The morning of the first conference session was thick with a nervous, funereal gloom. The senior Danish delegate, a veteran diplomat named Count Moltke (a cousin of the man whose finances Christian had targeted), urged caution and conciliation.
"We must appeal to the goodwill of the great powers," Moltke insisted, his hands trembling slightly. "We must remind them of the 1852 London Protocol that guaranteed our borders. Our position is one of legality and tradition. Count Eskildsen, I must insist you remain a silent observer. Your… directness… would be inappropriate here."
Christian simply nodded, his face impassive. He had no intention of appealing to goodwill. Goodwill was the currency of beggars. He intended to trade in the currency of leverage.
The conference was held at Lancaster House, in a vast room where a single, immense mahogany table stood like an altar for the sacrifice of nations. The delegations were arrayed around it: the stern Prussians, the resentful Austrians, and the nervous Danes. At the head of the table sat the mediators—the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Russell, and his French counterpart, who looked thoroughly bored.
Lord Russell opened the proceedings with a speech full of polished platitudes about the importance of peace and the European balance of power. Then, he gave the floor to Prussia.
Otto von Bismarck rose, his physical presence dominating the room. He did not shout or grandstand. In a calm, reasonable tone, he laid out Prussia's case. He spoke of the long-suffering German-speaking people of Schleswig and Holstein, yearning to join the German Confederation. He framed the war not as a conquest, but as an act of national liberation. His conclusion was simple, hard, and uncompromising: both duchies were to be ceded, in their entirety, to German administration. It was, he implied, the inevitable verdict of history.
Count Moltke responded for Denmark. He gave a meandering, legalistic speech, citing dusty treaties and the historical rights of the Danish Crown. His arguments were sound by the logic of the old world, but they wilted in the heat of Bismarck's powerful realpolitik. He sounded weak, desperate. Christian could see the British and French mediators struggling to hide their impatience.
As Moltke sat down, having achieved nothing, Christian saw his moment. Before the President could move on, he stood.
"Lord Russell, if I may have a word?" Christian asked, his voice respectful but firm.
A shocked silence fell over the Danish delegation. Count Moltke looked horrified. Bismarck raised a curious eyebrow. Lord Russell, intrigued by the young man who was the subject of so much rumor, gestured for him to proceed.
Christian walked to the table. He did not look at his own delegation, but at the British and French mediators.
"Minister President von Bismarck speaks eloquently of the principle of national self-determination," Christian began, his voice ringing with a clarity that belied his age. "He argues that the German-speaking people of the duchies have a right to join their brethren. It is a modern, and indeed, a noble sentiment. One that the liberal governments of Britain and France surely appreciate."
He let that praise hang in the air, a baited hook.
"But the Minister President's proposal, the full annexation of both duchies, ignores a simple truth: Schleswig is not entirely German. The northern districts are overwhelmingly, proudly, and historically Danish. To hand these people over to German rule would violate the very principle of self-determination that he claims to champion."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes sweeping from the mediators to a now-stone-faced Bismarck.
"Therefore, Denmark offers a new, radical, and eminently fair solution. Let us not rely on ancient treaties or the claims of kings. Let us put the question to the people themselves. I formally propose an internationally supervised plebiscite. A vote, district by district, throughout Schleswig. Let the people draw the border. Let the farmers and the merchants, the Danes and the Germans, decide their own future. Surely," he concluded, his gaze locking with Bismarck's, "no one who truly believes in the will of the people could object to allowing them to speak."
The proposal landed in the room like a thunderclap. It was a move of utter genius. He had taken Bismarck's own argument and turned it into a weapon against him. A plebiscite was a modern, liberal idea that was impossible for the British and French to oppose. But it would guarantee that North Schleswig, at the very least, would remain with Denmark.
Lord Russell's eyes lit up. "A plebiscite," he said, a note of genuine excitement in his voice. "A most… progressive solution, Count Eskildsen. A very British solution."
The French delegate, suddenly looking interested, nodded in agreement.
The entire dynamic of the conference had been upended in thirty seconds. All eyes turned to Otto von Bismarck, the master statesman who had just been cornered by a boy. The Iron Chancellor's face was a mask of iron, but Christian could see the cold fury in his eyes. He had come here to dictate terms, and instead, he had been forced into a game he did not wish to play, on a board designed by his opponent.
The first move in the diplomatic duel had been made.