Chapter 83:

Words : 1062 Updated : Sep 12th, 2025

Chapter 83: "To Rome"Paris, January 2nd, 1935 From the outside, Paris looked like it was sleeping under a heavy winter blanket. But inside government buildings, inside the ministries and embassies, there was no rest. The past year had cut too deep. Major Étienne Moreau stood silently near the frost-kissed window of his apartment, sipping lukewarm coffee from a tin cup. He wasn’t in uniform yet just in his undershirt, suspenders stretched over his shoulders. The air was cold enough to make his breath visible, but his mind was elsewhere. January had arrived, and with it, 1935. Nearly a year. He had been in this world nearly a year. He set the cup down and rubbed a hand over his face. The man staring back at him from the windowpane looked older now. The bruises of battle had faded. Moreau wasn’t just a soldier anymore. He was becoming something more an influence. A symbol. And it was time to push further. He buttoned his shirt, strapped on his leather belt, adjusted the silver insignia at his collar one that now carried the rank of Major. Each motion felt more calculated than it had a year ago. Because now, every gesture mattered. Ministry of Defense, Paris The Ministry building near Les Invalides stood austere, its columns imposing, its halls hushed. Inside, aides scurried between meetings, their shoes clicking like rough stone across the polished floors. Moreau walked past them all, nodding politely, but not stopping. He made his way toward the third floor General Beauchamp’s office. "Major Moreau," said a passing officer. "Heard you’re being considered for the Defense College next year." Moreau smiled faintly. "Let’s survive this one first." He knocked twice on Beauchamp’s door, then stepped inside. The room was half-lit by morning darkness and the dull flicker of an oil lamp. General Beauchamp sat at his massive oak desk, sleeves rolled up, shirt wrinkled, and a half-burnt cigarette pinched between two fingers. A bottle of cognac sat unopened at the far end of the table perhaps a remnant of a New Year’s Eve toast never made. The general looked up, his tired eyes narrowing. "Moreau," he said. "You’re early. That usually means trouble." "Only if you say no," Moreau replied, offering a half-smile as he sat. Beauchamp leaned back in his chair, puffed once, and set the cigarette in the ashtray. "What’s on your mind?" "I want to accompany Minister Laval to Rome." Beauchamp blinked, then laughed quietly. "Did I hear that right? You want to join the foreign delegation?" Moreau nodded. "Yes." The general stared at him for a long moment, then narrowed his eyes. "I didn’t realize you’d developed a taste for cheap wine and ceremonial dinners." "This isn’t about ceremony, sir. Laval is going to meet Mussolini. If I don’t go now, I’ll miss the chance to work with the only man in the cabinet who understands what Hitler truly is a threat to all of Europe." Beauchamp frowned and set down his pen. seaʀᴄh thё Nôvel(F)ire.nёt website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "You’re serious." "As serious as war," Moreau said. "I’ve read Laval’s speeches, tracked his votes. He’s one of the few who sees Germany for what it is. I need to build a relationship with him now before the rest of this country wakes up too late." Beauchamp rubbed his temples, then sighed. "You’ve got a habit of walking into flames." "And a habit of walking out again," Moreau replied. Beauchamp stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the gray streets. "Let me guess. You want me to talk to him." "You’re the only one who can get me in." Another pause. "You’re asking me to send a rising military figure into the lion’s den of diplomatic theater. That doesn’t happen." "Exactly," Moreau said. "It’s time it did." Beauchamp turned, slowly walked back to his desk, and pulled a notepad from the drawer. "You’re making this a habit, Moreau," he said, grinning faintly. "Making me stick my neck out." "It’s only fair. You stuck it out for the Republic. I’m just following orders." The general chuckled and rang a small bell. Seconds later, his adjutant entered tall, bespectacled, and already scribbling on a notepad. "Yes, General?" "Write to Minister Laval. My name. Recommend Major Moreau’s inclusion in the Rome delegation. Make it formal. Emphasize his strategic insight and recent public impact." The adjutant nodded. "Of course, sir." Beauchamp paused. "And make it fast. I want an answer by noon." As the adjutant vanished down the corridor, Beauchamp slumped into his seat and looked at Moreau. "You know this is dangerous." "I do." "You know Laval isn’t exactly fond of uniforms in his entourage." "He will be once he realizes which way the wind is blowing." Beauchamp lit another cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "God help us if you’re right." Time passed slowly. Moreau remained in Beauchamp’s office, talking loosely about army reform, public morale, and the increasing fear among senior officers that the civilian government was too fractured to react to coming threats. At one point, Beauchamp asked, "You think the Army would act if things got worse?" "I think they already are," Moreau said. Beauchamp stared into his drink. "We’re not a junta, Moreau." "No," Moreau said. "But we are the spine. If the head keeps turning toward the wrong enemy, the body won’t survive." There was silence. Then the door opened. The adjutant stepped in, holding an envelope. "Minister Laval’s office responded." Beauchamp snatched it, broke the seal, and read quickly. A grin split across his face. "He said yes." Moreau stood. Beauchamp tossed him the letter. "Get your boots polished, Major. You’re going to Italy." The news hadn’t reached the papers yet, but inside the Ministry, word was spreading. Beauchamp poured them both another drink. "You know what Laval wrote?" he asked. "He said: ’If Moreau wishes to stand at my side, then I welcome a man with eyes wide open.’" "That’s better than I expected." "He’s cautious," Beauchamp warned. "But he’s clever. He sees the value in you." Moreau nodded. "I’ll make it count." "Good. Just don’t let Mussolini charm you." "I won’t. He’s not the one I’m watching." Beauchamp raised his glass. "To Rome, then." "To Rome," Moreau said, and clinked his glass.

Chapter 83:

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