At the final session of the London Conference, Christian watched as the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Russell, praised the "wisdom and pragmatism" of the joint Danish-Prussian proposal. The words were hollow formalities; the real work had been done days before in a smoke-filled room. With the bored scribbling of clerks and the rustle of papers, the treaty was signed. The map of Europe was redrawn with less ceremony than the changing of the palace guard.
The journey back to Copenhagen was on a fast naval steamship, a courtesy arranged by a grateful Admiral Løvenskiold. Standing on the deck, watching the gray waves of the North Sea churn, Christian felt the immense weight of his actions settle upon him. He had traded territory for security, principle for pragmatism. He had won, but the victory tasted of ash. Amalie's letter, which he kept in an inside pocket, was a constant, burning reminder of the man she believed him to be, and the man he had just become.
As his ship entered the harbor at Copenhagen, the sound of a cannon salute echoed from the naval fortress. He had been expecting a quiet return. He was not prepared for what he saw. The docks were packed with thousands of people. A sea of Danish flags waved in the wind, and as he stepped onto the gangplank, a roar went up from the crowd. They were cheering his name.
The newspapers, fueled by leaks from the triumphant delegation, had painted him as a modern folk hero. They called it the "Miracle of London." The boy Count who had faced down the Iron Chancellor and won back Danish land. He was their David who had not slain Goliath, but had at least forced the giant to give back part of the farm.
Fievé and Løvenskiold were there to greet him. The Baron's face was split by a wide, triumphant grin. The Admiral's eyes were filled with proud, paternal warmth. Christian played the part required of him. He was gracious, somber, acknowledging the cheers with a humble nod, projecting the image of a young patriot burdened by responsibility, not a strategist celebrating a successful gambit.
His first destination was Amalienborg Palace. The atmosphere of his third audience with the King was unrecognizable from the first two. The King, his reign salvaged from total disaster, was practically beaming.
"Count Eskildsen," the King declared, dispensing with formality. "You have done the impossible. You have plucked victory from the jaws of defeat."
He gestured to a small, ornate box held by a minister. Inside, resting on velvet, was the collar of the Order of the Elephant, its jeweled war elephant unmistakable. Christian saw Count Moltke, also present, draw a sharp breath at the sight—an honor so high it was almost mythical for any but royalty.
Christian knelt, accepting the heavy chain with a low bow. "Your Majesty's faith is the only reward I seek," he said, his voice a study in perfect humility. As he rose, he did not pause to admire the honor. "And to prove worthy of it, we must immediately turn to the task of national reconstruction. The army must be fully re-equipped. The navy must have its ironclads. The economy must be reformed to pay for it all. The work of the committee has only just begun."
The King, now seeing Christian as the architect of his own renewed prestige, agreed without hesitation. "You have my full support, Count. Whatever you need, you shall have it."
The reception that evening was a suffocating crush of well-wishers and opportunists. Christian endured it for an hour before escaping to a quieter balcony overlooking the palace gardens. He found Amalie there, watching the festivities from a distance. She turned to him, a rare, genuine smile on her face.
"Listen to them," she said, her voice carrying over the distant music. "That is the sound of a city that believes it has a future again. My grandfather says you did not just win back land; you won back our pride."
He looked at her, at the pure, idealistic hope on her face, and felt the immense gulf between her world and his. "The best victory available is rarely a noble one, Miss Løvenskiold," he replied, his voice softer than he intended. "It is merely… the least costly."
She frowned slightly, sensing the strange melancholy behind his words, a depth she could not yet understand.
Later that night, long after the celebrations had ended, Christian stood alone in his study. On the wall now hung a new, large map of Denmark, the red line of its new southern border drawn exactly where he and Bismarck had agreed.
The war was over. His domestic political rivals were silenced, crushed by his success. He had the unwavering support of the King, the loyalty of a powerful industrial and military coalition, and the adoration of the public. He had his blank check.
The first, chaotic phase of his new life was complete. He had survived the war, consolidated his power, and secured the nation.
He looked at the map, but his eyes saw beyond the new border. He saw the vast, unclaimed territories of Africa on a world map in his mind. He saw the new trade routes his ironclads could command. He saw a nation, not just surviving, but expanding.
The preliminary stages were over. The real work of building the Danish Empire could now begin.