London: The Frenchman's Humiliating Journey

Inside a suite at the Savoy Hotel in London, the flames in the fireplace flickered, but they couldn't dispel the chill in the room.

Vice Admiral Charles Dubois, head of the French naval delegation, stood by the window, his back to the other five members in the room. Outside, the Thames shimmered with a leaden gray light in the twilight, and several barges glided slowly by, like the unhurried heartbeat of this empire.

"So, that's the British answer."

Dubois's voice was calm, eerily calm. He held in his hand a copy of a newly arrived diplomatic memorandum—the British Admiralty's official reply to France's procurement request.

"Yes, General." The deputy head of the delegation, Navy Captain Jean-Pierre Leclerc, spoke with suppressed anger. "They said that the Royal Navy is currently fully committed to modernizing its home fleet, and all shipbuilding capacity is already at its limit. If dreadnoughts are to be built for the French Republic, the earliest would be 1909—and only after all existing orders are completed."

"1909," Dubois repeated the year, turning around. The fifty-five-year-old naval commander, with the dark skin typical of Mediterranean men and hawk-like eyes, now burned with a cold flame. "Three years. How many ships will the Germans have in three years? Twelve? Sixteen? And we have none."

The room was deathly silent.

Colonel Leclerc walked to the coffee table and picked up another document: "The request for technology transfer has also been rejected. The British say that the design of the Dreadnought involves core secrets of the Royal Navy and cannot be shared with any foreign country—not even a 'traditional ally'."

"Traditional allies," Dubois sneered. "What a beautiful word. When they need our support in Morocco against Germany, we are allies. When they need their warships, we are 'foreigners.'"

He walked to the fireplace, picked up the tongs, and poked at the firewood, sparks flying everywhere.

"Do you know what the most ironic thing is?" Dubois didn't turn around. "After the Germans' 'friendly visit' to Portsmouth, Tirpitz publicly told reporters: 'The German Navy welcomes technical exchanges with all friendly countries, including France.' He was humiliating us, and at the same time, he was humiliating the British."

"But the Germans won't actually sell to us." Louis Moreau, the delegation's technical expert and shipbuilding engineer, adjusted his glasses. "That's just diplomatic rhetoric. The German Emperor would rather we stay behind forever."

"So we're just supposed to be tossed around like beggars between Germany and Britain?" Dubois whirled around, slamming his pliers against the marble edge of the fireplace with a jarring clang. "The French Navy, once vying with Britain for supremacy on the world's seas! And now? Now we have to wait in line for the British to give us handouts, and listen to the Germans' mockery!"

Everyone in the room lowered their heads.

Humiliation. That's the most concrete form of the word in the room.

Colonel Leclerc took a deep breath and broke the silence: "General, there's one more thing. We received a... somewhat unusual report from Naval Intelligence."

"explain."

"Regarding the true origins of these dreadnoughts," Leclerc opened his briefcase and took out a French document marked "Top Secret," "The British 'Dreadnought' was indeed designed by themselves, but the German Westphalian-class... probably not."

Dubois frowned. "What do you mean?"

"In the past three years, no major German shipyards have built any 20,000-ton warships. The construction schedules for all large dry docks are publicly available. However, Germany has exported more than five times the usual amount of specialty steel and large machine tools to the Persian Gulf region on the edge of the Ottoman Empire."

"The Persian Gulf?" Dubois took the document and quickly scanned it. "What else is there besides sand and nomads?"

"There is a... Chinese community," Leclerc pointed to a passage in the document, "about 300,000 people who call themselves 'Lanfang descendants.' They have established an industrial base there, exporting crude steel and chemical products. And recently, our merchant ships in the Gulf of Aden have heard rumors from sailors—that a 'steel monster' has appeared on the southern shore of the Persian Gulf."

Dubois narrowed his eyes: "Are you telling me that the world's most advanced battleship might have been built by a group of Chinese in the desert?"

"It sounds like a fantasy, I know," Leclerc said with a wry smile. "But if the Germans could really secretly build six warships on their own soil without us finding out, that would be an even bigger miracle."

