Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 114: “And that is the most useful delusion in Europe right now.”

Chapter 114: “And that is the most useful delusion in Europe right now.”

Whitehall reeked of expensive smoke.

Directly taken from colonial land at the expense of native people life’s. frёewebnoѵēl.com

The long mahogany table in the Cabinet War Room bore scratches from a hundred forgotten meetings.

It was a Thursday, and the weather outside was as gray as the mood inside.

Stanley Baldwin sat at the head, hands folded, gaze steady but unreadable.

"We must ask ourselves," he began, "what matters more in 1935, the purity of principle or the prudence of position."

A cough from across the table.

First Sea Lord Chatfield, uniform crisp, ribbons neat.

"With respect, Prime Minister," he said, "we’re not dealing with principle. We’re dealing with steel. Shipyards. Docked hulls in Wilhelmshaven that didn’t exist three years ago."

Sir John Simon, Foreign Secretary, nodded. "And they’ll keep existing, unless we find a way to shape the expansion. A ratio. A cap."

Anthony Eden shifted in his seat.

Younger than the rest, sharper in suit and tone.

"So we hand them legitimacy," he said. "In exchange for a promise?"

Baldwin leaned back slightly. "A promise... backed by visibility. Inspection. Dialogue."

"Dialogue," Eden repeated, "without Paris at the table."

Simon stepped in quickly. "We’re not excluding the French. We’re... delaying the disclosure."

Chatfield frowned. "We are excluding them. Let’s not pretend otherwise. If we strike a bilateral naval agreement with Berlin behind their back, we fracture the very alignment that held Versailles in place."

"Versailles is already crumbling," Baldwin said. "This is sandbags against the tide."

A brief silence.

"Let me speak plainly," Baldwin continued. "If we do nothing, Germany builds unchecked. They surpass parity with France within two years. If we offer a limit say, thirty-five percent of Royal Navy tonnage we control the ceiling. We define the future, not chase it."

Chatfield’s jaw tightened. "If we give them thirty-five percent, we give them the Royal Navy’s shadow. That’s a crown gift. One we cannot take back."

"They’re building anyway," Simon said.

"And we’re watching," Chatfield replied. "We don’t have to hand them a pen to do it legally."

"Gentlemen," Baldwin said, cutting through, "this isn’t about sentiment. France wants Germany shackled forever. That isn’t happening. We can either shape the new order, or stand aside and clutch our old trophies."

Eden’s voice dropped, cold. "And if the French see this as betrayal?"

"They’ll survive," Baldwin said quietly. "They always do."

The door creaked open.

A clerk leaned in, whispered something.

Simon stood to take a note, then returned, folding it into his jacket.

Eden stared at the wall map of Europe as if willing it to stay whole.

"We are trading deterrence," he said, "for a signature."

Outside the chamber, Winston Churchill was holding court with a journalist in the lobby.

He wasn’t part of the Cabinet anymore.

He was opposition, a voice of alarm loud, stubborn, persistent.

"They’ll sign away deterrence," he grumbled, puffing his cigar, "with ink and tea."

Berlin, two days later.

The Reich Chancellery.

Joachim von Ribbentrop stood with his back to the tall windows, coat folded over one arm, the other hand casually holding a dispatch from London.

Adolf Hitler sat at the head of the long conference table, fingers steepled, chin resting on his thumbs.

Raeder stood nearby, silent, in full naval dress.

Ribbentrop read aloud.

"They are ’open to structured dialogue regarding relative fleet capacity within European waters,’" he said.

"They use the word ’framework’ four times. Typical British dance."

Hitler chuckled. "They want a leash. And they don’t realize they’re wrapping it around their own throat."

Raeder allowed himself a tight smile.

"If they give us thirty-five percent," he said, "I can deliver four new capital ships within twenty-four months. Superiority in the Baltic. Teeth in the North Sea."

Hitler’s eyes sparkled. "Not parity. Not yet. But the right to parity."

"And the right to build under their watch," Ribbentrop added.

"Which means they won’t watch closely at all."

"Send them smiles," Hitler said, rising. "They like smiles. Handshakes. Give them a luncheon, a typed agreement. While they sip tea, we pour steel."

He turned to Raeder. "Start the shipyard schedule. Quietly. If this goes through, we don’t slow down. We accelerate."

Raeder saluted, sharp and proud.

"They’ll never match us for will," Hitler muttered. "Only for caution."

Ribbentrop adjusted his cuffs. "They believe they are managing us."

"And that," Hitler said, "is the most useful delusion in Europe right now."

Back in London, the final alignment was beginning.

A second meeting at the Admiralty was less formal.

Smaller.

Tighter.

Baldwin, Simon, Chatfield, Eden.

No clerks.

No notes.

"This is the outline," Simon said, passing a sheet forward. "A naval agreement structured as a bilateral treaty. Germany capped at thirty-five percent tonnage relative to the Royal Navy. Surface vessels only. No submarines clause for now."

Chatfield scanned the page.

"They’ll breach that within months."

"They will," Simon agreed. "But not openly. And in diplomacy, what matters is what is visible."

"France will demand an answer," Eden said. "The minute this leaks."

Baldwin replied without looking up. "Then we ensure it doesn’t leak."

Eden looked up at that.

"You’d keep this secret?"

"For now. Until the ink is dry."

There was silence.

Chatfield folded the document in half and placed it on the table.

"If this fails," he said, "we’re not just risking French trust. We’re legitimizing a war machine."

Baldwin looked up. "It’s already legitimate, John. We’re just giving it a flag."

In Paris, a man in a raincoat stepped into the side door of the Quai d’Orsay.

He moved quickly, handed a note to a clerk, and vanished.

The note reached Laval’s desk that evening.

It was handwritten, unsigned.

"Rumor: Whitehall negotiating with Berlin on naval terms. Not confirmed. Not denied."

Laval read it twice.

Then once more.

He didn’t show it to anyone.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t file it.

He just stared out the window, at the Seine, the lamps glowing amber in the dusk.

The last time France had been caught alone, it took four years and a million dead to make it right again.

And here, now, came the first tremor of isolation.

Not a break.

Not yet.

But a whisper.