Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 116: "History will not record this as a victory."

June 18, 1935.

The sky over London was wet, colourless and gloomy.

Inside the Foreign Office.

Only the ticking of the longcase clock in Room 84 reminded anyone that time still moved forward.

Sir Samuel Hoare stood before a long walnut table, arms folded behind his back, the final agreement resting before him.

Across from him stood Joachim von Ribbentrop, posture perfect, eyes gleaming under a mask of calm.

His gloved hands rested lightly on a leather folder.

Behind him, an aide in a grey coat hovered silently.

No smiles.

"We have confirmed the articles," Hoare said, voice even.

"Germany accepts limitation to thirty-five percent of Royal Navy surface tonnage, with notification protocol and oversight mechanisms."

"Correct," Ribbentrop replied. "Germany views this as a foundation. A new equilibrium. Europe is... overdue for clarity."

"You’ll understand," Hoare said, "that France is unaware."

"Of course." Ribbentrop’s voice was smooth. "Discretion is, after all, the cornerstone of British diplomacy."

Sir Robert Vansittart stood near the fireplace, jaw tight, arms crossed, watching it unfold like a priest at a funeral he couldn’t stop.

He had protested the agreement in every internal meeting.

Now, he said nothing.

Only watched.

Hoare slid over the supplemental addendum.

"You’ll note the submarine clause is excluded. No mention. No record."

Ribbentrop gave a small nod.

"Germany is satisfied. Unofficial parity is sufficient for now."

The room fell silent for a moment.

No clink of teacups.

No rustle of paper.

Then Hoare reached for the pen.

"Shall we?"

Ribbentrop stepped forward.

His signature flowed easily across the page swift, elegant, confident.

It was almost too fluid for a man who represented a regime built on steel and fear.

Hoare followed.

His pen was slower, heavier.

He signed with a sort of silent resignation, as though aware that the act would be judged long after the ink dried.

Their hands met briefly, coolly.

"To peace," Ribbentrop offered.

"To protocol," Hoare replied.

Outside the room, footsteps rang fast, deliberate.

Vansittart glanced over his shoulder.

Churchill had arrived.

He strode down the corridor like a man walking into battle, cane tapping in rhythm with the storm inside him.

He wore a thick coat, undone at the top, and smoke curled from a half-lit cigar clamped between his teeth.

"You’ve done it, then," Churchill said as Hoare stepped into the corridor.

"I have."

"Without consulting the French?"

"They would have protested."

"They should have," Churchill snapped. "And you should have listened."

"This prevents escalation."

Churchill’s voice cut sharper. "You’ve codified it instead. You’ve handed Hitler a navy and called it understanding."

Hoare didn’t flinch. "It’s a containment framework."

Churchill leaned in, voice lower. "You’ve dressed rearmament in diplomacy and sold it as wisdom. History will not record this as a victory."

"You weren’t in the room," Hoare said quietly.

"I didn’t need to be. I’ve seen what happens when the British government confuses appeasement with foresight."

Churchill turned and walked away, muttering as he puffed, "This isn’t peace. This is permission."

That evening, the British public found out through a small boxed column on page five of The Times.

No photograph.

No ceremony.

Just numbers and ratios:

"The United Kingdom and the German Reich have entered into an agreement limiting the size of Germany’s surface fleet to thirty-five percent of Royal Navy tonnage. The pact, signed in London, is seen as a constructive gesture in the pursuit of naval stability in Europe."

No mention of submarines.

No mention of France.

But Berlin was louder.

The next morning’s Völkischer Beobachter ran the headline across the front page:

"ENGLAND RECOGNIZES GERMANY’S NAVAL RIGHTS"

Beneath it, a photograph of Hitler with the caption.

"DIGNITY RESTORED."

In the Chancellery, Hitler held the signed agreement in both hands, grinning.

"Well done, Ribbentrop," he said.

"It’s time for us to move forward."

Ribbentrop spoke. "History will remember this day."

Hitler laughed loudly and spoke.

"Let them remeber the day thousand year reich began. Start the construction schedule. Begin work on the next cruiser class immediately. Quietly."

"Shall we inform Paris?" Ribbentrop asked with a smirk.

Hitler laughed once more. "Let the French read the papers."

That same day, across the Seine, Pierre Laval’s breakfast was interrupted by a knock at the door of his study.

A courier entered, holding a sealed envelope.

It was not from the British Embassy.

It was from a journalist, a French contact in London.

Laval broke the seal and read quickly.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached the final sentence.

He stood, shaking the paper.

"They signed it." fгeewebnovёl.com

Delbos entered moments later. "Is it confirmed?"

"It’s not speculation anymore. It’s done."

"Thirty-five percent?"

"Yes," Laval said. "Thirty-five percent surface tonnage. No mention of submarines."

Delbos was pale. "And no word to us?"

"None. Not a whisper."

He tossed the paper onto the desk. "So much for the Entente."

"What do we tell the press?"

"Tell them nothing yet. I want London’s version first."

That night, Le Temps published its own headline.

"Londres Trahit: Accord Naval Signé Sans la France"

In bold under it: "Caution is no longer neutrality. It is complicity."

At the French Army headquarters, General Gamelin stood over a map of the North Sea.

"We can no longer rely on Britain for strategic containment," he told his staff. "They are thinking in islands. We are standing on the continent."

Back in London, the mood in Downing Street was strange.

Stanley Baldwin sat alone in his study, reading Churchill’s statement prepared for the House.

He read it once, then again. Then he said it out loud to no one.

"This agreement represents not peace, but an opening. It removes barriers for Germany without placing any upon its intent. It was signed without consultation, without warning, and without honor."

He folded the paper, set it on the table beside his tea, and stared into the fire.

Vansittart entered quietly behind him. "France is sending an official protest. They’re demanding explanation."

Baldwin didn’t look up. "We’ll give them the usual language."

"It won’t satisfy them."

"No," Baldwin said. "It wasn’t meant to."

The fire cracked softly.

"The page is signed," he said.

"And the storm has already begun."