The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 900: Wanting a French witch? What kind of new imperialist conspiracy is this?

Calais train station, France.

Bai Siwen slightly lifted the velvet curtain and looked out the window. On the platform, squads of French Workers' and Peasants' Army infantrymen, wearing flat-topped cylindrical military caps, red armbands, and long Chassepot 1866 rifles slung over their shoulders, who had just disembarked from a military train, were lining up under the command of their officers.

Sandbag fortifications were piled up layer upon layer along the edge of the platform, and the muzzles of several four-pounder rapid-fire guns mounted on wheeled gun carriages were pointed towards the coast. Artillerymen wearing faded blue overalls were carefully wiping the gun barrels at their positions.

The smell of impending battle wafted through the air inside and outside this small but sturdy train station.

“Good heavens,” Sir Humphrey Appleby, the chief secretary of His Majesty the King’s Magical Council, groaned softly beside Whiteman. His well-maintained, round face was pressed against the cold glass, his small eyes scanning the heavy atmosphere of war through his glasses. “This doesn’t look like a train station in a peaceful country…it looks more like a frontline outpost from the last Franco-Prussian War!” He pulled out a white silk handkerchief and vigorously wiped non-existent sweat from his brow. “Have the French… gone mad?”

“They’re not crazy,” Bai Siwen said calmly, lowering the curtains. “They’re preparing for war. For fifteen years, they’ve been waiting for that fully unified Germanic giant across the wall to attack. Everyone knows that day is not far off!”

There was a hint of barely perceptible emotion in his voice. As a friend of Moore and Friedrich, and now a "trader" with connections in both Britain and France, White was all too familiar with what was happening on this red land.

At that moment, the sharp-eyed Sir Humphrey suddenly let out a short, suppressed gasp, and then grabbed Bai Siwen's sleeve.

"Look! Mr. Bai! Look over there!"

Bai Siwen followed the trembling finger of the man he was pointing at. A few platforms away, five young figures were weaving through the bustling crowd of people in gray overalls or dark blue military uniforms, heading towards a carriage marked with naval insignia. They were all dressed in crisp, dark blue French naval officer uniforms—well-tailored double-breasted jackets, dark blue trousers, patent leather shoes, and hats adorned with gold anchor badges. Unlike the other military personnel, each of them carried a matching dark brown leather and rattan briefcase, their steps swift, their posture upright and efficient. Most importantly—they were all women! Young faces, focused expressions. One of them seemed to sense the prying gaze, turning warily to glance back at their VIP carriage, her eyes gleaming with an alluring light from beneath her hat brim.

Like a spy who had discovered a major secret, Humphrey whispered excitedly, frantically pulling a small notebook and a gold-plated pen from his leather briefcase. Under the line "May 15th, France, Calais train station," he quickly scribbled: "At 3:15 PM, clearly witnessed five young women dressed in full French naval officer uniforms, carrying standard rattan cases (suspected to be spellcasting mediums or professional equipment), hurriedly boarding a military train bound for Brest. Their demeanor was efficient, well-trained, and highly vigilant… Highly suspected to be the 'Red Witches of France' mentioned in the target's description!"

After writing it down, he seemed to feel the evidence wasn't strong enough, and carefully traced the outline of the wicker trunk again. Whiteman looked at this meticulous bureaucrat, a smile playing on his lips. Red France championed gender equality; female workers, soldiers, and even female pilots (of airships) were not uncommon. But those young officers… dressed in naval uniforms at this train station—perhaps they were just technical officers reporting to the naval base in Brest? Their trunks might contain plotters and codebooks. But Whiteman said nothing, only calmly nodding: “Sir, your observation is remarkable…yes, they must be.”

As the train pulled into Gare du Nord, the palpable atmosphere of war was palpable. The massive, domed station was unrecognizable. Sandbag bunkers filled the space between the supporting pillars, and the large beams of searchlights peered down onto the platforms. On the walls, one after another, huge, blood-red propaganda posters assaulted the senses: one depicted a muscular worker raising a hammer to strike a Teutonic giant with the face of Bismarck, the iron-willed Chancellor; another showed valiant French soldiers braving a hail of bullets, a huge red flag flying over the Arc de Triomphe behind them, the banner proclaiming: "Defend Red France! Crush German Imperialist Aggression!"; and yet another was horrifying, showing a village ablaze and weeping children, with a blood-red warning: "Be ever vigilant against war! Prepare for war! Prepare for war again!"

