Chapter 16

The British Empire's silence, though presently maintained, cannot mask the brewing storm. Internal deliberations regarding a suitable response are already underway, signaling a shift in the prevailing equilibrium. Meanwhile, Belgium's feeble government has precipitated a crisis of national humiliation. Its citizens, particularly the Sea Belgians, are acutely aware of the disdain emanating from, most notably, the British. While overt aggression is absent, a palpable resentment festers. King Leopold I, overwhelmed by the pressures of his office, harbors a profound resentment towards his Prime Minister. The populace's accusations of partiality—a sentiment shared by both Dutch and French-speaking factions—are deeply corrosive. Unwilling to shoulder the blame, the wily monarch has conceived a cunning scheme: a calculated maneuver to exonerate himself and mollify the restive Dutch populace.

...

"Brussels in 1850? A wild place," I chuckled, swirling the wine in my glass. "The Capitol area... forget about safe. Absolutely terrifying. I remember seeing this ancient, grimy map at the police station on Capitol Hill. It was covered in 'X' marks – murders. Every corner, every alley. You risked your life just walking around there." My companion, a younger man, leaned forward, intrigued. "Really? So what did people do?" "Well," I continued, "there was this place, near the carriage station – a restaurant, the 'Wonderful Restaurant.' It catered specifically to the police. Paid for in Dutch guilders, of course. The owner, shrewd fellow, loved having officers in uniform visible at the entrance. Deterring robbers, you see." "And what happened to it?" he asked. "Gone. Razed five years ago. Now it's a church. Can you believe it? Ironically, the old Capitol grounds are now a cheap parking lot. Perfect for students looking for a romantic rendezvous – though the pockets of old are long gone. It's just a historical marker now, a point on an old map." I paused, taking a sip of my wine. "But the Wonderful Restaurant is more than just a location. It's a story. A lesson in political history, you might say. Back in 1840, when Belgium was newly formed, it was a bustling hotel. Senators, Supreme Court justices – even ordinary folk – stayed there. I remember the basement... a long row of cramped rooms, one shared bathroom. Cold, damp... but buzzing with life every night. Young, ambitious people dreaming of success in the Belgian parliament. Their hopes, their fears... all contained within those walls." "So it was more than just a restaurant; it was a microcosm of the time," he observed. "Exactly," I affirmed. "A place where the dreams and anxieties of a nation intersected. And where, if you listened carefully, you could still hear the echoes of those long-ago ambitions."

The air in the Wonderful Hotel's cramped hallway hung heavy with the scent of soap. Among the throng of underground tenants, a figure stood out: Joseph Beit, a burly 29-year-old with ears that could rival an elephant's. Just two weeks prior, he'd been a municipal worker in West Flanders; now, he was secretary to Senate President Sterman. His first night in Brussels was… unusual. "Four baths?" a fellow tenant, Pierre, whispered incredulously, adjusting his spectacles. "Four times he paraded down the hall in a bath towel!" "And the teeth brushing!" chimed in another, Henri. "Five times before sunrise! Five minutes apart! The man's obsessed!" The truth was simpler, albeit more ambitious. Joseph, surrounded by sixty senatorial secretaries and one hundred and fifty congressional ones, had a plan. "Retail politics," he'd explained to a bewildered Pierre, "one customer at a time." His goal: to know everyone. His method was unorthodox, but effective. Within five months, he was the undisputed leader of the "Little Congress," an informal network of representatives and aides. His old boss, Sterman, watched in bemused fascination. "That Beit," he chuckled to his aide, "he's a force of nature." This rapid ascent hadn't gone unnoticed. One person, in particular, was watching closely: Jules Darnell, the political chameleon of Limburg. "Bate," a concerned voice said, interrupting Joseph's celebratory drink. It was his closest advisor, Marcel. "We need to watch Darnell. He's… adaptable. Remember the 1858 Mosaic City council election? He botched his speech terribly, practically alienated everyone. Yet, within days, he'd spun it into a testament to his resilience. He turned a near-disaster into a masterclass in political survival." Joseph took a slow sip of his drink, his large ears twitching slightly. "He's good," he admitted, "but I aim to be better." His eyes held a glint of determination. "Retail politics, Marcel. One person at a time. Even if that person is Jules Darnell."

