Early the next morning, just as dawn broke, Laurent was already waiting downstairs in his car, tasked with taking Charles to report for duty. This was an extraordinary reception for a new recruit—a major had been sent specifically to fetch him, all on direct orders from General Gallieni.
Gallieni had a ready explanation for this unprecedented escort: "Laurent is responsible for the security of the motorcycle factory. I can't allow even the slightest opportunity for any capitalists to leak industrial secrets. From now on, Laurent will accompany him wherever he goes!"
The true reason, however, was that Gallieni didn't want any loopholes in security that could allow traditional aristocrats to exploit the situation.
Deyoka helped Charles load his bags into the car, while Camille watched her son with a wistful expression, as though he were leaving not just for Paris, a mere few kilometers away, but for distant England.
"Don't worry, Mother," Charles reassured her. "I'll be able to return often—they've said I'll still be free to oversee the factory."
News of the parliament's decision seemed to travel fast; Charles had heard the details before the military had even issued formal orders.
Camille nodded quietly, though she couldn't shake a nagging feeling that something was amiss—a sixth sense only a mother could have.
Unbeknownst to them, a small crowd had gathered around, all there to see Charles off.
"Take this croissant with you for the road, young Charles!"
"Poor lad, barely seventeen and already joining the army!"
"Take care of yourself, son!"
Some even began cursing the capitalists:
"Those despicable capitalists! They won't send their own sons to war, but they're more than happy to let Charles go!"
"Charles isn't even an adult yet, while their sons are living it up, heedless of others."
"They couldn't care less. All they know is how to exploit us!"
Suddenly, a familiar voice broke through the crowd. "Charles!" It was Matthew, hobbling over on crutches, his face still pale but bearing a determined smile.
"Matthew!" Charles was taken aback. "I didn't know you could walk again!"
"Of course!" Matthew forced a nonchalant shrug. "It's just a little injury—I'm recovering well."
As he neared, Matthew balanced on one leg, leaning his crutches against his side as he straightened Charles's collar. "I owe you a great deal, Charles," he said, his tone filled with gratitude.
"You don't usually say things like that!" Charles replied with a smile.
"People change." A somber look crossed Matthew's face as he continued. "I once thought it would be me going off to serve, with you there to see me off. Now it's you…"
"It'll be all right," Charles said gently, sensing that Matthew was once again reminded of his missing leg.
Matthew gave a quiet nod, his eyes briefly darkening. Though he'd resolved to stay strong, his emotions were hard to control.
After hugging his friends and family goodbye, Charles climbed into the car. The engine roared to life, and he kept waving out the window as they drove, watching his loved ones fade into the distance. Unexpectedly, he felt his eyes grow misty. It was strange—Paris was only a short distance away, and he'd likely be home often. Yet he couldn't shake the melancholy that filled him.
Charles recalled a story he'd once read about young lions. A mother lion would force her cubs to leave the pride once they reached adulthood, so they'd learn to survive on their own.
Although he wasn't being forced out, he felt as if he were going through a similar rite of passage.
A sudden loneliness crept over Charles, along with a faint apprehension. He had no idea what awaited him on this path ahead.
He didn't notice that on a nearby hillside, a man watched him depart from the terrace of a large estate. Wearing his dressing gown and clutching a pipe, Francis stood with an unreadable expression as he watched Charles's car disappear down the road. After a moment's hesitation, he turned and picked up the phone:
"Yes, he's gone to Paris… I hear his tractor factory is already working on a new tank prototype, and the progress is swift."
"We should start preparing soon." ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ɴovᴇl(F)ɪre.ɴet
After hanging up, Francis sat alone in his chair, his gaze distant. He felt a strange pang of reluctance, even guilt. But it lasted only a second before his expression hardened, and he muttered through clenched teeth, "You forced me into this. If you want to ruin everything I've worked for, then you'll pay the price."
At the Paris Defense Command
The Defense Command was set up beside the police station in Paris's 4th district. This location allowed Gallieni to oversee both military defense and civil order. The 4th district also housed the city hall and wartime hospitals, and the Seine River cut through the area, with two islands in the middle offering naturally defensible positions.
Gallieni had prepared this spot as a fallback position in case Paris fell. Fortunately, it had not come to that.
Laurent drove down Saint-Antoine Avenue and parked at the command entrance. The guards at the door snapped to attention immediately, though Charles noticed their curious glances. Although they remained at attention, their eyes were locked on him, intrigued by the rumor of this young "commander" joining their ranks.
Feeling unexpectedly self-conscious, Charles worried they might be underwhelmed by what they saw.
Inside, the first floor bustled with activity from the communications department. The air was thick with the clamor of telephones and officers hurrying back and forth. Charles's entrance caused a momentary lull, and soon all eyes were fixed on him, a mix of admiration, envy, and a hint of jealousy.
One communications officer worked up the courage to approach him, extending a hand. "You must be young Charles—welcome!"
"Thank you," Charles replied, slightly awkward but polite. He was clearly overwhelmed by the crowded room full of soldiers.
Laurent led him upstairs with practiced ease, checking his pocket watch as he went. "General Gallieni usually wakes at eight," he noted. "We're about twenty minutes early, so we can wait…"
He trailed off when he noticed Gallieni already standing at the top of the stairs, wearing a faded uniform with pants that had lost their original red hue, now faded to pink, a pistol gleaming at his side. The general's face softened when he saw Charles, a faint smile curling at his lips.
"Sir, you…" Laurent stammered, taken aback. It was clear that the general had broken his long-standing routine to personally welcome Charles.
Gallieni was tempted to clasp Charles on the shoulder, grinning and saying, "Welcome, young man—I've been looking forward to this day!" But he resisted, knowing that any display of warmth could be misconstrued by the soldiers and staff at headquarters.
Instead, he put on a stern expression and addressed Charles with a hint of playful sarcasm, "Well, look who's finally here—the great savior of France. We've all been waiting for you to teach us how to wage war."
Several nearby officers chuckled, taking the general's words at face value. None of them noticed Gallieni's subtle wink at Charles, as if to say, It's no joke, Charles. You truly are the savior of France.
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