As the hegemon of the Continent, it had to consider matters from the overall picture. Supporting the Russo-French War alone was clearly not enough; Spain's deployment of troops to Morocco also had to be supported.
But how to support them was what gave Franz a headache. Direct intervention was impossible; the rules of the political game were very clear: one guarded one's own wealth.
The world of the great powers was the most realistic of all. If Spain truly could not even handle a few native tribes, then it was not qualified to possess colonies.
Material aid would be like tossing meat buns to a dog—gone for good. Morocco did not interfere with the Holy Roman Empire in any way, so there was no need to suppress it.
Any substantive aid, no matter what was given, would mean taking a bloody loss. That left only the great method of spiritual encouragement. Whether the Spanish Government needed it or not, it was happily decided.
Snowflakes drifted down. The once-prosperous streets of Paris were now left with nothing but desolation. The snow-white sidewalks reflected faint streaks of light.
A breeze brushed against their faces, followed abruptly by a bone-piercing gale that swept up the falling snowflakes, as though blades were carving through the air...
A carriage slowly pushed forward through the wind and snow, the creak of its wheels crushing the snow sounding from time to time.
The pedestrians on the street turned a blind eye to the scene, hurrying to and fro.
Curfew was about to begin. If they did not hurry home, falling into the hands of Russian Army soldiers on duty would mean losing a layer of skin at the very least.
The carriage window suddenly opened, and a middle-aged man leaned his head out. After looking around,