Chapter 68 - 68: Two countries, one stage. One king, one minister. Both dead before their time.

Words : 1049 Updated : Sep 12th, 2025

The train rolled into Paris under a low, grey sky. Étienne Moreau adjusted his coat collar against the cold and peered out the window. "So," Renaud muttered, dragging his bag. "You think Paris has better food than what we ate in the train." Moreau gave him a dry look. "I'm just hoping Paris still has food. Last time I visited, everything tasted like it had been cooked during the Franco-Prussian War." Renaud smirked. "Probably why they want us back. Culinary recon." As the existed The train they realised one thing. Paris should have been bustling by now, cafes spilling over with noise, pedestrians crowding the platform. Instead, Gare de l'Est felt hollow. Troops stood still along the platforms rifles slung across their shoulders, eyes scanning the passengers with hollow vigilance. Renaud leaned in beside him, whispering, "Feels like we just arrived in a city under siege." Moreau nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Something happened. Something big. Is this a coup?" Renaud blinked awake and peered out the flap. "No banners. No propaganda posters. Not a coup." "Then what the hell is it?" Two black Citroën cars idled at the far end of the platform. Standing beside them were four men in long coats. No insignia. No greetings. Just cold stares "Capitaine Moreau. Lieutenant Renaud," one said crisply. "You'll come with us. No questions." Moreau stepped out. "General sent you?" The man nodded. "He said: 'Do not speak to anyone until contacted. Critical time.'" He cleared his throat. "Can we ask where we're going?" "To your assigned quarters. Temporary orders. You're to remain under discreet supervision until further instruction from Major General Beauchamp." Renaud muttered under his breath, "That sounds... vaguely ominous. We walk into Paris and it's suddenly 1914 again." They were escorted through a side exit, avoiding the main gates. Paris greeted them like a sulking mistress shutters drawn, windows darkened, and military patrols at every corner. Barricades blocked several intersections. Armored vehicles sat idly beside sandbags. Machine guns were mounted on rooftops. Moreau leaned toward the driver. "Was there a coup I wasn't invited to?" No reply. Moreau stared out the window. A dozen scenarios ran through his mind none fit. And then it hit him. "The King." Moreau's thought about it. "The King of Yugoslavia. He was due for a diplomatic visit… in Marseille, if I remember right. October 1934. And he was assassinated. Shot dead in the streets. Alongside the French Foreign Minister, Louis Barthou." Moreau stiffened. "That's why the curfew. That's why the barricades. It's about a goddamn international crisis." King Alexander I. He didn't know the man, not truly. But he knew of him enough to piece it together. They called him the "Unifier," didn't they? A king trying to hold together a fractured kingdom of Croats, Serbs, Slovenes… ethnic scars held by little more than the pressure of his crown. He'd abolished democracy in 1929, declared a royal dictatorship. It wasn't ideal but in a country bleeding from internal strife, perhaps he thought it was the only way. And then Marseille. October 9th, 1934. A motorcade. A handshake. A warm French welcome. And a bullet. No...many bullets. Moreau remembered the footage, grainy and brutal. The assassin had leapt from the crowd, revolver raised. Chaos exploded in seconds. The King was shot point blank. His bodyguard tried to react too late. The crowd screamed. A sabre swung. And Louis Barthou France's own Foreign Minister caught in the crossfire. Shot not by the assassin, but by friendly fire. A diplomatic disaster written in blood on French soil. Two countries, one stage. One king, one minister. Both dead before their time. Now, Paris was under curfew. And it all made sense. Moreau exhaled, a bitter taste in his mouth. "They came for a handshake," he murmured to himself, "and left in coffins." The car rounded a corner, passing a row of posters hastily plastered over a wall. Most were torn, slogans unreadable. As they passed the Place Vendôme, Moreau spotted a newspaper boy huddled in a corner, holding a stack of unsold copies. He caught the headline through the rain-streaked window: KING OF YUGOSLAVIA ASSASSINATED IN MARSEILLE Moreau sat up straight, his breath catching. This confirmed his suspicion. "Stop the car," he ordered. The escort ignored him. "Stop the damn car!" he shouted again. The driver didn't flinch. seaʀᴄh thё NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Renaud turned to him. "What is it? Finally he explained to Renaud what has happened with what he saw on the newspaper. Because before that he couldn't explain his analysis as he was nowhere near that. Instead this suprising knowledge will put him in more trouble. Moreau leaned back slowly "October 9th… 1934. Marseille. King Alexander I of Yugoslavia. Gunned down during a state visit. French Foreign Minister Louis Barthou killed alongside him." Renaud blinked. "Wait, what?" "And we couldn't protect him," Renaud said, shaking his head. "Merde." Moreau nodded slowly. "An attack on him here is an attack on France's dignity. And Barthou he wasn't just anyone. He was pro-military, pro-rearmament. One of the few politicians who didn't scoff at what was coming." Renaud let out a low whistle. "This is bad." "Worse than bad," Moreau muttered. "This is diplomatic war before real war. Whoever did this just tore a hole in the fabric of alliances." Renaud leaned back in his seat. "You think it was the Germans?" Moreau's voice was flat. "Or their friends." They arrived at a government-owned residence in the 7th arrondissement no signage, no flag. Just stone, shutters, and guards with hard faces. The door was opened. They were guided to two modest adjoining rooms. As the guards left, one paused by Moreau's door. "Do not leave. Do not answer the phone. The general will contact you when it is safe." Then the door shut. Moreau stared at the closed door. Renaud appeared beside him a moment later. "So… what now?" "Now," Moreau said grimly, "we wait." He walked to the window. The sky was darkening. Paris looked calm. But only on the surface. Beneath it, the Republic trembled.

Chapter 68 - 68: Two countries, one stage. One king, one minister. Both dead before their time.

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