Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 81: "Patriotism is not submission, and criticism is not treason."

Chapter 81: "Patriotism is not submission, and criticism is not treason."

The sun rose over Paris like it was trying to apologize.

There was still tension, yes.

Still questions.

But now there was something else.

Expectation.

By seven in the morning, people were already moving.

Not marching, not shouting simply moving. Walking toward the Élysée Palace.

Toward the square where yesterday, a soldier had stood and said something that hadn’t been said in years: "France isn’t dead."

That soldier was Étienne Moreau.

Inside the Élysée, the atmosphere was restrained.

A formal ceremony was never really designed to accommodate hope.

Hope was messy.

But today it mattered.

Moreau stood inside the small side chamber with Renaud and General Beauchamp.

He had dressed carefully.

Not because he wanted to look important but because he knew what this moment would mean to those outside.

Every wrinkle in his uniform would become a symbol, every gesture remembered.

"You sure about this uniform?" Renaud asked, trying to adjust Moreau’s collar.

"I didn’t bring another one," Moreau replied, tugging it back into place.

Beauchamp chuckled. "I offered you a new one. Tailored. You turned it down."

"I’d rather they see the real thing," Moreau said. "Blood, sweat and all."

Beauchamp nodded. "Good. Let them see the soldier. The man who stood in the mud with them."

There was a knock.

A young aide stepped inside. "They’re ready, sirs."

Beauchamp gestured with a small motion. "Time to step into history, Major."

Moreau looked up. "I’m still Capitaine."

Beauchamp smirked. "Not for long."

The palace courtyard had been prepared like an open stage.

On one side stood officers in full ceremonial dress.

On the other, veterans and union leaders.

And directly in front behind steel barricades thousands of citizens crammed into the square, their faces turned upward toward the palace balcony.

President Albert Lebrun stood at the center, his usual quiet demeanor replaced by something far more deliberate.

His speech was already in his hand, though he didn’t glance at it.

His eyes were focused on Moreau, who stood to his right.

He began.

"Citizens of France.

In the past week, our nation stood at the edge. Not of war, but of collapse. Not of invasion, but implosion.

And yet, you stood tall.

You marched, not because you hated the Republic but because you feared you had been forgotten by it.

And then, someone stood up not with rank or wealth, but with truth.

Yesterday, on this very balcony, Capitaine Étienne Moreau said what our offices forgot, what our papers ignored, and what our halls of power refused to confront.

He reminded us that patriotism is not submission, and criticism is not treason. That loyalty sometimes demands confrontation. That the Republic does not belong to its ministers it belongs to its people.

Moreau reminded us of the soldier who returns to find no home, the widow who finds no pension, the worker who finds no justice.

And yet, he did not tell you to destroy what was broken.

He asked you to rebuild it.

For that courage, for that clarity, for that uncommon sense of duty France does not simply thank him. France promotes him."

The crowd stirred.

"Capitaine Moreau, step forward."

Moreau stepped up, posture straight but expression calm.

The President lifted a small velvet case and opened it.

A gold insignia glinted in the morning sun.

"For bravery in combat. For valor in truth. For loyalty under fire, in battle and in Parliament. By decree of the Republic of France, I hereby promote you to the rank of Major."

There was a brief moment of stunned quiet.

And then applause broke like thunder.

Real, raw, human applause not ordered or prompted, but earned.

It rolled across the courtyard and spilled into the square, where the people erupted into chants:

"MOREAU! MOREAU!"

"VIVE LA FRANCE!"

Even the guards lining the palace walls stood a little taller.

Moreau stood still as the President pinned the insignia on his chest.

Lebrun leaned close and whispered, "Well done, Major. Keep scaring the right people."

After the formalities, the courtyard turned informal.

Civilians pushed forward.

Journalists shouted questions.

A few ministers offered stiff congratulations.

A veteran with only one hand saluted him.

A baker’s son from Marseilles handed him a hand-drawn picture of Moreau wearing a cape.

Moreau kneeled beside the boy. "Is that supposed to be me?"

The boy nodded. "You stopped the bad ones."

Moreau smiled. "Not all of them. But we’re getting there."

Renaud, arriving with two glasses of cheap white wine, handed one over. "Well, Major, your name is going to be in every paper tomorrow."

"Not what I signed up for."

Beauchamp joined them, pulling a cigar from his coat.

"You didn’t sign up for anything. You made this. And for the record, you shut half the cabinet up. That’s worth another medal."

"You know they hate me now, right?" Moreau said.

Beauchamp lit the cigar, puffed once, and shrugged. "Good. Let them. Means you’re doing it right."

Inside, the Élysée’s banquet hall filled with officials, military guests, and foreign observers.

The mood was lighter now wine flowed more freely, hands were shaken more sincerely.

President Lebrun found Moreau by the window, staring out at the square.

"You ever want to be a politician, Major?" he asked.

"No, sir. Never."

"Pity. You’d be good at it."

"I think I’m better at telling them what they’re doing wrong."

Lebrun chuckled. "We need that too. Which is why you’ll be sitting in on the defense budget next month."

Moreau turned. "I thought this was just a medal and a handshake."

"No. This is the start. You asked the people to rebuild the Republic. Now you get to help shape it."

Moreau hesitated. "I’m not trained for politics."

The President gave a thin smile. "Neither are half the people in my cabinet."

As the day wore on, and the celebration spilled into newspapers and radio stations, France reacted.

From Lille to Lyon, telegrams arrived at the Élysée.

Veterans’ associations praised the speech. Workers’ unions called for calm, inspired by Moreau’s words.

The streets began to clear.

Riots faded into conversation.

And across military garrisons, soldiers toasted not just the new Major, but what he represented: someone like them, someone who hadn’t forgotten.

At the Ministry of Defense, Beauchamp reviewed new drafts for internal military reforms.

Every one of them had a small note scribbled in the corner:

"See if Moreau approves."

That night, Moreau stood once more on the balcony alone.

Renaud joined him, holding a half-empty bottle.

"Want to hear something insane?" Renaud asked.

"Always."

"I saw a boy walking down the street today, waving a flag. Not a party flag. A French flag. Just waving it. Like it meant something again."

Moreau said nothing.

"You did that," Renaud continued.

"No," Moreau replied. "We all did. I just said it out loud."

Renaud raised the bottle. "To saying it out loud."

They clinked invisible glasses.

Inside, Beauchamp watched from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

He didn’t say anything.

He just smiled.