The graceful white silhouette of the promise the star-studded sea gradually vanished into the waves of the Baltic.
Meanwhile, in the Winter Palace of Saint Petersburg, another drama of "joys and sorrows, separations and reunions" was unfolding.
French Prime Minister Adolphe Thiers and the Austrian Empire's special envoy, Baron von Neumann—two "unfortunate high-ranking Europeans" who had waited in Saint Petersburg for nearly fifteen days—finally received a long-delayed audience with Tsar Nicholas I, only after Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart and Victoria had departed for London.
The meeting was excruciatingly awkward.
Nicholas seemed distracted throughout, occasionally muttering a perfunctory "hmm" or "ah" in response to their impassioned pleas concerning "joint containment of British hegemony" and "maintaining the balance of power on the continent."
Most of his attention, however, was absorbed by a small, exquisite **brass lighter** that Arthur had "generously gifted" him. The device, capable of producing a flame with a simple click, captivated him far more than the endless harangues of the weary diplomats before him.
Finally, after Thiers passionately reiterated France's firm stance that "France will never allow the Mediterranean to become a British inland sea," Nicholas yawned and delivered a remark that almost made both men choke with disbelief.
"Oh, regarding the Mediterranean issue…" His Majesty the Tsar said in an extremely *friendly* tone, "I believe, gentlemen, perhaps you should go to London personally and have a pleasant chat with our 'British friends'?
"After all, our Russian Empire is a great power, responsible and peace-loving. In principle, we support all amicable proposals that contribute to 'free trade' and 'maritime security.'"
He had, almost word for word, repeated the diplomatic rhetoric Arthur had taught him.
Thiers and Baron von Neumann immediately understood.
They were utterly defeated.
Completely betrayed by their ally of the "Holy Alliance," left with nothing—not even their dignity.
That damned British Prince Consort must have concluded some unspeakable, secret imperial succession pact with the Tsar without their knowledge!
In the end, these two figures, capable of commanding the winds and rain of their respective nations, could only leave Saint Petersburg humiliated, enraged, and seething.
The political skies of Europe had changed.
From that moment on, at the European power table, they would no longer face a Britain practicing its "splendid isolation," easily courted and balanced.
Instead, they would confront a **super-hegemony, aggressive and expansionist, led jointly by the "Iron-Fisted Queen" and the "Devil Prince Consort"**.
…When Thiers, shaken, reported to King Louis-Philippe in Paris the (partial) contents of the Saint Petersburg Treaty he had uncovered,
This "Citizen King," upon learning that "Crimea would become an international free port jointly administered by Britain and Russia," was so terrified that he slipped from his throne instantly.
"They're insane! They're all insane!" he screamed, voice cracking. "The British fleet will enter the Black Sea?! Then… then… the Mediterranean?!"
He seemed to envision countless steel giants, the Queen of Vengeance herself, blocking the entire Mediterranean, rendering it impassable.
"No! Absolutely not!" He grabbed Thiers by the collar, screaming hysterically. "Adolphe! You! Now! Immediately! Go to London for me!"
"Ah?! Again… again?" Thiers' legs weakened; he ran back and forth, treated like a servant.
"This time, I don't care about the cost!" His eyes burned with terror. "Even if we must cede half of our Algerian colony! We must! We must make the English agree to form a 'Holy Alliance' with France!"
"Tell them! We are willing to make complete concessions on the Egyptian question! We recognize their 'special interests' in the Suez Canal! We can negotiate anything! We only ask… we only ask the Great Brother Britain to let us play! Do not abandon us!"
Thus, gripped by an intense "fear-of-abandonment syndrome,"
France—the once-proud "Gallic Rooster"—completely surrendered all discretion and dignity, sending yet another peace delegation to London, teetering on the verge of hysteria.
Thus began, under a grimly humorous atmosphere, the "honeymoon period" between Britain and France, orchestrated personally by Arthur Lionheart.
Meanwhile, in London, Buckingham Palace:
Arthur Lionheart and Victoria had just completed their "sweet" journey home.
Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, rushed in immediately, panicked. Without even bowing, he asked with a tense expression:
"Your Royal Highness! Your Majesty! Are you… are you alright?! That Nicholas… he didn't harm you, did he?!" He was clearly shaken by this "adventure."
"What could possibly happen?" Arthur smiled, pouring a glass of whisky for the diligent old Prime Minister. "We had quite a delightful time. The caviar in Saint Petersburg was excellent."
"Delightful?!" Lord Melbourne's heart nearly stopped at the word. "My Prince Consort! This is no jest! I heard both Austrian and French envoys went to Saint Petersburg! The entire European diplomatic circle is about to explode! What… what exactly did you discuss with Nicholas?!"
"Oh, nothing much."
Arthur casually placed a copy of the Saint Petersburg Treaty—already jointly signed by him and Nicholas I, bearing the national seals of both nations—before Lord Melbourne.
"We merely had a friendly exchange of opinions regarding the 'tourism development' of the Crimean Peninsula."
Lord Melbourne picked up the treaty with suspicion. A single glance unleashed a brilliant light in his eyes!
As he read, word by word, the clauses on "the establishment of an international free port in Crimea," "joint Anglo-Russian garrison," "joint control of Black Sea navigation," and Russia's tacit acknowledgment of Britain's "priority" in Egypt and the Suez Canal,
his hand began to tremble violently and uncontrollably!
He was no longer reading a diplomatic treaty.
He was reading a "divine oracle" on the division of the world, written by the devil himself!
Not a single soldier!
Not a single formal negotiation!
All through a "honeymoon," this young Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart had secured strategic interests for the British Empire more glorious and immense than ten Trafalgar victories—without shedding a drop of blood.
Not only had he successfully brought the Royal Navy into the heart of Russia,
but he had also, incidentally, sidelined France from the Eastern Mediterranean power game.
Moreover, he laid the most crucial groundwork for the Empire's future control over the Suez Canal, the "lifeline."
What kind of terrifying and inscrutable diplomatic prowess was this?
"Your Royal Highness…"
After a long pause, Lord Melbourne slowly lifted his head. The expression in his eyes, as he stared at Arthur Lionheart, had transformed from concern to , reverential awe.
"I… now finally understand why you said you wished to inaugurate a new era."
He held the treaty carefully to his chest like a sacred relic, voice hoarse with emotion.
"With this treaty… our British Empire will be… unrivaled for the next fifty, even a hundred years!"
"No, Sir," Arthur said calmly, shaking his head at Melbourne's excited, almost fainting expression.
"It is not so simple. Nicholas knows he has been at a disadvantage; he agreed only temporarily, under my financial coercion. We cannot be sure he will truly keep his word later, or that he won't simply tear up the treaty."
Arthur moved to the window, gazing over the bustling city of London, shrouded in industrial smoke and the hunger for wealth, a deeper, grander light flashing in his eyes.
"Furthermore, this is far from sufficient."
"Our enemy has never truly been Russia, nor France."
"Our true enemy is our increasingly rigid system, and our hearts that have begun to grow complacent and conservative."
"And…" His gaze drifted westward, beyond the Atlantic, toward that new continent, full of infinite possibilities and immense threats.
"…And that true future adversary, silently emerging right under our noses."
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