Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 78: Two soldiers beneath the marble dome of a battered democracy

Chapter 78: Two soldiers beneath the marble dome of a battered democracy

The soon departed towards the palace.

As the armored Citroën barreled through the battered boulevards of the capital, Étienne Moreau watched the city blur past with clenched jaw and tight fists.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did General Beauchamp, seated beside him.

Paris was no longer the city of lights.

The President was waiting.

And they were taking him something dangerous.

"You sure you’re ready for this?" Beauchamp asked quietly, breaking the silence as they neared the Élysée Palace.

"I’m not," Moreau admitted, "but I’ve learned you don’t need to be ready to do what’s right. You just need to do it."

Beauchamp smirked. "Spoken like a fool... or a future minister."

Moreau gave him a side glance. "Please don’t insult me."

The general actually laughed.

They passed through the final gate, saluted by jumpy guards with reddened eyes and sweat-soaked collars.

The chaos outside hadn’t spared the Palace.

Inside the grand building, officials rushed through corridors like rats during a flood.

Whispers filled the hall names, accusations, numbers of injured in Place de la Concorde, rumors of resignations, coups, trials.

A secretary brushed past Moreau, muttering, "Nine dead this morning. Three just children."

And in a high-ceilinged chamber behind double oak doors, the President of the Republic waited.

Albert Lebrun, the man tasked with holding the French Republic together with little more than parchment and persistence, stood at the center of the room, surrounded by key ministers and advisors.

When Beauchamp and Moreau entered, every conversation stopped.

Eyes turned.

The President squinted, recognizing the soldier beside the general. "Capitaine Moreau? You were supposed to be in Yugoslavia."

"I was, Mr. President," Moreau said. "But I returned the moment I realized what was about to unfold here."

Beauchamp stepped forward. "Sir, what the Capitaine brings isn’t panic, it’s a path forward. A dangerous one. But our only one."

The Minister of Justice, a bald man with deep wrinkles and even deeper pride, scoffed. "With respect, this is absurd. A junior officer proposing state policy?"

Beauchamp’s reply was sharp. "And what has your seniority brought us? Burned trams and broken bones in the streets?"

The room tensed.

Lebrun turned to Moreau. "Capitaine. Explain yourself."

Moreau stepped forward.

He saluted once, then began.

"Mr. President. I returned from Yugoslavia early because I saw what was forming here. The streets don’t want debate. They want blood. And if we hesitate any longer, they will take it from whoever is closest. France is bleeding. And it won’t stop with words. The people have stopped believing you listen. They think this building is a tomb. They’re here to bury it

"You’re suggesting we negotiate with mobs?" one of the economic ministers scoffed.

"I’m suggesting we survive," Moreau snapped. "The streets don’t rise like this for theater. This is the reckoning for every broken promise since 1919. For every soldier who returned from war to find corruption instead of gratitude. For every widow who watched officials grow fat while her pension dried up."

Silence.

Beauchamp spoke next. "Capitaine Moreau believes we must offer the people something real...."

"Someone," Moreau corrected. "The Prime Minister. And at least one minister known for corruption."

A wave of anger surged through the room.

The Minister of Commerce stood. "This is treason! He’s demanding we eat our own!"

"Are you mad?!" barked a Justice Ministry aide. "You want us to hand over the government?!"

"I want us to preserve it," Moreau shot back. "Sacrifice a few to save the whole. You let me speak to the crowd with the medals they gave me and the truth they already believe and we calm this down before it turns into 1917 again. This isn’t surrender. This is tactical retreat."

The President sat down slowly, eyes on the floor.

"And who would you remove, can you say that once more Capitaine?" Lebrun asked at last.

Moreau didn’t hesitate. "Camille Chautemps. And André Tardieu. Chautemps must resign. The people hate him more than they hate the men with batons. He’s the face of empty promises. And Tardieu his hands are too deep in foreign pockets."

The room exploded in noise shouting, cursing, protests.

"Impossible!"

"He’s the only one holding the Right together!"

"He’s done more for the state than any of you!"

Beauchamp’s voice roared above the chaos.

"ENOUGH!"

Silence crashed back into the chamber.

Beauchamp stared down the room like a general addressing a broken battalion.

"You all saw what’s happening. Every minute you argue, another stone is thrown, another man bleeds, another boy dies in the street. We don’t have time for pride."

The President rose.

"I agree with the General."

Every head turned.

Lebrun continued, slowly. "The Republic is a house on fire. And I would rather throw water than debate who lit the match."

He looked at Moreau. "You will speak from the balcony tomorrow. Place de la Concorde. You’ll stand beside me. And you will give this country something to believe in."

Moreau nodded. "Yes, Mr. President."

Beauchamp exhaled long and slow, lighting another cigarette with shaky hands.

The President turned to his ministers. "Prepare the resignations. I’ll make the announcement in the morning."

Murmurs and outrage erupted again, but Lebrun had already turned away.

As the meeting broke, Beauchamp and Moreau stepped into the cold air of the courtyard.

Beauchamp muttered, "You just rewrote the script of the Republic."

"I hope I didn’t just write its obituary."

That night, from the palace balcony, Moreau stood in silence as workers below cleared broken glass from the square.

A podium was being assembled where he would soon speak.

Behind him, Beauchamp offered a quiet word.

"They’ll remember what you say tomorrow."

"Let’s just hope they don’t tear me apart before I finish."

"You know," Beauchamp said, "when this began, I thought you were too stubborn. Too wild. Too untrained."

"And now?"

"Now I’m glad you are. Because nothing else could’ve survived this mess."

They stood side by side, two soldiers beneath the marble dome of a battered democracy, as dawn threatened the sky with a promise of fire or peace..depending on the words to come.

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