The crowds moved swiftly, with military uniforms far outnumbering ordinary passengers, and the roar of steam locomotives mingled with commands. Sir Humphrey struggled to maintain the composure of an imperial bureaucrat, but the tip of his meticulously groomed mustache trembled slightly.

“Mr. Bai! My dear old friend!” A warm voice with a thick Parisian accent rang out amidst the noise.

Wearing a faded khaki double-breasted uniform and a red star-studded cap, Jules Robert opened his arms and strode through the People's Guard guards on the platform, giving a warm hug to Sven de Blasio, who had just alighted from the train. Robert was an official in the Western European Department of the French People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs, and had repeatedly represented French "friendly associations" in "civilian exchanges" with Blasio in Britain—in reality, to procure precision industrial parts for Paris under British technological embargo. He was lean and energetic, with piercing eyes.

“Jules! My friend!” White responded enthusiastically. “The vigilance of France is admirable. Every inch of land from Calais to Paris is preparing for war!”

Robert warmly took White's arm and led them to a horse-drawn carriage painted in a thick military green. A militiaman carrying a Chasebo rifle warily opened the door for them. Robert himself got into the front driver's seat, skillfully flicked the reins, and the carriage drove through the freight yard piled with military supplies toward the station exit security checkpoint reinforced with layers of sandbags.

"This isn't just vigilance, Mr. White, it's the determination of all France!" Robert's voice rose, mingling with the shrill blares of propaganda loudspeakers and the thud of military boots on the ground. "From the defeat in the Franco-Prussian War to today, for the past fifteen years... an entire generation! We've all had only one goal—to wait for those imperialist wolves, the Germans, and perhaps the Russians, to come and fight! And then," Robert's eyes gleamed, "to make them bleed to the last drop on the Karl Mohr Line!"

After rigorous checks, the carriage finally emerged from the heavily guarded train station and merged into the chaotic streets of Paris. Military wagons and ambulances bearing the Red Cross symbol crowded the main thoroughfares. Countless enormous recruitment banners covered the facades of buildings along the streets. Sir Humphrey could no longer contain himself. Through the carriage, he asked with difficulty in broken French, "Mr. Robert...how can your country...be so certain that Germany will launch an attack? And Russia too?"

Robert shrugged as he skillfully swerved through the throngs of pedestrians. “Isn’t it obvious, my dear Sir? Bismarck’s ‘continental policy’ has never changed—to establish German hegemony with steel and blood! France is his biggest threat; without eliminating us, Germany will never have peace of mind. And what about that clumsy, greedy bear, Russia? For centuries they’ve dreamed of that ‘Third Rome’ and a warm outlet to the sea—Constantinople! Give them the chance, and they’ll pounce on the Bosphorus! And Germany and Russia are now tightly bound together, colluding with each other!”

He paused, then turned his head slightly: "The reason they haven't dared to truly pounce yet, like two wolves circling a campfire, is for only one reason—Your Excellency, it's because Her Majesty the Great Queen's fleet still occupies the seas! An invisible chain! If the British fleet blocks the sea routes, German factories will be cut off from blood; if the British Mediterranean Fleet blocks the entrance to the Dardanelles, the Russian fleet and troop transports will become immobile coffins in the Bosphorus!"

The horseshoes tapped crisply on the uneven cobblestones, and Robert's voice deepened: "But what if this chain... becomes taut or even breaks because of the distant Eastern battlefield? What if the main force of the British Royal Navy is tied down by that 'Prophet King' in the Pacific, unable to look west... Sir, Mr. White, what do you think the German Junkers and the Russian Tsar will do?" The carriage wound its way through the complex, narrow alleyways before finally stopping in front of an unassuming building with a square, gray granite facade on the left bank of the Seine. This was one of the secret command branches of the French People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs.

