The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 959 Who is the most reactionary person in Europe?

One day in late August 1884, the sky over Brussels was as heavy as lead. In the Hall of Mirrors at Laken Palace, the light from the crystal chandelier danced on the gilded reliefs, but could not illuminate the elongated, pale face of King Leopold II of Belgium. He stood by the window, gazing at the Belgian capital, still immersed in peace and prosperity, but his mind was filled with thoughts of the millions of troops of Red France and the German Empire, and the Prussian prince who had come to his doorstep!

He took a deep breath and turned around with a warm smile: "William! My dear nephew!"

Prince William stood in the center of the hall, his military boots crunching on the lion patterns entangled on the Persian carpet. Without removing his gloves, he shook hands with Leopold, his gaze sweeping over the man's swollen eyelids like a knife: "Uncle, you look as if you've been basking in the Congo sun for too long."

Leopold's smile froze on his lips. The man before him, the second in line to the German throne, was dressed in a stiff, starched Prussian blue military uniform, his medals gleaming on his chest, and his voice was laced with gunpowder—he looked like a cannon wrapped in velvet.

A servant brought over Ceylon tea. Leopold picked up a silver teaspoon and stirred the undissolved sugar cube at the bottom of the cup. "I heard Berlin is expanding its army again? One hundred and forty-seven divisions... God, that's enough to crush France three times over!" He sighed and shook his head, the crisp sound of the teaspoon tapping the rim of the cup carrying a hint of probing. "Perhaps... I can do something for Europe? Like persuading Paris to abandon its revolutionary illusions? Of course, your German Empire should also change its stance a little; the Yellow Peril of the East is the common enemy of Europe."

William did not answer immediately. He paced to the fireplace and gazed at the huge oil painting hanging above the fire—a portrait of Leopold II at his coronation, in which he wore a crown, held a scepter, and looked both dignified and benevolent.

“It’s a fine painting,” William chuckled, with a hint of sarcasm, “especially those eyes—the painter has made you look like a saint.”

Leopold took a sip of tea, the sugar granules melting on his tongue, cloyingly sweet: "Art always needs a little... embellishment."

“Like your ‘charitable work’ in the Congo?” William turned around, his gaze behind his monocle sharp as a knife. “I’ve heard that you’ve built quite a few churches and schools there.”

“Of course!” Leopold straightened his back, his face serious. “The seeds of civilization must be sown in every corner of Africa.”

William took a document from his adjutant and slowly opened it: "Interestingly, the bricks of these churches seem to have been glued together with the blood of Congolese people."

"You, you..." Leopold II froze, his face serious, before slowly lowering his head.

William suddenly leaned closer, looking at the King of Belgium with the eyes of someone looking at a dead man.

"You're here to mediate the conflict between us and Red France?" he scoffed. "You should be advising those Congolese blacks—advising them to obediently let you cut off their hands!"

Leopold's teacup clattered over. The brownish-red tea spilled across the tablecloth, revealing a blood-red hue. He stared at the brown paper bag William had taken from his adjutant, then suddenly realized something and said in a hoarse voice, "When did the princes of Germany become the lawyers for barbarians?"

“Defense?” William pulled out a stack of photos and slammed them onto the blood-red tea stains.

—The severed limbs piled up on the scorched earth looked like dry firewood, and flies swarmed into the empty eye sockets of a black child, whose wounds were still covered with muddy juice.

“I thought you knew that Red France wanted to liberate all of humanity! Black people are human beings in their eyes too! That’s why Red France calls this a ‘crime against humanity’!” William pointed his finger at the child’s photo. “Their Internal Affairs Commissioner, Varlan, said long ago that once they liberate Brussels, they’ll take you to Congo for a public trial!”

Leopold jumped to his feet, the silk chair cover ripping as it fell. "They dare?! Those blacks are born animals—"

“But Red France considers Black people to be human beings!” William interrupted sharply. “In their eyes, you are more vicious than feudal lords, more deserving of death than capitalists… You are the most reactionary and most evil slave owner!”

The Hall of Mirrors fell into a deathly silence.

Leopold staggered and grabbed the window frame. The glass reflected his pale face, and also William behind him—the "cannon" had shed his ferocity and was slowly wiping his monocle, his mockery even more pronounced.

“Uncle,” William said in an almost gentle tone, “if Germany is defeated, who do you think will hang you?” He walked up behind Leopold, his breath brushing against the back of the man’s neck. “Will it be the French workers waving the banner of ‘human liberation’? Or the ‘beasts’ wielding machetes in the Congo rainforest?”

Leopold's hand trembled as he reached for the gold chain around his neck—the pendant held a diamond gift from Queen Victoria. His last resort was that isolated island across the strait. But what would the price be?

