xymnovel Chapter 312 Mental Exhaustion
Chapter 312 Mental Exhaustion
Chapter 312 Mental Exhaustion
The Marquess of Salisbury's low growl dissipated into the cold air of the study at 10 Downing Street. He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the cold fireplace. Wall Street's entry into the game was like a brutal crowbar, smashing a gaping hole in his meticulously arranged chessboard.
The financial noose has snapped.
But this leader of the British Empire had more than one rope in his hands.
For the next three weeks, it rained non-stop in London.
The sky was leaden gray, with thick clouds hanging low. Cold rain slanted against the window, forming streaks that blurred the entire world.
A side room in Buckingham Palace used specifically for diplomatic meetings.
The air was heavy and oppressive; every breath felt heavy.
The long, rectangular conference table, gleaming like a mirror, reflected the expressionless faces of the attendees.
The Marquess of Salisbury did not attend in person this time. Instead, he sent his deputy, a knight named Charles Harding, who was also the British ambassador to Greece. This man had impeccably combed hair, a perpetually polite yet aloof smile on his face, and spoke as if every word had been measured with a ruler.
"Your Highness," Sir Harding began slowly, his voice as smooth as oiled silk, "regarding the administrative divisions of the southern slopes of the Drino Valley, "to ensure that the rights of all ethnic groups in the region are fully respected, the British Empire proposes the establishment of an international committee composed of representatives of the major powers" to jointly administer the region for five years. After five years, its final status will be determined according to the wishes of the local inhabitants."
Again.
It's that poison disguised as honey again.
Constantine sat in the main seat, looking at the other person expressionlessly.
The "International Committee"? It's nothing more than a hand planted by the British, capable of stirring up trouble at any time.
"Co-management"? It's nothing more than spitting out the meat that's already in your mouth, letting a pack of wolves watch for five years.
He has heard dozens of similar suggestions in the past three weeks.
Like a group of the most patient fishermen, they used a vast net woven from countless tiny clauses to trap the Greek delegation. For every inch you managed to free yourself on one side, they would tighten their grip on the other.
The Ottoman delegation, ironically, had the easiest job. They simply sat there, sipping tea, and watched as the British worked to recoup their losses bit by bit.
Venizelos sat beside Constantine, his pen leaving a deep mark on the notebook in front of him. His lips were tightly pressed together, and his eyes behind his glasses flashed with a cold light.
"Sir Harding," Constantine finally spoke, his voice calm, "I want to remind you that the ownership of the Drino Valley was clearly defined before the war began. More than ninety percent of its inhabitants are Greek. Their wishes do not need to wait another five years to be expressed."
Sir Harding spread his hands, his face still bearing that impeccable smile: "Your Highness, war changes many things. We must be responsible for long-term peace. The British Empire's patience is limited, but our goodwill is limitless."
Patience is limited.
Boundless goodwill.
These words were like an invisible needle, piercing Constantine's taut nerves.
In his mind was the geological map marked "Prinos Oil Field".
Before him was Morgan's face, twisted with greed.
In his ear, Petaras' desperate screams over the phone, lamenting that he had run out of funds.
He won the financial war, but sank into an even deeper quagmire.
Every day, he was under immense mental pressure. He had to calculate the limits of the British, guard against the French betrayal, appease the greed of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and be wary of Russian provocations.
That string called reason has been stretched to its limit.
Sir Harding continued speaking, his clichés buzzing like flies.
"—For the long-term stability of the Balkans, a strong oversight mechanism is—"
"That's enough!"
Constantine suddenly stood up and slammed his hands heavily on the conference table!
"Bang!"
The loud noise startled everyone. The water glass on the table bounced up, spilling water everywhere.
The entire conference hall was completely silent.
All eyes were on the young crown prince who had suddenly emerged from obscurity.
Constantine's chest heaved violently, his eyes bloodshot and red. He stared intently at Sir Harding's astonished face, each word seeming to be squeezed out from between his teeth.
"Absolutely impossible!"
His voice, distorted by suppressed anger, sounded like thunder in the silent room.
"Every inch of that land is soaked in the blood of Greeks!"
"Not a single letter of the terms written in the Treaty of London can be changed!"
After saying that, he suddenly pulled out the chair, the chair legs scraping across the polished floor with a piercing shriek.
He strode out of the conference hall without looking back.
