Chapter 69 - 69:

Words : 1073 Updated : Sep 12th, 2025

The clock inside the Ministry's central building ticked faintly. As there was a rush of people walking around in panic. Everyone was busy, a scandal or rather a disaster has happened with people now scrambling to mitigate it. A sharp wind rattled the iron-framed glass as Moreau stepped into General Beauchamp's office the next morning. The smell of burnt tobacco and stale coffee lingered in the air. Beauchamp sat behind his desk, the usual neatness of his space replaced by scattered folders, open telegrams, and at least three cigarette butts crushed into a chipped ashtray. The general looked up slowly. His eyes were rimmed red, the deep bags under them painting a portrait of a man who hadn't slept properly in days. It's very obvious whatever has happened was beyond anyone sane understanding. A King dead and a French minister along with him. One died by enemy bullet, other by his own people. "You look like shit, sir," Moreau said, shutting the door behind him. Beauchamp exhaled a tired laugh, taking a long drag from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. "That's the most honest greeting I've had all week." Moreau didn't sit yet. He glanced at the window, watching the gray clouds huddle over Paris. "I read the newspapers. The King. The minister. Jesus Christ, General…" Beauchamp cut him off with a flick of his hand. "Don't say it, Moreau. We've had enough eulogies. What I need now is sanity, and frankly, the world's fresh out." He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "This fucking Republic… It's like a sinking boat, patched with rotten planks and full of rats chewing through the last dry beams. One hole is filled, two more open." "And the world is watching us drown," Moreau added quietly. Beauchamp gave a bitter smile. "The world isn't watching, they're laughing. Yugoslavia is blaming us, and rightfully so. The English are mocking us behind drawn curtains, and that fucking Austrian painter in Berlin is calling us incompetent degenerates in his speeches." Moreau crossed his arms. "And the Americans?" "Polite enough to send their condolences," Beauchamp said, crushing the cigarette into the tray, "but make no mistake they're laughing too." There was silence for a beat. Beauchamp sighed and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers laced. "I've had meetings all night. Foreign Ministry, Army High Command, internal security... nobody knows what to do. The body will be sent to Belgrade for a state funeral. The mourning period is official." "And France?" Moreau asked. "France will do what it always does. Panic, argue, drink wine, and send someone in a uniform to pretend we still have dignity." Moreau nodded slowly. "You want me to go." Beauchamp looked up sharply, then gave a short, tired laugh. "You're getting better at reading minds." "I've had practice, sir." Beauchamp stood and walked to the window, hands behind his back. "Do you know much about Yugoslavia, Capitaine?" the general asked. Moreau hesitated, then answered honestly. "Enough, I think. Multi-ethnic monarchy. Croats, Serbs, Slovenes. Fragile power balance. The king was their center of gravity." Beauchamp turned, surprised. "Not bad. Most of our officers think it's a village near Istanbul." Moreau allowed himself a small smirk. "I read more than just tank manuals." "I know," Beauchamp said, his voice softening. "That's why I'm sending you." Moreau blinked. "Me?" "You're fluent in diplomacy when you want to be. And you have something none of the others have....understanding. Not just military protocol, but political nuance. And right now, nuance might be the only thing that prevents more blood." Moreau frowned slightly. "With respect, sir... I'm a Capitaine. I'm not sure...." Beauchamp raised a hand. "No need for modesty, Moreau. You may still wear a captain's bars, but you've handled crises that would've broken colonels. I can't trust any of those uniformed buffoons with this. They'll either condescend to the Yugoslavs or insult them accidentally." Moreau slowly sat down, mind racing. "So, what exactly would my role be?" Searᴄh the ηovelFire.ηet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "Officially? A military attaché accompanying the diplomatic delegation," Beauchamp explained. "You'll be there to show face, answer questions if needed, and most importantly, listen. Feel the room. Know what they're saying when they're not saying anything." Moreau looked at his hands. "And unofficially?" Beauchamp's eyes locked with his. "To represent the part of France that still has a brain and a spine." Moreau exhaled slowly, then nodded. "Alright. I'll do it." A small smile tugged at the general's weary face. "Good. You'll travel with the ambassador's party. I'll have the Foreign Ministry arrange your papers. You'll fly out in forty-eight hours." Moreau stiffened slightly. "That soon?" Beauchamp grunted. "Time isn't a luxury anymore, Capitaine." Moreau paused. "And if I make a mistake?" Beauchamp stared at him for a long moment. "Then we both lose. And France becomes a laughingstock not just in Berlin or London, but in Belgrade too. You'll be walking through a storm, Moreau. Some will want to spit at you. Others will want answers. But don't forget..this is your chance to show them we aren't just smoke and uniforms." He paused for a while then continued. "Your problem don't stop there only. There are people in Paris who will be ready for you. The moment you mess they will jump on you like hungry scavenger and rip you apart piece by piece. But if you do good, let's just say it might add one more start on your shoulder." Moreau stood and saluted. "Understood, sir." Beauchamp returned the salute half-heartedly. "Dismissed. Go rest. You'll need your mind sharp and your mouth sharper." As Moreau turned to leave, the general called out, "Étienne." He turned. "Yes, General?" Beauchamp stared at him, something strange in his eyes. "When I was your age, I served in Verdun. 1916. Mud, death, madness. But even then, I believed France was worth something." "I still do," Moreau replied quietly. Beauchamp nodded, eyes glassy now. "Don't let them make you forget it." Moreau left the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Chapter 69 - 69:

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