Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 80: "Tomorrow, you’ll wear the uniform of a Major."

Chapter 80: "Tomorrow, you’ll wear the uniform of a Major."

The roar of the people still rang through the city when Capitaine Étienne Moreau stepped back inside the Élysée Palace.

Inside the presidential reception hall.

Ministers, aides, generals, and civil servants hovered in corners, exchanging hurried glances.

No one spoke to him.

They stared, nodded, but didn’t speak.

President Albert Lebrun stood alone at the end of the hall, near the old map of France hung behind his desk.

He looked as though the years had caught up with him in the last twelve hours eyes rimmed red, posture slightly stooped but when he turned to face Moreau, his gaze held firm.

"Capitaine," the President said, walking toward him. "You have done more in one hour than we managed in years."

"I only told the truth, sir," Moreau replied.

The President chuckled, tired but genuine. "Yes. And you told it well enough to silence a thousand liars."

Moreau stood awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

He sensed tension still in the air, a rope not yet cut.

President Lebrun clapped a hand to his shoulder. "Congratulations, Major Moreau."

A beat passed.

The room fell into silence.

"...Sir?" Moreau blinked.

"You didn’t mishear me," the President said. "Promotion. Effective immediately. You’re now a Major in the French Army. A ceremony tomorrow. Public. Paris deserves to see it."

Murmurs spread across the room.

A dark-haired Minister of Trade stepped forward, lips thin. "Mr. President, may I ask, is this entirely prudent?"

Another chimed in, older, with a mustache curled like a blade. "Rewarding a soldier who just publicly condemned half your cabinet seems a risky precedent."

"And what precedent would you prefer?" Lebrun turned, voice sharp as cut stone. "Rewarding cowardice? Ignoring the people who saved your neck?"

"With respect...."

"No," the President cut him off. "Enough ’respect.’ Enough polished rot. If you deny this man recognition out of fear for your own positions, you’re not serving the Republic...you’re serving yourselves."

Gasps followed.

President Lebrun raised his voice. "You saw them today. The people. The veterans. The workers. The youth. They followed Moreau’s voice, not yours. And if you continue your petty maneuvering, tomorrow it won’t be the crowd that comes to your doorstep....it’ll be the French Army."

A minister paled.

Another opened his mouth, then shut it.

General Beauchamp stepped forward slowly, composed. "Mr. President... I assure you, the army does not seek to threaten this government."

The President turned his tired eyes toward the general. "I know that, General. Because of men like you. But even you cannot ignore the danger of betraying the last symbol of credibility this Republic has."

He faced Moreau again. "You gave them peace without force. Dignity without demand. And for that, we must thank you in the only way France understands publicly."

Moreau, silent until now, straightened. "I... I don’t know what to say."

"You already said everything that mattered," Lebrun replied, more softly now. "Tomorrow, you’ll wear the uniform of a Major. And you’ll show this country that service and honor still mean something."

The ministers retreated like defeated chess pieces, mumbling excuses and bowing out of the room one by one.

As the chamber emptied, Beauchamp lingered beside Moreau, watching the ornate doors click shut behind the last dissenter.

And then, to Moreau’s surprise, the general laughed.

A hearty, honest laugh.

"You stubborn son of a bitch," Beauchamp said, slapping him on the back. "You managed to make me smile in a room full of career politicians. That’s a damn miracle."

Moreau chuckled, still unsure how to process everything. "I wasn’t aiming for a miracle. Just trying to stop a civil war."

Beauchamp’s face grew serious. "And that’s exactly why it worked. You shut down half the ministers in one speech. Gave justice to every veteran still waiting for it. And you reminded this army hell, this country what a soldier looks like."

Moreau exhaled slowly. "Justice done right will always win in the end."

Beauchamp laughed again. "You’re too young to sound that old."

They walked out into the Palace courtyard.

The clamor of the crowd outside had not died it had changed.

Now, they weren’t chanting slogans or curses.

They were shouting a name.

"Moreau! Moreau! Vive la République!"

Beauchamp glanced up at the sound. "You hear that?"

"I do."

"How does it feel?"

"Dangerous," Moreau replied honestly. "They raise you up to look like a statue. And statues fall."

"Then don’t stand still," Beauchamp said. "March forward. Let the bastards chase you."

They both laughed.

That evening, the news spread like wildfire across Paris.

LEBRUN PROMOTES MOREAU TO MAJOR

SPEECH PRAISED NATIONWIDE

REPUBLIC LIVES ANOTHER DAY

People poured into cafés and markets.

Radios repeated the speech like gospel.

Former soldiers lit candles beneath their old regimental flags.

Women wept, not in sorrow, but with a quiet pride they thought had long vanished.

In Montparnasse, students wrote Moreau’s words in chalk across the pavement: "We must not destroy the Republic. We must remake it."

And in every garrison from Brittany to the border of Alsace, officers raised a glass not to a politician, not to a bureaucrat, but to one of their own.

Later that night, Moreau sat alone in a quiet hallway of the Élysée, near the war memorial wall a solemn plaque with names etched deep in brass.

He ran a finger over names he remembered from past life.

They all had one thing in common, they were young who hadn’t lived long enough to see the world become complicated.

And they all served with hope that one day this republic will do justice to them.

"Did I do the right thing?" he whispered aloud.

"You did," a voice answered behind him.

It was Beauchamp, leaning against the doorframe, coat over his arm.

"You’re the only one in this building who remembers what it feels like to stand in mud and fear the dawn. That’s why it worked."

Moreau looked down. "I’m afraid they’ll turn me into something I’m not."

"They already did," Beauchamp replied. "Now make sure they remember what you are."

Moreau stood, nodding. "Tomorrow, I wear the uniform of a Major."

"Tomorrow," Beauchamp agreed, "you wear the hopes of a nation."

Outside, the bells of Notre-Dame rang slowly over the Seine.

And across a country that had nearly torn itself apart, people finally began to sleep.

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