It wasn't until nearly noon that Francis learned from his butler that Charles had returned. The delay was largely due to recent cutbacks and layoffs Francis had enforced, dismissing more than half his workers. Many of these workers had been let go without receiving the wages owed, turning them against Francis.
"How did he make it back?" Francis sat in his favorite rocking chair on the second floor, dressed in his robe, silently puffing on his pipe.
That boy had been thrown into a German stronghold—how could he possibly return safely? The army must have stepped in to rescue him. Lucky boy.
However, Simon, his butler, corrected him, "I heard that Master Charles defeated the Germans…"
The rocking chair stilled. The smoke that had been forming rings slowly dissipated, leaving a faint, almost imperceptible wisp in the air. Time seemed to stop.
After a long pause, Francis asked quietly, "Defeated the Germans?"
The rocking resumed, though now it swayed less vigorously.
"Yes, that's what I heard," Simon continued. "Supposedly, The Daily Post published the entire story. I've only heard parts of it myself."
"Go get a copy," Francis ordered.
"But, sir," Simon replied, looking worried. "It was sold out early this morning. Even secondhand copies are being resold at a premium…"
"Then pay more!" Francis snapped, irritation clear in his voice. "Surely I can afford a newspaper or two!"
"Yes, sir," Simon replied and left, secretly glad to have received explicit instructions, sparing himself a possible lecture.
Not long after, the papers were brought to Francis. Usually sold for a sou each, they'd cost him ten today, totaling thirty sous for three papers that still bore coffee stains from their previous readers.
Francis wrinkled his nose. Accustomed to high society, he preferred reading Le Figaro, not stooping to a lower-class paper—let alone one that had been passed around.
He opened the paper, scanning quickly. The more he read, the more unsettled he became, until he could feel his face muscles twitching involuntarily.
Charles's journey to Antwerp wasn't just a military victory; he'd gained widespread fame and even earned a rare medal.
Francis realized the significance. With Charles's reputation and military endorsement, everyone—including the military—would trust Charles's tank design over Francis's.
Even though both tank models originated from Charles's designs, if Charles were to stand in front of reporters and casually remark, "The old tank is outdated. The military needs a new model to bring victory and hope…" there wouldn't be a single buyer left for Francis's tank line.
Francis despised the thought of his fate being held in someone else's hands, contingent on mere words.
But how could he stop it?
He glanced across the hall at Pierre's room, where he could hear his son's deep snores drifting from within. The boy, living in self-indulgence, was hopeless—day sleeping, night reveling, existing on a different plane than the average person.
At that moment, Simon burst into the room, alarmed. "Sir, two soldiers are here. They say they're here to see Mr. Pierre!"
"Damn it!" Francis cursed. "That idiot must have caused trouble again."
He descended the stairs, calling to Simon, "Get Pierre up."
"Yes, sir!" Simon replied, though his face showed clear discomfort—getting Pierre up was no easy feat.
Francis reached the first floor and found two soldiers standing in the parlor, one of them a lieutenant by rank.
"Is there a problem?" Francis asked coldly, exuding an unwelcoming aura. Follow current novᴇls on ɴovᴇl(F)ɪre.ɴet
"We'd like to speak with Mr. Pierre," the lieutenant said politely, offering identification. "We're from the draft office."
Francis froze, immediately understanding. "No, no, there must be some mistake. Pierre manages my factory. He's exempt from service because he's involved in tank production…"
The lieutenant interrupted with a steely tone, "According to our investigation, Mr. Pierre is not managing your factory, Mr. Francis."
"We interviewed twenty workers, and all confirmed they'd never seen Mr. Pierre in the factory."
The second soldier added, "I've also investigated the Foley Trevis Club, where Mr. Pierre is a regular. He's there nearly every night."
He handed a slip to Francis. "This is Mr. Pierre's spending record from last night. We have others. Clearly, he doesn't spend any time at your factory."
Francis was silent, as this irrefutable evidence left no room for excuses.
The lieutenant squared his shoulders and stated, "In light of these findings, we find Mr. Pierre eligible for active duty."
"If he refuses, you know the consequences."
Francis, looking grim, nodded.
Refusing the draft during wartime could lead to the death penalty. Parliament had enacted such measures to deter the faint-hearted from choosing imprisonment over the front lines—a law intended primarily for farmers and laborers. Yet now…
From upstairs came the sound of vomiting, followed by incoherent coughing and groans.
"Is that him?" the lieutenant asked, glancing upward.
Francis, slightly embarrassed, replied, "Yes." Pierre couldn't even make it down the stairs.
The lieutenant handed Francis the draft notice with a formal salute. "It is my honor to inform you that Mr. Pierre will be joining the ranks of the French military. Honor will be with you, sir."
With a wooden expression, Francis shook the lieutenant's hand and staggered back, watching the soldiers exit.
Only then did Pierre, pale and shaky, finally descend, clutching the banister. Upon seeing his father's expression, he stammered, "What…what happened, Father?"
"Congratulations," Francis said, waving the draft notice in mock celebration. "You're a soldier now. Perhaps you'll prove as capable as Charles."
Pierre, still groggy, took a moment to understand. When he did, his eyes widened, and he sank onto the steps, his face draining of color.
With a hint of pity, Francis muttered, "Just hope you're not assigned under Charles."
Francis recalled that Charles held a post in the Paris Defense Command, while Pierre, a rookie confirmed to have attempted dodging his draft, lacked the credentials to serve in Paris. Such an assignment was mere fantasy.