The silence that followed Christian's proposal was a vacuum, waiting to be filled by the most powerful voice in the room. Every delegate, every minister, every secretary held their breath, their eyes fixed on Otto von Bismarck.
The Iron Chancellor did not scowl. He did not shout. He rose to his full, immense height and, to everyone's astonishment, he smiled. It was a thin, predatory smile, but a smile nonetheless.
"Remarkable," Bismarck began, his voice a calm, reasonable rumble that seemed to soothe the tension in the room. "The young Count of Eskildsen presents us with an idea of stunning, youthful idealism. He appeals to the great modern principle of self-determination. A plebiscite. It is an elegant thought, a testament to the new spirit sweeping across Europe."
He let the praise settle, disarming the British and French mediators who were beaming at the apparent victory for their liberal values. Then came the counter.
"But such an undertaking," Bismarck continued smoothly, "is one of immense complexity. The voting districts—who will draw them to ensure perfect fairness? The voter rolls—do we include only current residents, or those who have fled the conflict? The timeline—can a truly free vote be held while soldiers still occupy the roads? These are not matters for grand speeches, but for careful, detailed study. I propose that the principle of a plebiscite be accepted, while the details are delegated to a sub-committee of Danish and German administrators who can resolve these practical matters."
It was a masterful stroke of political judo. In one breath, he had publicly agreed with Christian's proposal, satisfying the mediators, while simultaneously seizing control of its execution. He had moved the battle from the public forum, where Christian had the moral high ground, to a closed committee room, where the gears of Prussian bureaucracy could grind the idea into dust over months, or even years.
The conference session adjourned on a wave of feigned progress. The senior Danish delegate, Count Moltke, was ecstatic. "You did it, my boy!" he whispered to Christian. "He agreed! You've saved North Schleswig!"
Christian knew better. He had won the opening skirmish, but Bismarck had just dictated the terms of the next battle, moving it onto ground of his own choosing.
That evening, a formal note was delivered to Christian's hotel. Minister President von Bismarck requested the pleasure of a private, informal meeting at the Prussian residence. No delegations. Just the two of them.
Christian found the Chancellor in a library filled with leather-bound books and thick cigar smoke. Bismarck offered him a glass of sherry and got straight to the point.
"A fine move at the conference, Count," he said, settling into a large armchair. "A truly fine move. You appealed directly to the English sentimentality for voting. They were eating from your hand."
"I merely appealed to the principles you yourself laid out, Minister President," Christian replied.
Bismarck waved a dismissive hand. "Let us not play games, you and I. We are not sentimental men. We are men who understand the realities of power. Your plebiscite is a brilliant piece of theater, but it will never happen. Not in a way you would recognize."
He leaned forward, his eyes fixing Christian with an intense, unblinking stare. "It will be buried in committees for a year. In that time, my administrators will be running Schleswig. My officials will be drawing the voting districts. My soldiers will be keeping the 'peace'. My newspapers will be explaining the benefits of joining the great German nation. When the vote finally occurs, do you truly believe it will be fair? You have won a moral victory in London. I will win the demographic and administrative victory on the ground. You will get nothing."
The blunt, brutal truth of it settled on Christian. He had been outmaneuvered.
"So," Bismarck continued, sensing his advantage, "let us be practical men and conclude this business. Your public proposal has given you leverage. Use it. I am prepared to offer a concession. A gesture of goodwill."
He gestured to a map on the wall. "Drop this fantasy of a plebiscite. End the debate. In return, I will personally guarantee a new border. The towns of Haderslev, Aabenraa, and Sønderborg, and the lands north of them—indisputably Danish territories—will be returned to your King's domain. Cleanly. Immediately. The rest of Schleswig becomes ours. You get a small, tangible victory you can take home to your people. I get the territory my King demands. We both walk away with what we need, and this conference ends tomorrow."
The offer hung in the air, a devil's bargain. It was a fraction of what a fair vote might have yielded, but it was a concrete offer of land. The alternative was to fight for the principle of the plebiscite, a fight Bismarck had just guaranteed he would lose through sabotage and delay.
Christian's knowledge of history was a curse. He knew what Denmark had lost in the original timeline—everything. Bismarck was now offering him a piece of it back. But his 21st-century mind recoiled at the thought of abandoning the democratic principle and consigning tens of thousands of Danes in central Schleswig to German rule.
He had met his match. He had won the public debate, only to be checkmated in the private negotiation. His decision now would not be based on a brilliant new idea, but on a cold, hard choice between a guaranteed small gain and a noble, but likely fruitless, struggle. The new borders of Denmark would be drawn not by the will of the people, but by his answer in this smoke-filled room.