The Shadow of Great Britain

Arthur nodded, lit a flame, and took a puff on his pipe. ”So what does he think of Louis?”

Hutter picked up his teacup but didn’t drink immediately, using the motion to gather his thoughts.

”If it were an official occasion, Sir,” Hutter began, ”I would probably just tell you: the Foreign Office treats all exiles equally. But since you’ve asked about Viscount Palmerston’s perspective, not the stance of the Foreign Office, the answer is less diplomatic.”

Smoke swirled around Arthur as he fished out a box of cigars from his pocket and tossed it in front of Hutter. ”Have one.”

Hutter drew out a cigar. ”The minister doesn’t consider Mr. Louis Bonaparte a real threat. At least not at this stage. He has no army, no organization, naive ideas, and rash actions, all while lacking sufficient support in France. More importantly, he hasn’t yet waited for a time bad enough. In the minister’s view, the problem with the Bonaparte family has never been what they want to do, but when the French need them.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. ”Though I don’t like the Viscount, his insight does match his current position.”

Hutter smiled. ”Rather than being concerned about Louis Bonaparte himself, it’s really the surname Bonaparte that worries the Viscount. We think this might be the only noteworthy aspect of Louis Bonaparte. This surname is useless in usual times, but if the situation in France becomes turbulent, it can unleash amazing power, potentially reenacting the disaster of Napoleon, which is what the Foreign Office least wants to see.”

Arthur removed the pipe from his mouth, tapped it lightly on the ashtray. ”Since it’s merely an issue of the surname, theoretically, as long as we don’t let this surname appear in inappropriate settings, things shouldn’t get complicated.”

Hutter glanced at him briefly, remained silent.

Arthur placed the pipe back in his mouth, not inhaling, just holding it there. ”However, some occasions are inherently interesting. For instance—private meetings of retired generals. These don’t fall under diplomacy, nor are they political, certainly not conspiracies. I’ve heard that marshals from Napoleon’s era are usually quite nostalgic. They are willing to have a drink with anyone who respects the past, chat about military life, reminisce about an era that’s ended. But as long as the present isn’t mentioned, no one sees any harm in it.”

Hutter finally raised his teacup and took a sip. ”Indeed, Sir. Marshal Soult is known for his generosity, especially in private settings.”

Arthur nodded. ”Of course, in the current climate, anyone perceived to be actively forging connections would appear unwise. Especially someone whose name easily evokes associations.”

Hutter was silent for a few seconds.

Then, he slightly adjusted his posture, his back remained straight, but his tone subtly changed.

”The view of the Foreign Office is...” he spoke slowly, ”certain meetings, if held at the right time, in the right context, can be understood as private socializing. But if they occur at inappropriate moments, they are easily misread as signals.”

Arthur chuckled lightly. ”Signals are the inventions of observers, the parties involved often don’t have that intent.”

”The problem is,” Hutter continued, ”not all observers, like you, are willing to exercise restraint.”

This time, they exchanged a glance.

The moment was brief, but both understood the other’s point.

Arthur shifted his gaze, refocusing on his pipe. He took a puff and slowly exhaled the smoke. ”The young gentleman this morning simply visited an old acquaintance, talked about private matters, and then left. Whether he harbors other expectations is his freedom, but it’s not necessarily reality.”

”Sir,” Hutter picked up the cigar, ”the Foreign Office doesn’t claim to know everything. London is not a barracks, nor a police station. Even we can’t possibly record the comings and goings of every exile around the clock. Someone visiting an old friend for afternoon tea, others going to the theater, some taking a walk out of town, these matters don’t belong in the archives.”

Arthur said nothing, merely lifted a brow slightly.

Hutter then continued, ”Therefore, as long as certain individuals don’t appear in significant record-worthy events. For instance, official meetings arranged for foreign envoys by the government. Then the Foreign Office usually chooses to believe that this event didn’t happen, or at least, that it’s not worth attention.”

Arthur exhaled gently, the smoke slowly dispersed between the two. ”It seems the Foreign Office’s understanding of reality is more flexible than I imagined.”

Hutter paused at these words, his tone becoming more cautious. ”Of course, Sir. However, this flexibility has prerequisites. One prerequisite is that these private meetings themselves are not interpreted by any side as political commitments. Another is that they don’t create any irreversible situation. If it’s just paying tribute to an old soldier and reminiscing about the past, that’s at most sentimental. But once interpreted as seeking military endorsement or emphasizing one’s legitimacy, the nature changes completely. Because before this, whether for Paris or London, there’s already been an expensive lesson.”

”I understand your concerns. However, perhaps some things are worth viewing from another angle.” Arthur stood up, pacing to the window with his hands behind his back. ”A French Marshal, a Marshal of the July Monarchy of France, the Duke of Dalmatia, holding high rank and accolades, trusted by the King, having served as War Minister, been a Prime Minister, despite Paris’s unrest, he is someone sitting at the card table, not standing behind the barricades. Power, status, the security of reality, once these things are in hand, seldom would anyone want to let go for an uncertain future. Not to mention, that uncertain future might not even be better than the present.”

Saying this, Arthur couldn’t help but reveal a meaningful smile. ”At its core, this is just a young man’s wishful thinking, so let him be.”