William then placed a document against the windowpane. The document's heading, written in German, read: "The Secret Agreement Between Derby and Anti-Red France."

"My hundred divisions will march through Belgium straight to Paris," Prince William whispered in Leopold II's ear. "In return... the Congo will remain your private territory. You can cut off as many black hands and feet as you want, I don't care. If the black ministers of the American Empire want to meddle, Germany will protect you!"

He bent down, picked up the child's photograph, and stuffed it into Leopold's stiff palm: "Sign it! Please don't let Varlan's noose be placed around your noble neck."

Leopold's fingertips curled on the photograph. He thought of the rubber plantations in Congo, the black laborers with their hands and feet cut off, and the mountains of ivory and rubber. That wealth made him the richest monarch in Europe, but it also made him "the most reactionary tyrant in all of Europe" in the eyes of Red France.

"Do you have any other choice?" William continued, seeing Leopold still hesitating. "Britain? They'll only use you as a pawn. France? They'd love to send you to the guillotine. Only Germany..."

He paused, as if to let his words ferment in the air.

"Only Germany can preserve your crown and your Congo."

Leopold turned, his gaze sweeping across the Hall of Mirrors. Every mirror reflected his face—old, weary, fearful. He suddenly laughed, a dry laugh like the rubbing of withered leaves: "William, you're just like your grandfather."

William raised an eyebrow: "Is this a compliment?"

“It’s true.” Leopold walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy. “He threatened me with the same thing back then—either cooperate or be destroyed.”

He tilted his head back and drank it all, the alcohol burning his throat: "Tell Berlin that Belgium will allow a hundred German divisions to cross the border."

William narrowed his eyes: "It's a secret border crossing! War requires surprise!"

Leopold slammed his glass down on the table: "Fine, it's a secret crossing!"

He turned away from William and looked out the window at the peaceful and prosperous city: "But Belgium will not openly join your holy alliance."

A cold smile curled at the corner of William's lips: "Not joining the Holy Alliance?"

“We will not join,” Leopold repeated. “Your troops may cross the border armed, and the Belgian army will follow a policy of non-resistance.”

The Hall of Mirrors fell silent again. Suddenly, the clouds in the sky parted, and a ray of sunlight shone in, illuminating the diamond around Leopold's neck and refracting it with dazzling light.

William raised his hand, and his adjutant handed him a new document—clearly, Leopold II's intentions had been anticipated by the German Chancellor.

“Then, Uncle,” he pushed the document in front of Leopold, “sign it. This is the ‘Belgian Non-Resistance Guarantee Agreement.’ As long as Belgium does not resist, the German army will not commit any offenses.”

Leopold didn't turn around: "What if I refuse?"

William's voice was icy: "Then you'll have to explain to Red Varlan or the Black Minister of the American Empire yourself who ordered the cutting off of those Congolese children's hands and feet! Uncle, believe me, someone will hand you over to them!"

Leopold's hand trembled slightly. He slowly turned around, picked up the pen, and signed his name on the document.

William put the documents away with satisfaction: "A wise choice."

He turned and walked toward the door, but stopped in front of it: "By the way, Uncle."

Leopold looked up.

William's smile was as sharp as a knife: "I hope you look better... when we meet next time."

The moment the doors to the Hall of Mirrors closed, Leopold slumped into his chair. He stared at the photograph in his hand; the black child's eyes were vacant, as if questioning, "Who is the real savage?"

At the same moment, sunlight shone on the spires of Laken Palace, gilding them with a golden glow of civilization and progress.

Three days later, in Buckingham Palace, across the English Channel in London, Queen Victoria opened the secret letter from King Leopold II. In it, Leopold wrote:

Your Majesty, Victoria:

The German Reich has pressured me to allow Belgium to secretly send one hundred of its divisions across the border toward Paris. Berlin has threatened that if I refuse, they will expose my actions in the Congo and allow Red France to 'try' me. Belgium is powerless to resist the German steel onslaught, but I cannot allow Europe to be plunged into a meaningless war.

Therefore, I urge you to convey this intelligence to Red France—the German offensive will begin in early September, with the main attack targeting the coastal plains of northern Belgium. If they can deploy defenses in advance, they might be able to thwart the German blitzkrieg.

I know this is tantamount to betraying the monarchical order of Europe, but I fear the noose of Red France more than Germany's ambitions. If you believe I have violated our alliance, I am willing to bear all the consequences.

"—Your loyal Leopold."

Queen Victoria tapped her fingers lightly on the letter, a cold smile playing on her lips: "Old fox, trying to have your cake and eat it too!"

She turned to look out the window, where the Thames River shimmered, seemingly reflecting the impending raging war in Europe.

(End of this chapter)