Robert jumped down from the carriage, opened the door for White, and was about to lead them through the equally heavily guarded courtyard gate when, as if just remembering something, he casually asked, "Oh, by the way, dear Mr. White, and this distinguished gentleman, may I ask what brings you two to Paris in secret? Is there anything Red France can do for you?" His tone was sincere and official.

White adjusted the hem of his expensive tailcoat, a strange smile, a mixture of embarrassment and helplessness, appearing on his face: "Uh... Jules," he cleared his throat, "to be honest... we are here to... help the British Royal Navy... find the French... 'witch'."

A brief silence followed.

Robert's formulaic, enthusiastic smile froze. For the first time, an absolute... bewilderment? Confusion? Or even a hint of absurdity appeared in his shrewd eyes, eyes that were always attuned to the ever-changing landscape of international politics?

He tilted his head, as if doubting that he had misheard, or that Bai Siwen had just used some newly coined diplomatic jargon.

“Mr. White…” he asked tentatively, his French words becoming particularly cautious as he spoke. “You mean…you’re looking for…the French 'witch' for the British Royal Navy…?”

Bai Siwen nodded with absolute certainty, speaking solemnly: "Yes, witches. To be precise, naval-specific witches with special combat capabilities. The United States... our friend, the United States of America, encountered... well, some kind of overwhelming advantage derived from 'witchcraft' in its battle with the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's puppet fleet in the Pacific."

Robert: "..."

In an extremely simply furnished office on the top floor of this gray building.

“Witches?” Karl Moore, the nominal People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs of Red France (though his actual power extended far beyond that), widened his usually penetrating eyes slightly. He even put down a dossier he was reviewing regarding the progress of a secret trade agreement with the Kingdom of Spain, and turned to look at Robert, who had come to report, with disbelief. “They want French witches?”

His old partner, the Armaments Committee member Friedrich, sitting on the sofa next to him, was examining a structural blueprint of a "Narwhal-class" submarine. Upon hearing the word "witch," he also looked up, his face filled with extreme confusion: "What is this... a new imperialist conspiracy? A psychological tactic? Or the madness of British capitalism before its demise?"

Robert suppressed a laugh, kept a straight face, and reported exactly as Whitemane had presented the demands made on behalf of the British Magic Council.

"...Mr. White told me with great certainty that this was in response to the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom Navy's use of a certain 'witchcraft'-based combat technique in the Western Pacific, which caused heavy losses to the American allies. The Royal Navy had to find an equivalent 'professional spellcaster' to counterbalance it."

An eerie silence fell over the office. The only sound was the ticking of an old-fashioned wall clock.

After a long while, a sharp glint flashed in Moore's eyes, which had seen through the vicissitudes of life. He picked up his pen again and signed his name in cursive French on the Spanish trade agreement document, but a meaningful sneer appeared on his lips: "I think the British must have been deceived by that 'prophet king' from the East."

"But why would Luo Yaoguo tell such an absurd lie?" Friedrich asked, puzzled.

Moore shrugged. “Psychological warfare? Strategic deception? Everyone knows he has some ‘materialistic magic,’ but there’s no evidence that anyone else possesses the same abilities. He might be trying to use this deception to make the British hesitant to commit to the war.” He paused. “But this is to our advantage! The longer the war is delayed, the better prepared we can be!”

"Then what should we do?" Friedrich asked.

“Friedrich,” Moore began, his voice low and calm, “tell Lorient and Cherbourg’s two newly renovated dry docks that the production rate of the 'Narwhal-class' ships must be increased by another 20%. We must use the time bought by that 'Prophet King' to produce more underwater hunters. The purchase permits for the small steam turbines needed to produce the 'Narwhal-class' ships (France cannot produce them; they can only be imported from Britain) can be exchanged for the Red Witch of France! As for where to find the Red Witch of France…” He paused, his gaze drifting to the Seine River view outside the window, “Since they want them, arrange for the intelligence department to provide them with some. Our excellent intelligence agents can disguise themselves in all sorts of identities, including witches, of course!”

(End of this chapter)