Chapter 105:

Words : 1127 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 105: "Shall we begin pretending?”The streets of Stresa were polished like a stage set. Flags flapped in the lakeside breeze France’s tricolor, Britain’s Union Jack, Italy’s green-white-red all side by side, all temporarily pretending they were pointed in the same direction. The Swiss-Italian border had never seen this many photographers or armored cars. It was a summit meant to assure the world that Europe still had a spine. Inside the Grand Hotel des Îles Borromées, sunlight bounced off marble pillars and crystal chandeliers as a string quartet played Debussy in the lobby. Outside, the locals watched as government sedans and police motorcycles rolled up to the grand entrance. Prime Minister Flandin stepped out first, adjusting his dark overcoat. Inside, Benito Mussolini stood perfectly still in full ceremonial dress. He looked like a statue carved to intimidate. Black gloves, polished boots, chest crowded with medals he’d given himself. He greeted each delegation with a stiff nod. France first. Britain next. Eden was polite, MacDonald looked frail. "France and Britain," Mussolini declared, his voice carrying through the rotunda. "The spine and conscience of Europe finally awake." No one replied. He turned and gestured toward the conference chamber. "Shall we begin pretending?" The first session was all surface protocol, greetings, titles, gifts exchanged. Beneath the pleasantries, everyone knew the real conversation was about Germany. Hitler had reintroduced conscription just weeks earlier. The Reich’s army was swelling before Europe’s eyes, and still, the allies had not moved a single division. When the formal talks finally opened, Mussolini stood with a theatrical flair. "Germany grows bolder by the hour," he said, voice rising. "If we write treaties with no will to enforce them, we are not diplomats we are gravekeepers." Laval leaned forward slightly. "France has honored every obligation. But we cannot stand alone. Unity is the only force Hitler fears." MacDonald, old and tired, added softly, "The German people feel betrayed. Versailles made enemies of them. If we push them too far, we risk more extremism." Flandin’s voice cut clean through the chamber. "And if we do nothing, we will be swept aside like dust." Anthony Eden, calm as always, tried to smooth the edges. "Germany’s act was a violation. But we are here to reaffirm resolve. We are not here to provoke war. We are here to set the line." Mussolini smiled without humor. "And if Hitler steps over it again?" The question remained. No one answered. The real work began later, in a quiet chamber behind heavy velvet curtains. Laval met Mussolini privately. There were no aides this time. seaʀᴄh thё NôvelFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Just wine, maps, and paper. "You want something real," Laval said. "Or you wouldn’t have come." "I want commitment," Mussolini replied. "Not speeches." "You want leverage," Laval countered. "Before you move south." Mussolini gave a sly grin. "You know about Abyssinia." "Everyone knows," Laval said. "We just don’t know how long you’ll wait." Mussolini poured himself a drink. "What would France do, in my place? Humiliation in the League, colonial encirclement, German rearmament to the north?" "You’d call that a reason. We call it justification." "Semantics," Mussolini said. Laval reached into his briefcase and slid a single page across the table. Mussolini picked it up, scanned it, and his grin faded slightly. "A mobile armored unit," he read aloud. "Fast deployment, radio support, self-contained logistics. This isn’t doctrine." "It’s an experiment," Laval said. "But a serious one." He waited a beat. Then added, "Moreau." Mussolini’s eyes flicked up. "I remember him," he said. "From Rome. Came with you. Calm eyes. Sharp tongue." Laval nodded. "He’s building something. Quietly. And if we’re lucky something we can use." "One battalion won’t stop Berlin." "No," Laval admitted. "But it’s a start." Mussolini tapped the edge of the memo. "You think Hitler will be scared of this?" "He’ll be scared if he thinks we’re serious." Mussolini gave a low laugh. "Then you better hope your parliament finds its spine before your major finishes his tanks." The next morning, in the glittering main hall, Anthony Eden read from a scroll before a sea of reporters and press lenses. "The governments of France, Great Britain, and Italy affirm their commitment to uphold the independence and integrity of Austria; to oppose any unilateral breaches of existing treaties; and to consult jointly in the event of aggression or threats to European peace." Eden signed. Then MacDonald, frail hands shaking. Flandin signed last, face like stone. The applause was polite. The papers wrote headlines. Stresa Front Formed. Europe United. But high in the gallery, Goebbels’s man posing as a Swiss journalist scribbled something else in his notebook. "No timelines. No troops. No terms. Only words." Later that afternoon, on a shaded veranda overlooking Lake Maggiore, Eden joined Flandin for a moment of quiet. "You believe this will hold?" Eden asked. Flandin didn’t look away from the water. "We signed a communique. Hitler is signing battalions." Eden paused. "Still. Words are better than silence." Flandin’s reply was low and tired: "Not if silence follows them." Inside, Laval found Colonel Gallucci again, Italy’s military attaché. He poured them each a glass of vermouth. "You’re leaving for Abyssinia soon," Laval said without pretense. Gallucci sipped. "I didn’t confirm that." "You didn’t need to." The colonel swirled his glass. "You French have a habit of thinking you’re the smartest in the room." "We’re not," Laval said. "But we are the most terrified." "Of Germany?" "Of waking up too late." The gala that evening was as flamboyant as the Fascists could make it. Golden ceilings. Mussolini in white dress uniform. Hundreds of candles and chandeliers. A full orchestra played Verdi as diplomats dined on veal and artichokes. Mussolini stood and gave a toast. "Rome once kept peace not through treaties but through vigilance and iron. And so we, inheritors of that tradition, say to the world our alliance is not a piece of paper. It is a warning." Applause followed. Long, but lukewarm. MacDonald smiled politely. Eden nodded once. Laval stared at the wine in his glass, expression distant. Flandin barely moved. As the music resumed, Mussolini walked to the French table and lifted his glass. "You’re the only ones who still believe in war." Flandin met his eyes. "No," he said. "We believe in consequence." "Same thing," Mussolini muttered. "You’ll learn that soon enough." In Berlin, Ribbentrop entered Hitler’s office with the final communique in hand. Hitler read it again and underlined a line in thick pencil: "...to consult jointly in the event of aggression..." He looked up and smirked. "Intent is not strategy." The Stresa Front was born in elegance. But even on its first day, it had begun to rot.

Chapter 105:

Comments (0)