Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 65: "May France be kinder to him than she was to us."

Beauchamp's office was quite with silent movement of people moving around.

Moreau stood before the heavy wooden door, glancing once at the adjutant posted nearby.

"He's ready for you, Captain," the adjutant said quietly. "You can go in."

Moreau stepped inside.

General Beauchamp's office was meticulously ordered.

Wide windows bathed the room in natural light, illuminating stacks of dossiers, precisely folded maps, and polished furnishings.

Behind the desk sat Beauchamp himself, a tall man whose presence had always reminded Moreau of stone sculptures strong, immovable, and cold.

The French flag stood stiffly at attention behind him.

"Captain Moreau," Beauchamp acknowledged calmly, removing his reading glasses and carefully folding them onto his desk. "Please, sit.

Moreau stepped forward, saluting before sitting down.

Beauchamp studied him for a moment, then tapped a small file folder resting on his desk.

"I suppose you've read it by now," he said.

Moreau nodded once. "De Gaulle's publication."

Beauchamp smiled faintly. "Vers l'Armée de Métier. It's bold, isn't it? De Gaulle put into writing what many of us had only dared whisper privately. He's declared openly that France's army needs drastic reform. You've said it, bled for it and now it's on paper."

Moreau let the silence stretch a moment, then added, "It's not just paper anymore. It's a shot fired across the entire military doctrine of France."

Beauchamp chuckled. "Well said."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlocked over his stomach. "You and De Gaulle two men from different fires, but the same metal. One with a pen, the other with a tank tread."

Moreau didn't answer.

Beauchamp's gaze softened, not out of sentiment, but something different.

He turned his chair slightly, looking toward a framed photo on the wall.

Men in muddy uniforms.

A trench.

The Marne, maybe.

Verdun.

"Have you ever asked yourself why we choose this life, Moreau? Why we put on these uniforms and give everything for a system that disappoints us again and again?" Beauchamp said suddenly.

Caught slightly off-guard, Moreau paused. "I'm not sure I follow, sir."

The general waved vaguely toward the window. "Why we dedicate our lives to something so... prone to failure. The Republic. France. Orders. Uniforms."

Moreau didn't reply.

Beauchamp stood, walked slowly to the window.

"In 1916, I was a lieutenant," he began. "North of Verdun. Our unit held a line for three weeks straight without relief. Shells fell every ten minutes. The rats were so fat they ran across our boots in daylight. And one night... I stood knee-deep in mud beside a boy who couldn't have been older than seventeen."

He turned, eyes distant now.

"He kept asking me if I thought he'd live. I told him yes. I knew he'd die."

Moreau stared at him.

Beauchamp exhaled, hard. "He was gone by morning. Shrapnel. Couldn't find enough to send home."

Moreau looked away for a moment, jaw tight.

"That boy died for a world that no longer exists," Beauchamp murmured. "And when I see men like you or De Gaulle, trying to claw something better out of this old corpse of an army I see a second chance."

He returned to his desk, sat back down.

Then, with a sudden shift, his tone became sharper. "Which brings us to why you're here."

Moreau straightened.

"You have a medal. Fame. Recognition. Soon, a promotion," Beauchamp said. "The purge is over. Your name has made the rounds from cafés to courtyards. And now... the question."

He leaned forward.

"What do you want to do next, Capitaine?"

Moreau hesitated.

Beauchamp raised an eyebrow. "I'm not asking about leave, or where you plan to sleep. I'm asking do you want to be part of something bigger?"

Still Moreau was silent.

"You've bled for the future," Beauchamp said. "You've fought ghosts and traitors alike. Now, De Gaulle has lit the flame in public. It's no longer theory. It's a movement. Would you like to join it?"

Moreau's pulse quickened.

His hands folded on his lap, voice slow.

"Are you asking me if I want to change the army, sir?" he said. "Or if I want to take sides in a war that hasn't been declared yet?"

Beauchamp gave a half-smile. "Same thing."

Moreau was silent for a beat longer.

Then, with calm resolve: "I'm ready, sir."

Beauchamp grinned. "Good."

He reached for a new file.

"I've spoken with General Delon. Perrin has already agreed. In three weeks, you'll be transferred to Paris permanently. Assigned to a strategic planning bureau. Quiet at first. But not for long. Along with you we will transfer Renaud."

Moreau nodded.

Beauchamp stood. "But before that, you will return to Verdun."

Moreau frowned. "Sir?"

Beauchamp moved around the desk and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Say goodbye to your old life, Capitaine. Family, friends. Lovers. Whatever else you need to close off. Because once you arrive in Paris, you'll be stepping onto a battlefield with no uniforms and no lines."

Moreau rose, saluted sharply.

"I understand."

Beauchamp returned it, then added, quieter, "And one more thing."

"Sir?"

"Trust De Gaulle. He's not charming. He's certainly not easy to work with. But he sees the rot just as clearly as you do."

Moreau allowed himself a thin smile. "I look forward to arguing with him."

The general might know but he knows in depth about who Gaulle is.

Beauchamp laughed. "You will. And when you do, remember this: it's not the man who shouts the loudest who wins, but the one who still whispers when everyone else is screaming."

Moreau turned to go, then paused at the door.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

Beauchamp gave a small nod. "No, Capitaine. Thank you. For reminding me that there's still fight left in France."

Moreau exited the room, the click of the door soft behind him.

Back inside, Beauchamp reached for a pen and opened his journal.

"I gave him the keys today. I don't know if he knows it yet. But he is the future one way or another. May he fight cleaner than we did. And may France be kinder to him than she was to us."

He closed the journal.