The Chancellor's Red Pen

The chancellor holds a telegram from his king. At a spa town, a French ambassador stopped the king on his morning walk and asked, again, about the Spanish throne. The king said there was nothing left to discuss, and walked on.

Printed exactly as written, the telegram changes nothing — both sides save face, and the crisis quietly ends. But the chancellor has a red pen in his hand. Cut down to its bones, the same words sound like an insult: a king who won't even receive an ambassador. Print it that way, and French pride won't let it go unanswered.

He believes the war that follows would be short, and that Prussia would win it fast. He believes that war, fought against a common enemy, is exactly what would finally turn Germany's scattered states into one country.

His editor is waiting. The pen is already moving.