Next day after so much traveling and exhaustion of not just mind but body they arrived in Verdun and directly took another train to the base.
Before he goes to paris Moreau needed to clear one thing with the Colonel.
Then after another tiresome journey they arrived at the base in the pale light of morning, just as the guard rotation changed..
The sky was overcast, the clouds hanging low.
Renaud walked beside Moreau in silence, boots crunching on the gravel.
Neither of them said a word as they passed the outer post, just a nod to the duty sergeant who returned their salute with a tired flick of the wrist.
No identification was needed or rather in the current situation they didn't dare ask one.
News in the military spread more fast then anyone can ever expect.
Moreau walked with urgency through the halls he didn't even glance at the men training in the courtyard or the lieutenant who tried to stop him mid-corridor.
He moved with too much frustration and anger boiling in his blood.
And he stopped only when he reached the door of Colonel Perrin.
Perrin was seated at his desk, writing something with a fountain pen.
He didn't even look up.
"Ah," the colonel said calmly, "Capitaine Moreau. I figured you'd come here first."
Moreau stepped in, his jaw tight. "Yes, sir. Because, truth be told, I have no fucking clue why I've been summoned to Paris. The notice came out of nowhere. They cut my leave short, no explanation just a time, a date, and a destination."
Perrin finally put down his pen.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed through his nose.
There was a long pause.
Then Perrin said, flatly, "Last time, when the general executed those traitors publicly, Paris went silent. Not a single whisper. Just silence. But that kind of silence… never lasts long."
He looked up at Moreau, tired and serious. "Now they've decided to make noise. But the general he's too big of a tree to cut down."
"So they picked me," Moreau said coldly. "Of course they did."
"Yes," Perrin said. "They picked you, Capitaine. Because you've made too many people nervous. Because you're the symbol they think they can crush without consequences."
Moreau clenched his fists. "So this is no committee summon. This is a fucking ambush. A preemptive strike?"
"Call it what you want," Perrin said, voice low. "But I won't lie to you. That's exactly what it feels like."
He stood slowly and walked to the window, staring out at the grey yard.
The barracks beyond looked peaceful normal, even.
A world pretending everything was fine.
He didn't turn around as he spoke again.
"But I want you to understand something, Capitaine. If sixty out of a hundred men in this army are corrupted rotten to the core there are still forty who will fight for what's right. That's all we have left. That forty."
He turned back to him. "I cannot promise you safety. I don't know what's waiting for you in Paris. But I can tell you this trust the general." ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by novel·fiɾe·net
Moreau's anger flared again. "And what is he going to do from Paris? Smile while I'm dragged across the floor like a criminal? Give a speech at my court martial?"
His voice was soft when he replied.
"Do you know what the general said to me the day he left this base?"
Moreau paused. "No. What did he say?"
Perrin looked him in the eye.
"He told me… 'look after Capitaine Moreau. He might be needed somewhere.'"
The words sank into the room like stones dropped into still water.
Moreau was speechless.
Perrin continued, voice steady but heavier now. "So, you see, Capitaine there are still those who see reality. Those who will help. Maybe not loudly, maybe not openly… but they're there. You're not alone. And all I can give you right now is hope."
Moreau stared at him.
Something reflected behind his eyes.
Not belief no, not anymore but exhaustion.
He stepped forward and said, quietly but firmly, "Even those who died a week ago… they had hope, Colonel. Hope that someone would come. Hope that someone would save them."
His tone hardened. "No one did."
Heavy, suffocating silence.
"That's the only lesson I've learned in this uniform," Moreau finished. "Never hope in the French army. Because you will be disappointed."
Perrin opened his mouth, but Moreau raised his hand not in disrespect, but offered a short salute.
Then he turned on his heel and walked out.
The office was silent.
Perrin didn't sit back down right away.
He just stood there for a long time, staring out the window again.
His hand trembled slightly.
When he finally returned to his chair, he reached into the drawer and took out a small wooden case.
Inside was a half-used cigar, dark and dry, the smell faint but familiar.
He lit it with a match, letting the flame burn for a moment longer than necessary before it kissed the tip.
And then he let the smoke roll slowly from his nostrils.
His eyes didn't blink.
He remembered the trenches.
The smell of mud and blood and metal.
The screams of dying men.
The damnable sound of boots squelching through churned earth.
The sound of a whistle that meant death.
And the brothers who died so this country could rise again.
Now Paris was rotting from within.
Selling its honor to the highest bidder while good men bled to keep the republic afloat.
He whispered, to no one in particular:
"Forgive me, Lord… for I am incompetent."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk.
"Forgive me, comrades… for I am useless."
A single tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn't wipe it.
Instead, he looked up at the sky beyond the glass.
And he whispered again, "Forgive me…"