Engineer Morrow interjected, "From a technical standpoint, it's also possible. There are many excellent craftsmen among the Chinese. If they had complete blueprints, sufficient equipment, and the core components provided by the Germans..."

"And then the Germans flaunted these warships as their own achievement?" Dubois pondered. "No, that doesn't make sense. How could Kaiser Wilhelm, that megalomaniac, allow others to build 'German pride'?"

“Unless,” Leclerc said slowly, “he has other purposes. For example… to hide his true shipbuilding capabilities. Or, that place has a more important strategic value to him.”

Silence fell in the room once again.

The firewood in the fireplace crackled and popped.

After a long silence, Dubois spoke: "What does the Navy Department think of this report?"

"The higher-ups are very cautious. Some think it's nonsense, while others... advocate sending someone to investigate." Leclerc paused. "But whether it's true or not, General, we have no choice now. The British want us to wait three years, the Germans won't sell to us, and it will take us at least four years to design and build it ourselves—and the Germans' guns are already pointed at our foreheads."

He walked to the map of Europe on the wall and pointed to Morocco:

"The first Moroccan crisis had only been over for six months, and the German Emperor's speech in Tangier was still fresh in our minds: 'The German Empire has interests in Morocco on an equal footing with other great powers.' They were using naval power to support diplomatic blackmail. If we don't have equal strength..."

"The next crisis, we'll have to make concessions," Dubois continued. "And then the next, and the one after that. Until French influence in North Africa is completely eradicated."

He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured three glasses of brandy, and handed them to Leclerc and Morrow.

"Gentlemen, I have an idea—a crazy idea."

The two men took the wine glasses and waited for him to continue.

Dubois raised his glass, but didn't drink; he simply watched the amber liquid swirl within.

"If...if there's even a one in ten thousand chance that the rumors about the Persian Gulf are true. If there really are people there who can build dreadnoughts, then why doesn't France just go directly to them?"

Leclerc's hand trembled, nearly spilling his wine: "General! That means we're going to make a deal with... an entity that isn't internationally recognized! And it could anger the Germans, even the British!"

"The British have already rejected us," Dubois said coldly. "The Germans were never friends to begin with. As for international recognition?" He laughed, a laugh full of sarcasm. "When has the international community ever recognized the rights of the weak? If we had six dreadnoughts, the whole world would agree with us."

He drank the wine in his glass in one gulp:

"I need to send a telegram to Paris. I suggest sending a secret delegation to the Persian Gulf under the guise of an 'industrial survey.' If that 'Lanfang' really exists, if they truly have shipbuilding capabilities..."

Dubois's eyes gleamed in the firelight:

"Then, the French Republic is willing to become their second major customer."

The next morning, at the Foreign Office building in London.

The French naval delegation was kept in the reception room for a full forty-five minutes before being led to the office of the Marquis de Langston, the Foreign Minister.

This is a carefully designed indifference.

"General Dubois, please have a seat." The Marquis of Langston looked up from behind his desk with a standard politician's smile. "I apologize for keeping you waiting; the cabinet meeting this morning went a bit long."

Dubois sat up straight, maintaining a military posture. "It's alright, Your Excellency. We understand you are busy with state affairs."

After exchanging pleasantries, we got straight to the point.

"Regarding your country's procurement request," Langston pulled a document from a folder and pushed it across the table, "the Admiralty has given a formal reply. I assume you've received a copy?"

"Yes," Dubois said, controlling his expression, "but we hope, perhaps, that there is more room for discussion. The French Republic is willing to pay a premium and reciprocate in other areas—such as providing your country with stronger support on the issue of Morocco."

The Marquess of Longston shook his head slightly, a gesture that was elegant yet undeniably authoritative:

"General, this is not a matter of money, nor is it a matter of political exchange. The Royal Navy of the British Empire is undergoing the largest modernization in its history. Ten new dreadnoughts are under construction simultaneously, and all shipyards, all engineers, and all skilled workers are operating at full capacity."

