Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 85: "France’s support or its silence will matter greatly to Rome."

Chapter 85: "France’s support or its silence will matter greatly to Rome."

Le Bourget Airfield, Paris

Mechanics and aides ran around in the morning about the aircraft an elegant silver Farman 223, modified for diplomatic travel, its interior refurbished for comfort, not combat.

A tricolor fluttered beside the aircraft, flapping softly in the cold wind.

Major Étienne Moreau stood near the foot of the stairs, a leather satchel in one hand, a freshly brushed overcoat draped across his arm.

He wore civilian clothes now a simple grey suit with a discreet lapel pin shaped like the cross of Lorraine.

Subtle enough not to provoke, sharp enough to remind.

Minister Pierre Laval arrived moments later, flanked by aides.

His gloved hand rose in brief salute to the press cameras held back by uniformed gendarmes.

"Comfortable in civilian dress?" Laval asked, his breath visible in the cold.

"I’ve worn worse," Moreau replied.

"Dont worry it will be fun" Laval said, climbing the stairs.

The delegation included two senior aides from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a naval attaché, and a cultural liaison tasked with softening the optics of the visit.

Moreau settled into a window seat across from Laval as the aircraft engines rumbled to life.

As they climbed into the sky, Paris shrinking beneath them, Laval opened a slim leather case and produced a folder stamped

Confidentiel.

"I assume you’ve read all this already," he said, handing it to Moreau.

"I like rereading things in motion," Moreau replied, flipping through.

The dossier contained updates on Italy’s diplomatic posture, internal reports on Mussolini’s Abyssinian ambitions, and a summary of the fragile Stresa Front a pact-in-the-making intended to deter Hitler without breaking the illusion of European unity.

Moreau closed the folder and looked out the window.

Snow-covered fields blurred into clouds. "Do you think Mussolini believes in this alliance?"

Laval’s eyes narrowed. "I think he believes in Mussolini. And he will do whatever keeps Italy respected, feared, and autonomous."

"And France?"

Laval smiled faintly. "France is trying to remember what it believes in."

The conversation faded as the cabin settled quiet.

Reports were reviewed.

Positions rehearsed.

Several hours later, the Alps passed beneath them like a jagged scar across Europe’s spine.(No pun intended hehe)

Then came the gradual descent into clearer skies and warmer air, the farms and villas of Lazio spreading outward like a painting in motion.

Ciampino Airfield, Rome

The plane touched down mid-afternoon under a cloudless Roman sky.

A light wind swept the field, bending the cypress trees that lined the perimeter.

Italian Carabinieri in blue-gray dress uniforms stood at attention near a welcoming pavilion.

A brass band was already in position, warming their instruments with muted tones of the French anthem.

As the delegation disembarked, Moreau felt the difference immediately.

The cold edge of France had melted into Mediterranean warmth, not just in temperature but in tone.

A thin man in diplomatic regalia stepped forward to greet them.

"Minister Laval, Major Moreau," he said in crisp French. "Welcome to Rome. I am Undersecretary Giancarlo Petrini. I will be your liaison during your stay."

Laval shook his hand politely, his face a careful blend of warmth and formality. "Grazie, Signore Petrini."

Moreau followed suit.

Petrini turned to gesture toward the waiting motorcade sleek black Lancias bearing miniature tricolors of both nations.

"We have prepared accommodations at the Villa Madama, with offices at Palazzo Chigi. The Prime Minister will receive you at the appointed hour tomorrow."

"Good," Laval said. "There is much to prepare."

They drove through Rome in a quiet convoy, police clearing the way as locals paused to watch.

Statues stood like ancient sentinels at every turn Caesars, saints, and emperors.

Moreau watched it all with quiet fascination.

Rome wore its history like a tailored suit: tight, impressive, and immaculately maintained.

At Villa Madama, nestled on the slopes above the Tiber, the delegation was welcomed with a brief protocol ceremony flag exchange, an honor guard inspection, and a closed-door briefing on the diplomatic itinerary.

Inside, the villa was luxurious yet restrained.

White marble floors.

Vaulted ceilings painted with faded Renaissance images.

Security men in tailored suits lined the hallways, speaking rapidly into radios.

In the war room a repurposed library stacked with telegraph cables and maps Laval and his team gathered for a briefing with Petrini and two Italian policy advisors.

"Our understanding," said Petrini, "is that tomorrow’s initial talks will focus on bilateral trade normalization and joint naval exercises in the Mediterranean. Prime Minister Mussolini believes this is the clearest path to tangible cooperation."

"We are amenable to that," Laval said carefully. "But we expect mutual transparency on Abyssinia. France cannot be seen endorsing territorial ambition, even if unofficial."

The Italians exchanged glances.

One of them, a younger diplomat named Rinaldi, cleared his throat.

"France’s support or its silence will matter greatly to Rome. The British are already dithering. If Paris hesitates as well..."

Laval raised a hand. "France is not dithering. But we are watching."

Moreau observed quietly, taking notes but saying little.

Still, he caught Rinaldi’s eyes flick toward him more than once.

After the session, Laval stepped into a side chamber with Moreau.

"What did you hear that I didn’t?" Laval asked, pouring himself a small glass of grappa.

Moreau leaned against a column. "They’re buying time. Mussolini wants to stall German momentum, but he also wants Africa. If you give him subtle support in Abyssinia, he’ll support the Stresa Front. But if you push too hard on legality, he might lean east."

"And Britain?"

"Worried about their empire. They’ll follow our lead if we’re decisive."

Laval swirled his glass. "So Rome stands between Berlin and stability."

"For now," Moreau replied. "But it won’t for long."

Later that evening, dinner was served.

Italian ministers mingled with French aides.

A string quartet played Debussy in the corner.

Everything looked perfect, yet felt temporary.

Moreau walked alone onto one of the terraces overlooking Rome.

Laval joined him a few minutes later, coat draped over his shoulders.

"They’re watching you," Laval said quietly. "Even at dinner. They know you’re more than decoration."

"I’d rather they underestimate me."

"They won’t for long."

Moreau turned to face the older man.

"Tomorrow we speak of navies and commerce," Laval said. "The day after, Mussolini walks into the room. That meeting may shape the next ten years of Europe."

"And if he chooses Germany?"

Laval finished his drink. "Then France must decide whether it still has the will to lead, or whether it will follow its fears into the dark."