Venizelos stood frozen in place, watching Constantine's resolute retreating figure, then glancing at the various national representatives around the conference table, their expressions a mix of bewilderment and confusion. For the first time, panic flickered across his face. He quickly rose, bowed hastily to the crowd, and chased after them.
"Your Highness! Your Highness! Please calm down!"
In the rain, Constantine's figure disappeared into the shadow of the carriage.
official residence.
Constantine locked himself in his study.
He didn't turn on the lights, but just stood in front of the huge French windows, looking at the endless rain outside.
exhausted.
An unprecedented weariness seeped out from the depths of his bones, enveloping every nerve and every muscle.
This is not physical fatigue.
In his previous life, as a top-notch history researcher, he could work continuously for seventy-two hours on a single research topic.
This is a spiritual drain, a near-complete depletion.
He felt like a man walking alone on a tightrope, with a bottomless abyss beneath his feet and fierce winds raging from all sides, trying to blow him off. He couldn't afford to make a single mistake, nor could he afford to relax for even a moment.
He won on the battlefield, he won at the casino, but now he's trapped at this small negotiating table, unable to move.
For the first time, he felt a slight wavering in the face of this card game that he had started himself.
On the table lay a postal parcel tightly wrapped in a waterproof tarpaulin. It bore the sealing wax seal of the Royal Palace of Athens and had just been delivered this afternoon through diplomatic channels.
He knew it contained Sophia's letter, a message from the rear.
But at this moment, he didn't even have the strength to reach out and take it apart.
"Knock knock".
There was a knock on the study door.
"Come in." Constantine didn't turn around.
Venizelos pushed open the door and saw the crown prince, whose back was to him, with his shoulders tense.
The man who strategized on the battlefield and turned the tide in the financial war now exuded an indescribable loneliness in his silhouette.
Venizelos sighed inwardly.
He gently placed a new document on the table next to Constantine.
"Your Highness, the Austro-Hungarian ambassador has just delivered a memorandum with new supplementary terms."
Venizelos's voice was very low.
"Regarding the free trade rights of Thessaloniki, they demanded that Austro-Hungarian goods enjoy the same zero-tariff treatment as goods from Greece."
Another stab.
Constantine remained silent, like a stone statue.
Venizelos watched his motionless back, hesitated for a moment, and then whispered, "Your Highness, your reaction today was somewhat out of line. Sir Harding is trying to provoke us into making a mistake."
"I know," Constantine said in a hoarse voice.
"Sometimes, appropriate compromise is for the ultimate victory. We can make concessions on some minor terms first in exchange for them budging on core interests," Venizelos said, revealing his considerations as a politician.
Constantine finally moved.
He slowly turned around. In the dim light, Venizelos couldn't see his expression, only a deep, unfathomable weariness in his eyes.
"Venizelos," Constantine's voice trembled slightly, "tell me, where else can we retreat to?"
"Epiros is a core interest, Macedonia is a core interest, Crete is a core interest, and the Aegean Sea route is also a core interest —"
"Every step we take back is a precipice behind us."
Venizelos was speechless.
late at night.
The official residence was silent, with only the pattering rain outside the window.
Constantine remained seated behind the enormous desk, a fire now burning in the fireplace, its orange glow casting flickering shadows on his face.
He finally reached out and picked up the cold package on the table.
His fingers were a little stiff, and it took him several tries to tear open the tough oilcloth.
There were several letters inside.
He first picked up the top few envelopes, which were stamped with the seals of the Cabinet and the Ministry of Finance.
He opened it and quickly browsed through it.
Without exception, it was all bad news and bureaucratic clichés.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer lamented the empty treasury and complained about the exorbitant interest rates on bonds issued for the war.
The Home Secretary reported on soaring domestic prices and sporadic riots in some areas.
The Secretary of the Army, meanwhile, was incessantly complaining about how enormous the expenses were for stationing troops in the newly occupied territories.
Every letter was asking him for money and complaining about their difficulties.
It was as if he were not a commander fighting a bloody battle on the front lines, but an omnipotent god.
Constantine's breathing became rapid.
He suddenly crumpled all the letters into a ball and threw them violently into the burning fireplace!
The paper ball touched the flame and instantly burst into flames, turning into a wisp of black smoke.
Finally, his gaze fell on the few private letters wrapped in light blue paper, exuding a familiar fragrance.
That was Sophia's letter.
He reached out, picked up the top envelope, and, trembling, opened it.