"They said he was finished," Joseph Baiter stated, his knuckles rapping a staccato rhythm on the polished mahogany table. His voice, usually jovial, held a note of grim fascination. Across from him, Hayters, his longtime friend and campaign manager, leaned back, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Finished? Darnell? The man's a phoenix," Hayters chuckled, a trace of bitterness in his tone. "Remember 1860? Limburg? He was down and out, written off by everyone, yet he pulled off a stunning victory, a landslide—75%! The whole of Belgium was buzzing. He used that 'role rotation' strategy like a maestro conducting an orchestra. He turned defeat into a triumphant symphony." Baiter nodded slowly. "He calls himself the 'child of the comeback.' But this election… this Prime Minister's race… is different. He's trying to position himself as a neutral force, neither pro-Dutch nor pro-French, a centrist… supposedly." Hayters sighed. "On paper, a brilliant strategy. But our operation in the Dutch-speaking region… it's… complicated. We pushed the 'middle ground' narrative, but it backfired. How can you claim neutrality when your own people are being marginalized? We alienated a significant portion of the Dutch-speaking vote, and honestly, Joseph, you deserve credit for the innovative bottom-up salary approach, but this unintended consequence is a major setback for Darnell" Hayters' voice dripped with a mixture of frustration and sarcastic amusement. "He's trying to straddle the fence. Trying to be all things to all people. It's like watching a tightrope walker with no net." Baiter met his gaze, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Easy, Hayters. Don't count your chickens. You said it yourself – the man's a master of the comeback. The situation is far from settled. It's far too early for self-congratulation, or premature gloating." Hayters leaned forward, a grudging respect replacing his earlier cynicism. "You're right. He's always been unpredictable. But I still think this time, he's bitten off more than he can chew. This could be the one time he stumbles." Baiter remained silent, his gaze fixed on the table, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers the only sound in the room, a silent acknowledgment of the uncertainty that still hung in the air. The election, and Darnell's fate, remained a game of unpredictable twists and turns.Orbon, Belgium's Prime Minister, is not alone in his strategic vision. Numerous individuals share his ambition. His intense focus on his two key adversaries in the Netherlands stems from a calculated belief: their defeat would solidify the Dutch-speaking bloc's electoral power against their French-speaking counterparts, paving the way for a decisive victory. Yet, a gnawing apprehension, a profound sense of disquiet, plagues him. This unsettling feeling, though palpable, remains stubbornly elusive, its origins shrouded in mystery.

...

King William IV paced, his brow furrowed. Tolbeck's anxieties echoed his own. Their clandestine Belgian gambit, meticulously laid, had yielded results—but the British Empire remained stubbornly inert. Had Palmerston, that astute fox, detected their ruse? Days stretched into an unsettling silence; Britain's inaction rendered their strategy – to lure the Empire into the Belgian quagmire and incite popular outrage – perilously flawed. The question gnawed at them: had the British sniffed out the trap and refused the bait? The King, though initially skeptical, dismissed the notion of continued British apathy. "The Empire's insatiable curiosity is legendary," he declared. "Their inaction is a calculated delay, a pretense of unconcern. We must persevere." He fixed Tolbeck with a steely gaze. "The provocation, it seems, lacks sufficient…magnitude." Tolbeck, understanding dawning on his face, simply nodded. "I comprehend, Your Majesty." The ensuing escalation was swift and brutal, casting a grim shadow over Belgium. Barely recovered from the Francophone assault on the Flemish command, the nation was struck again.

On January 24th, 1862, a brazen attack targeted the British consulate in Mons, Hainaut's capital. The British consul perished; over ten more perished alongside him, while twenty suffered grievous wounds. The impact was immediate and devastating. Belgium, once embroiled in a localized conflict, instantly became Europe's volatile flashpoint. This was no longer a Franco-Belgian spat; it was an open confrontation with the mighty British Empire. The audacious attack on British soil, a blatant violation of diplomatic norms, plunged the continent into a maelstrom of uncertainty.

The incident was clearly a deliberate act of aggression, not a mere accident; no one could possibly mistake it for anything else. As global attention focused on France, a shadowy organization, self-styled champions of "French restitution," brazenly claimed responsibility. Their statement, a fiery declaration of grievances, resonated with potent indignation. They vehemently denounced British imperial encroachment, citing the Suez Canal seizure, the domineering British presence in the English Channel and French territorial waters, and the egregious British naval patrols in the Mediterranean—waters they considered inherently French. This audacious attack, they proclaimed, served as a stark warning: France would brook no further British interference. The world recoiled. Napoleon III's countenance darkened; Prime Minister Olivier, visibly shaken, frantically disavowed any government complicity. This denial, however, proved futile. The political capitals of Berlin, Vienna, St. Petersburg, and London watched with a mixture of grim amusement and anticipation. Napoleon III's desperate attempts at damage control were transparent. London, they all knew, was the crucial player. Indeed, London erupted. Public outrage ignited street protests, forcing Viscount Palmerston into an emergency cabinet session. The British response hung heavy in the air.