Chapter 60 - 60:

Words : 1057 Updated : Sep 12th, 2025

It was noon in Paris, but the sky was still gloomy as if to representing the feeling of top officials. The courtyard of the École Militaire had been cleared and swept clean. French tricolor flags hung from wrought iron balconies, and a small brass band stood silently near the edge of the square, uniforms stiff and polished.. Around the perimeter, rows of soldiers from various regiments stood at rigid attention, their boots aligned like a wall of iron. The ceremony wasn't large not by Versailles standards but it had weight. Representatives from the Ministry were present, as were several high-ranking officers. Their expressions were carefully composed, neutral, watching. Étienne Moreau stood still as stone in the center of the ceremony line. His polished boots had soaked through already. His uniform collar pinched. But none of that mattered. Because he could feel it. This wasn't a celebration. This was the end game. Renaud leaned toward him under breath. "Funny. When I imagined you getting a medal, I pictured champagne and girls." Moreau didn't move his head. "You're here. Isn't that enough?" "God help us all." The horn blew one sharp note. The courtyard snapped to attention. Out stepped Major General Beauchamp. He was impeccable. Kepi sharp, gloves white, uniform lined with medals of his own. His stride was unhurried, almost ceremonial in itself. But Moreau saw more he saw the calculating stillness behind the general's eyes. Beauchamp ascended the stone platform. He did not smile. He did not greet. He simply turned and faced the soldiers and officers present, looking across the crowd as if measuring them one by one. The crowd fell silent. In the background, a military aide carried a small red velvet cushion, atop which lay the medal Croix de Guerre avec Palme, reserved for those whose acts of courage had turned the course of conflict. But this wasn't just about a medal. "Today," he began, voice calm, "we do not reward ambition. We do not reward rank. We reward conviction. We honor courage. Not just the courage to face the enemy, but to face one's own command, to speak truth to those who prefer silence." He paused. No applause. Just attention. Silence. He continued, "Capitaine Étienne Moreau was not sent into battle. He was sent into chaos. Into betrayal. Into silence. And he returned not just with men but with truth." Beauchamp's gaze swept across the seated officials from Paris. Valois among them. Some looked away. Others frowned. "But truth, as we all know, is expensive. And dangerous." He paused. Then turned his eyes to Moreau. "You were asked to lead," Beauchamp said, "in conditions most would flee from. You were not supposed to return. But you did." The general looked at the audience. "And when you returned, you did not demand reward. You brought us the truth." "Capitaine." Moreau stepped forward. His boots rang on stone. "For valor in the face of insurrection," Beauchamp said, "for unflinching loyalty to the Republic, and for your actions under impossible conditions by the authority of the Ministry of War and with the approval of the High Command..." The aide stepped forward, velvet cushion in hand. Beauchamp lifted the Croix de Guerre avec Palme and carefully pinned it above Moreau's heart. "you are hereby awarded the Croix de Guerre avec Palme." The brass band erupted into La Marseillaise. The crowd saluted. Applause was sparse almost mechanical. But the message had landed. Étienne Moreau was no longer just a man with a report. He was a decorated officer. A symbol. When the anthem faded, Beauchamp leaned in as he shook Moreau's hand. His words were low. Meant only for the two of them. "This medal is not just for honor. It is armor. They cannot kill a symbol." Moreau's jaw tightened. He understood. Later, the crowd had begun to file out. Officers murmured, bureaucrats exchanged unreadable glances. Beauchamp stood alone on the dais for a moment longer, eyes scanning the assembled officers, each face catalogued, each silence noted. And then, slowly, he turned and walked toward his private quarters in the rear wing. Sёarᴄh the nôvelFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Renaud stood beside Moreau moments later as they descended the dais. "You alright?" "I don't know," Moreau murmured. "I feel like I've been armed and shackled at the same time." "Good," Renaud said with a crooked smile. "Then it's working." Renaud continued "They're not applauding because they're stunned." "No. They're calculating," Moreau said. "How to react. How to frame it. How to spin it." "Well, you're public now. Killing you is complicated." Moreau nodded, face unreadable. "Which is exactly what Beauchamp wanted." Moreau looked toward the doors where Beauchamp had gone. "He didn't save me. He made me something harder to kill." ---------- [Excerpt from the private diary of Major General Jean-Louis Beauchamp, 20 October 1934] They thought I'd let him burn. Valois, Drouet, the whole damned Ministry. They thought I called that hearing to hand him over to crush him quietly, without blood, with paperwork and smirks. But I didn't summon them to destroy Étienne Moreau. I summoned them to watch him rise. I arranged the ceremony here, not at Les Invalides or the Hôtel de Brienne. I kept it small, spartan military. Not political. I made the ministers sit among soldiers and listen to a speech about betrayal and truth, knowing full well some of them funded both. I gave him the Croix de Guerre because it shines. And things that shine are seen. Things that are seen are protected. If they dare to silence him now, they will have to answer for it. I handed Moreau not a medal, but an amulet. One they cannot snatch away without turning him into a symbol. And I need him to live. Because this army is rotting. Because the men I once bled beside are gone. Because no one is left to say: this far, no further. And if I must become a villain to protect what remains then so be it. Let Paris talk. Let them whisper about Beauchamp losing his grip. Let them plan their next move. I've already made mine.

Chapter 60 - 60:

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