He leaned forward, crossed his hands on the table, adopting a posture of openness and sincerity:

"Do you know what Lord Fisher said? He said: 'The Royal Navy is now like a besieged army, with not a single gun or bullet to be given to anyone else, not even the closest of friends.'"

"My closest friend," Dubois repeated the word, a hint of barely perceptible sarcasm in his voice. "So, Your Excellency, how do you think the French Republic should protect its overseas interests and national security under pressure from the German Navy?"

"Diplomatic means," Langston replied immediately. "The balance of power in Europe has maintained peace for thirty years. The Germans are demonstrating strength, but that doesn't mean they will use it. As long as we remain calm and restrained..."

"Keep calm and restrained, watching the Germans build dreadnoughts one after another?" Dubois interrupted him, this time making no attempt to hide the anger in his tone. "Your Excellency, when six cannons are pointed at your doorstep, would you advise your neighbor to 'keep calm'?"

The atmosphere suddenly became tense.

The Marquis of Langston's smile vanished: "General, please watch your words."

“I’m paying close attention.” Dubois stood up, placed his hands on the table, and looked down at the British diplomat. “So I know exactly what I’m saying: the British Empire is abandoning its allies, leaving them to face the threat from Germany alone.”

"No one is abandoned..."

"Then give me a definite date!" Dubois raised his voice. "Not 'after 1909,' not 'after existing orders are completed.' A precise, written date—when will the French Navy receive its first dreadnought?"

Langston fell silent.

He couldn't do it. Because the British Admiralty's instructions to the Foreign Office were clear: no explicit promises could be made to the French. Britain's shipbuilding capacity had to prioritize its own needs—a hard-won rule Fisher learned by smashing the Prime Minister's porcelain.

"You see," Dubois straightened up, straightened his uniform, and his voice regained its calmness, but that calmness was more terrifying than his previous anger, "not even willing to give a false promise. This is what your country calls 'traditional friendship'."

He turned and walked toward the door, but stopped when his hand touched the doorknob.

Without turning around, he simply said with his back to the Marquis of Longston:

"Your Excellency, please convey to your country's Navy and Cabinet: I hope you will not be surprised when France is forced to seek other ways to protect itself. After all, survival is the first instinct of any nation."

"Other routes?" Langston frowned. "General, what do you mean?"

Dubois finally turned around, a cold smile on his face:

"What I mean is, the world is vast. And desperate people will go to every possible place to look for hope."

The door opened, then closed again.

The French naval delegation has left.

The Marquess of Longston sat alone in his office, his brow furrowed. He picked up the phone: "Connect me to Lord Fisher's office at the Admiralty...yes, now."

While waiting for the call to connect, he looked out the window. London was overcast as always, with low-hanging gray clouds that seemed like the sun would never shine again.

The call was connected.

"Fischer? This is Langston. The French just came by, very unhappy... no, not just disappointed, angry. General Dubois said some strange things about 'finding other avenues'... Yes, I feel something's not right either. Has your intelligence department received any hints about other countries potentially acquiring dreadnoughts?"

Fisher's voice came through the receiver, speaking quickly and with his usual impatience.

As Langston listened, his expression gradually changed.

"The Persian Gulf? Chinese people? Are you sure this isn't a fantasy?...They've already sent people to investigate? God...if this is true..."

He hung up the phone and paced back and forth in his office.

The French threat was not unfounded. If they did indeed find another way to acquire dreadnoughts—however improbable—then Britain's bargaining power in the Moroccan question would be greatly diminished.

More importantly, if dreadnought technology begins to proliferate...

Langston stopped and picked up another phone: "Connect me to the embassy in Paris. Tell the ambassador I need an urgent report: Has the French Navy made any unusual personnel changes or budget allocations recently? Especially... anything related to the Middle East or the Far East."

After hanging up the phone, the seasoned diplomat felt a chill.

The world is changing at a speed he cannot comprehend.

The diplomatic skills that the British Empire was so proud of appeared so pale and powerless in the face of the absolute technological gap.