Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 76: "Perfect for chaos."

Chapter 76: "Perfect for chaos."

The polished doors of the French Embassy shut with a soft, final click.

Moments earlier, the grand hall had been filled with laughter, toasts, and diplomatic theatre.

The Prince Regent of Yugoslavia and a cadre of high-ranking generals and ministers had paid their visit.

They arrived with condolences and reassurances, the appearance of friendship wrapped in wine and well-rehearsed pleasantries.

Ambassador Dufort and Moreau received them with proper decorum.

It was a dance they had both learned well.

"Your Excellency," the Prince Regent had said, clasping Dufort’s hand firmly, "we deeply regret the recent violence. The attack on your convoy was shameful, and I assure you, we will find those responsible."

"We are grateful for your concern, Your Highness," Dufort replied, bowing slightly. "And the Republic of France hopes this tragedy will not stain the alliance between our nations."

One of the generals stepped forward, his medals gleaming. "We have mobilized additional protection for the French delegation," he said.

"If you wish, we can assign elite guards to your movements. No more surprises."

Dufort had smiled politely, lifting his glass. "We appreciate the offer, General. But we trust in the spirit of cooperation more than battalions."

Laughter followed.

Toasts were made.

The wine flowed.

And as quickly as they came, the Yugoslav delegation departed.

The moment the doors shut, the color drained from Dufort’s face.

He sat heavily in his chair, eyes burning.

Moreau blinked. "What the hell was that?"

"A warning," Dufort hissed. "A quiet, velvet-gloved warning."

Moreau frowned. "They just offered protection."

"Protection?" Dufort snapped. "They weren’t offering security, Moreau. They were assigning executioners. Those men they weren’t apologizing. They were gloating."

Moreau’s voice lowered. "You’re sure?"

Dufort poured a stiff drink. "Absolutely. They were here to tell us: play nice, or disappear."

Moreau stepped toward the window, heart pounding. "And Paris? Have they said anything?"

Dufort laughed bitterly. "They haven’t even acknowledged the bombing. They’re distracted."

"Distracted by what?"

The ambassador tossed a newspaper onto the table.

Headlines in French screamed of protests, collapsing ministries, and rising anger.

"They don’t care back in Paris," the Ambassador muttered bitterly, pouring himself another glass of brandy.

"Rightist anti-parliamentary leagues are making noise again. Everyone’s too busy watching their own thrones to worry about ours."

Moreau froze mid-step.

He had almost forgotten.

No he had suppressed it, perhaps deliberately.

Filed it deep under the mountain of more immediate dangers: war, assassinations, diplomatic traps.

But now it came crashing back like a thunderclap.

His mind disconnected from the present.

His vision blurred as if he were being pulled not backward but forward, into history he already knew by heart.

February 6th, 1934.

Or in this world it might be in few days.

November 6

The history he knows is slowly changing.

The butterfly has flapped it’s wing.

He gritted his teeth, staring out the embassy window at nothing.

It never started with bullets, he remembered.

Not at first.

It began months earlier, with a man named Serge Alexandre Stavisky a fraudster, yes, but a man connected to the highest levels of the French political elite.

When his vast scheme of forged bonds collapsed in early 1934, it wasn’t just another scandal.

It was the match dropped into a room soaked in distrust.

Stavisky was found dead soon after, in a chalet in Chamonix.

Official reports called it suicide.

But the press and the public smelled murder.

They believed he had been silenced to protect the names of ministers, judges, and parliamentarians entangled in his fraud.

What followed was a wave of fury.

The Third Republic, already fragile and unpopular, found itself besieged by its own people.

Far-right leagues, monarchists, veterans’ groups Action Française, Croix-de-Feu, Jeunesses Patriotes they had always lingered on the edge of French society, angry and armed.

But now they had a cause.

To them, Stavisky’s death was proof the republic was corrupt to the bone, and those in charge were not just incompetent they were traitors to France.

Over weeks, public anger evolved into organization.

These leagues began holding rallies and marches, drilling in uniforms like private armies, flying nationalist flags and chanting against the rot of parliament.

Then came February 6th what history books would later call the day France nearly fell from within.

Tens of thousands of demonstrators, many of them war veterans, descended on Place de la Concorde, just outside the Chamber of Deputies.

Police barricades strained as the crowd surged forward.

Tear gas, clubs, and eventually live bullets were unleashed to hold the line.

By the end of the night, fifteen people were dead and thousands more wounded.

Blood stained the very heart of Paris.

The Prime Minister, Édouard Daladier, resigned under pressure within days.

The Republic survived but barely.

What struck Moreau most was how fast it all came apart.

A scandal.

A rumor.

A lie.

And a regime nearly brought to its knees.

That wasn’t just history it was a warning.

And here he stood, in 1934 days away from it happening all over again.

Except this time, the political instability had already become more worse.

The King of Yugoslavia had just been murdered on French soil.

Conspiracies were rampant.

The public was angry.

The conditions were perfect.

If Paris burns, Moreau thought sadly.

then everything I am trying to protect might collapse in the smoke.

Because the condition and timings have changed, if riots happened it will be more dangerous then ever.

He turned back to the Ambassador, who was still staring bitterly into his glass.

"Sir," Moreau said slowly, his voice more serious than before, "you mentioned the rightist leagues in Paris."

Dufort looked up. "Yes. The usual barking. Why?"

"Sir," Moreau said slowly, pulling himself back into the moment.

"Those leagues you mentioned...this isn’t just their usual noise. They’re not going to stop at protests and pamphlets this time."

Dufort narrowed his eyes, reading Moreau’s troubled expression carefully. "You sound very certain about that, Capitaine."

"Because I am," Moreau said firmly. "If Paris isn’t careful, history will repeat itself. When we return home, we might not recognize France anymore."

The ambassador studied Moreau for a moment, his gaze sharp, calculating. "You speak as if you’ve seen this before."

Moreau hesitated, weighing his words carefully. "Let’s just say I’m familiar enough with how quickly things can unravel. Stavisky was the spark once, and now...."

He stopped himself, aware he had already said too much.

Dufort took another sip, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "The assassination of the Yugoslav king has unsettled everyone. France is blamed, conspiracies abound, and tensions rise. You’re right. The timing couldn’t be worse."

"It’s perfect," Moreau said darkly. "Perfect for chaos."