Charles's car drove slowly through Davaz town, with neighbors cheering as he passed. If it weren't for Laurent's strict orders to the guards to keep out strangers, a swarm of reporters would likely have surrounded him by now.
As Charles stepped out of the car, a few people managed to slip past the guards to ask for his autograph. One of them was Teddy, holding three notebooks, which he opened one by one for Charles to sign. Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on ɴoᴠel Fɪre.nᴇt
"What are you going to do with my autograph?" Charles asked, signing quickly as he gave Teddy a curious look. "Every notebook at school already had my name written in it."
"They're not for me," Teddy replied with a look of feigned innocence. "People hired me to get them signed. They figured, as your classmate, I'd have better luck."
"Hired you?" Charles raised an eyebrow as he continued signing, his gaze skeptical.
"Yep," Teddy nodded earnestly. "One franc per notebook."
Charles rolled his eyes and handed the signed notebooks back to Teddy. "Then you should split the profits with me. I have an idea: we could team up. I'll sign, and you find the buyers. How does that sound?"
Teddy's eyes lit up. "Really? That's brilliant! Great idea!"
The neighbors burst into laughter, knowing Charles was only joking. With his current status and resources, there was no chance he'd resort to selling his autograph.
Still, Charles couldn't help but think that if a signature brought in one franc each, he could easily earn a few hundred francs a day. It might even beat the endless tug-of-war with industrialists in the military sector.
When Charles stepped back into his childhood home, he felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity mixed with a strange detachment. It was a feeling he couldn't quite put into words. He found himself re-examining everything around him, savoring the comfort, the scents, and the atmosphere, almost as if his soul were reacquainting itself with his body.
The ordeal he'd been through felt like a nightmare he'd barely escaped, intensifying the joy of being alive. Camille brought him a hot glass of milk and a plate of leftover cake from breakfast. Charles wasn't particularly hungry; his time on the battlefield had completely disrupted his eating habits. But he gratefully sat and quietly enjoyed each bite.
This was what life was supposed to be, he thought.
"They said you landed at Gallipoli?" Camille asked, a hint of worry in her eyes.
"Yes," Charles nodded.
"And… how was it?" Camille struggled to ask, as if afraid of touching on any painful memories.
"Don't worry, Mother," Charles replied with a casual smile. "It was just the coastline, and I was a staff officer. I was always well-protected, just doing my job in a different place. I even got to sunbathe on the beach and nap in the hammocks. Look at me—I even got a little tan."
Camille, who didn't know much about what a battlefield was really like, seemed to believe him, breathing a sigh of relief.
Deyoka, however, saw through Charles's white lie. He'd noticed the way Charles entered the house, his every glance betraying relief and a sense of lingering reflection. But Deyoka decided to let it go, merely nodding thoughtfully.
Charles's need for rest became clear as he slept for two full days, waking only for a single meal before falling back to sleep. His exhaustion had been bone-deep after so many sleepless nights in the trenches, and now he seemed determined to reclaim every lost moment of rest.
Sometimes Charles found himself wondering how the soldiers stationed in those trenches for months on end managed. His own time on the front line had been barely two weeks, while those soldiers spent three or four months there before they could earn a rare leave. By now, they must have adapted to the trench lifestyle, he supposed.
On the third morning, Charles was woken up by Deyoka's voice. "Laurent's waiting downstairs. He says you're due for a parliamentary inquiry today."
"Oh?" Charles blinked his eyes open, remembering vaguely that this was indeed on the agenda.
"What's it about?" Deyoka asked, closing the door softly behind him as he stepped in and took a seat. "Is it something from the battlefield?"
"No, Father," Charles answered. "It's about the uniforms. I want to push for a change."
Deyoka, hesitant, asked, "Is there any way… that you could avoid going back to the front by making some sort of… compromise? I mean, a trade, perhaps?"
He understood his parents' fears; they would have happily sacrificed everything and made peace with anyone if it meant ensuring his safety. But after a long pause, he spoke as he dressed in his uniform, "We can't turn back, Father. Even if I wanted to give it all up, do you think they'd let me?"
"No other way?" Deyoka asked, clinging to a thin thread of hope.
Charles shook his head. For the capitalists, he represented a threat—not just because of his factories, workers, or funds, but because of his ideas and the support of the French people.
How could he surrender? By handing over his mind to them? Or by publicly disgracing himself before the people of France?
Fully dressed, Charles turned to Deyoka and said, "Safety is something we have to create ourselves, Father. We can't rely on someone else's pity. Otherwise, we'd be putting our lives entirely in the hands of our enemies."
With that, Charles opened the door and headed downstairs.
Deyoka watched his son's retreating figure with a mixture of awe and sadness, realizing how much he had changed. He was no longer the Charles of old—he had grown stronger and carried himself with a resolute determination, even a hint of steel.
Deyoka understood now. Whatever Charles had faced in Gallipoli had been more than mere skirmishes; it had been a test of life and death.
In the car on the way to the National Assembly, Charles idly flipped through the documents that Laurent had handed him. They were the briefing notes Gallieni had prepared for him, intended to help him through the inquiry.
Charles had expected a simple session where he'd answer questions and explain his reasoning for changing the uniform. But the files revealed more than that: the inquiry would involve opposition members, their reasons for rejecting the uniform change, and other differing viewpoints.
After scanning the documents briefly, Charles set them aside, shrugged into his infantry coat, yawned, and closed his eyes for a short nap.
"Not helpful?" Laurent asked, curious. "These were collected on General Gallieni's orders."
"Oh, they're helpful," Charles replied softly, eyes still closed. "But they won't change the outcome."
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