afraid that walls might have ears.
"Of course it has to do with it."
Antoine's eyes were gleaming.
"Argyle has seen the deadlock within our House of Bourbon; Henry V of the Legitimists might flip the table. Because he has no descendants, and the throne will eventually fall into the hands of Philippe, an Orléanist."
Antoine stared intently at his wife.
"But what if the throne is not passed to Philippe?"
Louisa couldn't quite wrap her head around it.
"Not passed to Philippe? But the Legitimists no longer have any direct male heirs. Besides the Orléanists, who else could it be passed to?"
"There are no direct male heirs. But the women are still here." Antoine squeezed his wife's hand. "Louisa, you are a direct bloodline of the Spanish Anjou branch. Legally speaking, the House of Anjou also possesses the right of succession to the Bourbon Dynasty!"
Louisa gasped. She finally understood what her husband was thinking.
"Antoine... you... you want to bypass Philippe and renegotiate with the Legitimists to seize the succession rights?"
"Why not?"
Antoine's tone was firm, but there was a hint of struggle.
"Philippe is a madman who only thinks about his own crown; he would sacrifice Isabella without hesitation for military funds. He treats our whole family as stepping stones. If we bet everything on him, even if he succeeds, we won't have a good ending!"
Antoine paced back and forth in the living room, beginning to outline this plan.
"The Legitimists value bloodline extremely highly. If you come forward to request the elders of the Spanish House of Anjou to step out, we can go and negotiate with Henry V."
"Tell him that we, the Orléanists, are willing to give up Philippe's right of succession. In exchange, after Henry V dies, the throne of France will be inherited by me, and subsequently by our descendants. And the House of Anjou certainly won't object; after all, they can obtain the title of legitimacy."
Antoine turned around and looked at his wife.
"If this is the case, the psychological barrier of the Legitimists will be completely swept away! Henry V will no longer need to intentionally flip the table over the flag issue just to block Philippe! He might even proactively accept the Tricolor, because he knows that after his death, France will still be in the hands of a legitimate bloodline!"
"Those children who were originally Legitimists will also be able to occupy certain positions in France and Spain in the future."
Louisa was completely shocked by this plan.
"But... if we do this, Philippe will kill us; this is usurping his throne!"
"He has no soldiers and no money; what would he use to kill us?" Antoine sneered.
"As long as this plan can convince Henry V, I can give Argyle a perfect answer in front of that person called Echo! As long as Argyle' funds and guns hit my account, Philippe will be a commander with no troops. By then, the great cause of the restoration of France will be for us to decide!"
Antoine walked to the desk.
"Louisa, write to Madrid immediately. Contact the elders of your family." Antoine picked up a fountain pen.
"Since Philippe is incompetent, the fate of the House of Bourbon will be taken into our own hands. In order to ensure Isabella's sacrifice is not in vain, I am determined to be this villain!"