Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 87: "Flexibility. Germany gives me that. Britain doesn’t. France....France gives me lectures.”

Chapter 87: "Flexibility. Germany gives me that. Britain doesn’t. France....France gives me lectures.”

Next day Mussolini was already in place when Laval and Moreau stepped in.

Around him, aides stood silently, watching without speaking.

His posture was straighter than yesterday.

His uniform replaced with a civilian jacket, still sharp, but more political than martial.

It was a signal, today was not theater.

Today was business.

"You’re early," Mussolini said, his voice low but firm.

"We’re precise," Laval replied, sliding into his seat without missing a beat.

Moreau remained standing for a second longer, his eyes on Mussolini’s.

He gave a polite nod, then sat.

He wasn’t here for pleasantries.

And neither was Mussolini.

"You’ve made your positions clear," Mussolini began. "France wants stability. Unity. Diplomacy with training wheels. Admirable. But dull."

Laval let out a short, tired smile. "Peace is dull. Until it breaks."

Mussolini chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. "What I want is flexibility. Germany gives me that. Britain doesn’t. France....France gives me lectures."

Moreau spoke up for the first time, voice even. "We’re not here to lecture. We’re here to offer something different. A deal you’ve never had."

That caught Mussolini off-guard, if only briefly.

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued.

"Go on," he said.

Moreau opened a thin folder and placed it on the table between them.

Inside: a short draft.

Three pages, typed neatly, double-spaced.

"This is a proposed bilateral understanding," Moreau said. "Limited strictly to African operations. No European entanglements. No military alliance. Just mutual coordination and non-aggression between French and Italian territories south of the Mediterranean."

Mussolini reached for the draft and flipped through the pages.

"France and Italy both maintain substantial holdings in Africa," Laval added. "Libya. Eritrea. Tunisia. Algeria. The Red Sea. We operate within arm’s reach of one another, yet without structure."

Moreau continued. "This isn’t about concessions. We’re not offering territory. We’re offering predictability. No interference. No surprises."

Mussolini looked up. "You’re saying the French army has no interest in opposing Italy’s operations in Africa?"

"We’re saying we’d prefer not to trip over each other," Moreau answered. "And we know history is full of men who didn’t talk until shots were fired."

Mussolini’s lips curled slightly. "So this is insurance?"

"No," Moreau said. "It’s leverage. You gain autonomy to operate without second-guessing French intentions. And we gain a calmer frontier."

"If Germany makes me a better offer?"

"You can walk," Laval said. "This is quiet. Informal. Flexible."

Mussolini remained silent, eyes moving across the final page.

The idea was bold.

And he knew it.

"This would make the British furious," Mussolini said finally, not looking up.

Laval didn’t blink. "Then we don’t tell them."

Moreau added, "This doesn’t require London’s blessing. It’s not an alliance. It’s management."

"You would really do this?" Mussolini asked.

"We’re sitting here, aren’t we?" Moreau replied. "You want influence. We want order. This gives both."

One of Mussolini’s aides leaned toward him and whispered in Italian.

Mussolini didn’t acknowledge it.

He simply waved him off and kept reading.

"No signatures today," he said at last. "But I want to discuss this privately."

Moreau gave a single, measured nod.

"This is bold," Mussolini said. "And risky."

"So is doing nothing," Moreau replied.

In a smaller salon down the corridor.

Mussolini sat with Laval and Moreau, accompanied only by two trusted advisors.

Tea was served.

No one touched it.

"You must realize," Mussolini began, "if I accept this even informally it signals something to Berlin."

"We understand," Laval said. "Which is why this stays private."

Moreau leaned forward slightly. "This is not an alliance. This is not a betrayal. This is two colonial powers ensuring we don’t become enemies by accident."

Mussolini studied Moreau. "You’re offering a neutral zone?"

"And non-interference in colonial expansion," Moreau said. "So long as it doesn’t touch our borders or our citizens."

"And what of the public?" Mussolini asked. "If I act in Abyssinia, France will condemn me."

"You might hear criticism," Laval said carefully. "But there would be no military response. No troop movements. No public denunciation beyond what the world expects."

Mussolini laughed. "You’re saying I can act while you posture?"

Moreau replied calmly, "We’re saying we know how the world works. And we’d rather shake hands behind the curtain than pretend we don’t share a stage."

The room went quiet.

Mussolini looked at both men and nodded once.

The sun dipped lower behind Rome’s rooftops as Moreau and Laval walked under the pergola at Villa Madama.

Laval set the folder on a stone table. "You just gave him what he’s been wanting since 1923."

"No," Moreau corrected. "I gave him a reason to hesitate before jumping into Hitler’s arms."

Laval looked at him. "If this leaks, London will throw a fit."

"It won’t. He doesn’t want the British asking questions. And we’ve tied the terms to Africa only. If Germany makes a move, Mussolini now has a reason to stall."

Laval tapped the document with two fingers. "You’re not a soldier. Not really."

"I used to be," Moreau said. "But I’ve seen how wars begin."

Laval narrowed his eyes. "Where do you come up with this kind of thinking?"

Moreau gave a noncommittal shrug. "I read a lot. And I listen when most people talk."

Just after nightfall, a coded message arrived by diplomatic courier.

It was brief and handwritten, addressed to Laval’s attention.

Mussolini was open to the African pact.

He wanted minor adjustments: no naval blockades near Libya, shared use of port facilities in Djibouti and Massawa, and a bilateral commission to quietly settle disputes.

No publicity.

No headlines.

Only sealed documents in vaults.

Laval sat back, holding the page between two fingers.

"He’s in."

Moreau nodded slowly. "We moved the needle. We got him to think differently."

That night, alone in his room, Moreau lit a desk lamp and opened his journal.

The ink scratched softly as he wrote:

Quiet pacts win wars long before soldiers march.

He stared at the words for a while.

This wasn’t victory.

It wasn’t even peace.

But it was a deviation.

A small crack in the path history had once walked.

For the first time, he’d done something that hadn’t happened before.

France had gone off-script.

And that meant there was still hope.