"Hah! I thought we wouldn't meet until after the Christmas Mass." Talleyrand, leaning on his cane, pointed down a side corridor with a smile. "This way, my old friend."

The Marquis of Wellesley followed in silence, cursing inwardly. If it weren't for Cornwallis's incompetence on the battlefield, he wouldn't have to rush to Paris to endure the mockery of these damn Frenchmen!

After walking a bit further, Wellesley suddenly realized something was off. He looked around and asked:

"Your Excellency, have you taken the wrong path? This doesn't seem to lead to the Peace Hall."

According to French custom, important negotiations at Versailles usually took place in the Peace Hall.

Talleyrand turned slightly, offering an apologetic smile:

"Unfortunate timing, Marquis. The Peace Hall is reserved for the signing ceremony between the Paris Gas Company and the Paris City Council for the gas streetlight installation project.

"Ah, you see, the Gas Company booked it in advance. But no matter, we can discuss matters just as well elsewhere."

Wellesley barely managed to hold back a curse. Was this damn cripple implying that the British Empire's Foreign Secretary was less important than some gas company?

But Talleyrand continued, all smiles:

"Oh, by the way, Marquis, on the 15th of next month, Paris will host the inaugural ceremony for the gas streetlights. I sincerely invite you to attend. It's an event not to be missed."

"I'll consider it," Wellesley grumbled through clenched teeth.

Soon, the French and British delegations were seated in a modest reception room.

Talleyrand, seemingly fascinated by the topic of gas streetlights, continued to extol their virtues:

"They're really quite remarkable. Oh, and you'll never guess which city, after Paris and Lyon, will be the third to light up its night sky with gas streetlights."

"…"

"It's Tunis!" the crippled diplomat declared triumphantly. "Surprising, isn't it? Well, with the threat from those Algerian bandits no longer an issue, many investors are eyeing its potential. The Duke of Tunis himself will come to Paris to sign the contract with the Gas Company."

"Ahem—" Wellesley had to awkwardly interrupt Talleyrand's gaslight monologue. "Your Excellency, you know why I'm here. It's time for our two countries to clear up some misunderstandings.

"While the Algerian 'bandits' have brought disaster to Tunis, the Mysore marauders in the Far East have also caused considerable damage to the British East India Company.

"I believe we should work together to combat these bandit forces."

Talleyrand waved dismissively with a smile:

"Thank you for the offer, but our troops have already thoroughly punished the Algerians and Moroccans. There's little trouble left in northwest Tunisia.

"By the way, how are things going with the East India Company?"

Wellesley sighed inwardly. Why did the Moroccans have to be as incompetent as Cornwallis? He knew he would have to make some concessions to salvage the situation in India—after all, the British Parliament had already authorized him to make substantial compromises.

Ignoring Talleyrand's question, he shifted the topic:

"Your Excellency, my country will condemn the Tripoli bandits and support your nation's necessary retaliation against them."

Poor Ben Juir had just been labeled a "bandit," effectively acknowledging France's expansion into Tripoli.

"A very wise decision!" Talleyrand nodded with a smile. "However, the Algerian bandits have also caused serious damage to our Tunisian territory. Did you know that Her Majesty the Queen has decided to declare war on Algiers? I think Britain should support this action as well."

Wellesley quickly objected, "No, that wouldn't be appropriate…"

Tripoli was one thing, but he couldn't accept Algiers—nearly twice the size of Tunisia—falling under French control.

Talleyrand cut him off:

"As I understand it, Carnatic lost half of Tiruchirappalli's territory two months ago. Perhaps we should wait and see—maybe Mysore will suddenly feel the Lord's call and withdraw."

Wellesley took a deep breath and threatened:

"Your Excellency, I've heard that your nation's merchant ships have been frequenting the Pacific lately. Perhaps they need the Royal Navy to ensure safe passage."

Talleyrand knew this was a threat to attack French merchant ships, particularly those transporting wool from New Zealand. But he shrugged, unconcerned:

"I'm not sure what you're referring to, but I've heard that the Russian fleet has suddenly taken an interest in Pacific trade."

Indeed, the ships of the Twins Trading Company flew Russian flags, with most of the crew being Russian as well.

Wellesley hesitated, then coldly said:

"The ports in the Pacific are not very safe either."

This was a direct threat to target trade hubs. Though the British weren't fully aware of who the Franco-Russian ships were trading with, the Royal Navy had the power to find out.

"I'm not concerned." Talleyrand spread his hands. "The pirates are welcome to try."

The Prince had told him that the Maori in New Zealand didn't need French protection—Britain would need to commit at least half of its national forces and spend over five years to conquer the area.

Such a costly endeavor was something Britain simply couldn't afford.

Wellesley probed further, confirming that Talleyrand wasn't bluffing. He couldn't help but feel a sinking sense of defeat—he had already played nearly all his cards.

Suddenly, he stood up and, gritting his teeth, declared:

"Your Excellency, if you continue to be so aggressive, the only result will be war!"

Talleyrand, seeing Wellesley's frustration, knew he had nearly reached his limit. He raised his hand in a calming gesture:

"Relax, dear Marquis. At the very least, we should punish the Moroccan bandits entrenched in Annaba. After that, the Mysore forces attacking Carnatic might truly feel the Lord's call."

Wellesley fumed inwardly: Damn cripple, they're Muslims—God won't be guiding them anywhere!

But he slowly sat back down. "If it's limited to Annaba, we might have something to discuss…"

At 5 p.m., Wellesley, clutching his stomach in pain with one hand and holding the preliminary draft of the "Non-Intervention Treaty" with the other, returned to London. He handed the document over for Parliament's review and signature, already contemplating what he would do after resigning as Foreign Secretary.

Yes, after taking over the mess from the Duke of Leeds, he had been confident in his ability to turn things around, only to find himself in an even worse position than his predecessor.

The Duke of Leeds had resigned last year due to the failed North African strategy, and Wellesley knew he would soon follow suit.

"Maybe I'll go to India and tell Cornwallis how to fix the mess there," he muttered to himself.

After all, it was after Mysore's intervention that things had begun spiraling out of control, so reclaiming ground from Mysore was essential.

(End of Chapter)

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