Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 79: "You are not rebels. You are the guardians of a forgotten promise."

Chapter 79: "You are not rebels. You are the guardians of a forgotten promise."

It began as a whisper.

The news rippled across the arrondissements like a tide breaking through stone.

"Chautemps is out."

"And Tardieu?"

"Him too. Gone."

"And Moreau he’s speaking. From the Élysée."

It wasn’t printed on official broadsheets at first.

It spread from mouth to mouth.

From soldier to student.

Seamstress to shopkeeper.

In alleyways and courtyards, across bridges and bakeries.

The city paused to listen and then surged forward like a spring uncoiled.

By noon, thousands had gathered at Place de la Concorde.

By two, they were tens of thousands.

People stood shoulder to shoulder, worn out boots next to polished shoes, calloused hands beside gloved fingers.

Parisians climbed lamp posts and stood atop benches and wagons to glimpse the Élysée’s high balcony.

Veterans in worn trench coats pinned with Croix de Guerre leaned against canes.

Young boys waved faded tricolors.

Women clutched radios, straining to hear any crackle of confirmation.

And high above them, behind shuttered windows, Étienne Moreau watched.

He stood in silence, arms behind his back, his uniform immaculate under the light of the hallway.

The balcony was just beyond the velvet curtain.

He could hear them chanting, murmuring, whistling.

President Lebrun sat at a large oak desk, fingers templed under his chin.

Ministers stood around the edges of the room, some pacing, some sweating.

Beauchamp was the only one standing still, arms crossed like a statue.

One aide approached Moreau with a folder.

"We’ve redrafted your speech," he said nervously. "The tone has been... adjusted. A few paragraphs softened. Some references removed."

Before Moreau could answer, Lebrun’s voice cracked across the chamber.

"No edits. He speaks as he wrote."

The aide blinked. "But, Mr. President..."

"He speaks the truth," Lebrun said coldly. "And if it’s too much for our ears, then we deserve to be deafened by it."

Moreau glanced at Beauchamp, who offered only a small nod.

"You don’t need our approval anymore," the general murmured. "You already have theirs."

Outside, the crowd was growing louder.

Renaud entered the room, his boots muddy and coat streaked with soot.

"They’re not chanting for blood," he said. "They’re chanting his name."

"Then let’s give them the man they came for," said Beauchamp.

Moreau stepped forward.

He took the original speech from the aide’s trembling hands, walked to the balcony doors, and paused with one hand on the curtain.

"You ready?" Renaud asked quietly.

"No."

He opened the doors anyway.

The crowd erupted like cannon fire.

The cheers shook the windows, echoed down the Seine.

Flags were raised, fists punched the air.

Moreau stepped into the light. Uniform crisp, cap under his arm, eyes steady.

He raised a hand.

The sound dipped instantly into a silence so complete, it felt reverent.

He began to speak.

"Brothers. Sisters. Children of France

Look around you.

Look at your neighbors, your friends, the strangers beside you. You have not gathered here in fear.

You have come in hope. Hope that this nation, your nation, still belongs to you.

I am not a politician.

I do not wear silk or drink wine from silver goblets in quiet rooms. I am a soldier. I have seen the blood of my comrades soak into our own soil by traitor’s.

I have killed those traitor’s and have stood by the justice.

And I have come here today to speak, not with permission, but with duty.

For too long, your anger has been mocked.

For too long, your sacrifices have been dismissed as statistics. You were told to endure while others feasted.

You were told to remain silent while they bartered your future.

Today, that silence ends.

You forced change with your voices, your feet, your fury. Prime Minister Chautemps will resign.

Minister Tardieu, too. Not because of politics. But because of you.

Let no one take this from you.

This is not revolution.

This is reclamation.

You are not rebels.

You are the guardians of a forgotten promise.

A Republic where truth matters.

Where medals mean something.

Where the children of miners, farmers, and soldiers grow with dignity not shame.

But this fire you carry it is sacred.

And sacred fire, if not guided, will consume not the oppressors, but the house we wish to rebuild.

I ask you do not become what you despise.

Do not burn what you hope to inherit.

Stand strong, but stand together.

We are watched from every side from Berlin to Rome, from London to Washington..

The world wonders if France will stand or stagger.

Let them see that we are not a house divided, but a people risen.

I do not want your applause.

I want your vigilance.

Your courage.

Your stubborn belief that truth is worth fighting for even when it is inconvenient.

I speak to the veterans who marched here in silence, their medals hidden in drawers because the world forgot them.

I speak to the mothers who lost sons to the mud and were paid with inflation and excuses.

I speak to the students, hungry not just for bread, but for justice.

And I speak to those in the government, behind these walls

We see you.

We will remember your silence as clearly as your crimes.

But we offer redemption.

You must meet this fire with light, or be swallowed by it.

I do not speak for glory.

I speak because I love this country too much to let it drown in the lies of men who pretend to lead it.

Long live justice.

Long live the Republic.

Long live France."

The square fell into silence.

A deep, collective breath.

Then came the thunder.

Cheers.

Cries.

Fists in the air.

Tears on cheeks.

Veterans weeping quietly.

Students linking arms and singing.

And above it all, a single chant:

"MOREAU! MOREAU! MOREAU!"

Inside the Élysée, ministers stood frozen.

The President, eyes glassy, whispered to Beauchamp, "We asked for a soldier. We got a statesman."

Beauchamp said nothing.

Outside, Moreau stood still, staring at the crowd, his mouth firm, his back straight.

He did not wave.

He did not smile.

He simply listened.

"Vive la France!"

"Vive la République!"

The Republic had spoken back.

And for once it roared not in rage, but in hope.

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