Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 160: "That’s France’s last honest voice on a dying front."

Chapter 160: "That’s France’s last honest voice on a dying front."

The grand chamber had not been this crowded since the July riots.

Deputies sat stiff in their velvet seats, pages flicked furiously through reports.

Outside, protestors gathered some waving tricolor flags, others hoisting portraits of Major Moreau.

At the center of it all stood General Beauchamp, alone behind a wooden desk, his medals shining under the chandeliers.

Chairman Rémy banged the gavel.

"This committee was summoned," he began, "to investigate the conduct and consequences of France’s military involvement in Spain. Particularly the role played by Major Moreau whose actions have become the subject of both public awe and parliamentary disgust."

Dubois paused, glancing at his papers. "This inquiry does not assume guilt. But it does demand clarity."

Lucien Armand leaned forward. "Let’s not dress this up. The man is a liability. He duels generals in the mountains. He sends Frenchmen to die for a republic that barely exists. And now he writes manifestos instead of orders!"

Applause from the right-wing benches.

Some deputies even stood.

Beauchamp remained silent.

His face unreadable.

Dubois adjusted his glasses. "General Beauchamp, you are here to defend a doctrine that has caused more controversy than cohesion. You may speak." freewёbnoνel.com

Beauchamp rose slowly.

"Gentlemen. Ladies. I stand not to defend a man. I stand to defend a choice. A choice France made when it chose to matter in history instead of hide in comfort."

He stepped forward, voice rising.

"You want to talk about chaos? About casualties? Good. Let’s talk."

He pulled a folder from his case and opened it.

"Battle of Zaragoza. 300 French irregulars, most never trained in terrain warfare, faced two Panzer divisions under General Heinz Guderian. Do you know what happened?"

Silence.

"They held. Not for hours. For two days. Why? Because Moreau taught them how to fight like phantoms. Because his doctrine trained them not to hold lines, but to haunt them. You call that vanity?"

Armand spat, "And how many died?"

"Two hundred and eleven," Beauchamp answered flatly. "They died for every inch they gave up. And made the Germans pay in iron and blood."

Another deputy snapped, "That’s not doctrine! That’s martyrdom!"

Beauchamp’s voice dropped to ice.

"It’s war. And unlike you, they didn’t sit on silk benches while others died. They stood in smoke, mud, and fire and bled for a country that doesn’t even know their names."

Dubois interjected, "General, this is not a rally..."

Beauchamp cut him off. "No, it’s not. It’s a reckoning."

He tossed another file on the desk.

"Let’s talk about Barcelona. About Clara Valera. An anarchist who once swore she’d never fight beside a Frenchman. Today, she defends Valencia under Moreau’s banner."

"Because she was bribed," Armand said.

"No," Beauchamp said. "Because she saw something no doctrine, no committee, no newspaper could give her. A man who bleeds beside his soldiers. Who carries his cane into trenches. Who gave the dying a reason to hold the line."

Armand stood again. "You paint him as a unifier. But he’s a doctrinaire. His so-called tactics have led to slaughter. Valencia is a warzone. Barcelona’s in ruins."

Beauchamp snapped, "Barcelona was burning long before Moreau arrived. He didn’t start the fire. He stood in it."

The chamber murmured.

Another deputy, older and lined with trench scars, stood.

’In 1916, I fought in Verdun. My officer never left his trench. He bled with us. I remember that more than any map."

Beauchamp nodded. "So will every Spaniard who’s seen Moreau limp to the front with a cane and fight beside them."

Deputy Marchand raised his voice.

"But what of France? What has Moreau done for us?"

Beauchamp turned toward him. "He’s made France relevant again. While you sit here and debate glory, he reminds the world that we still understand courage. That we don’t need permission from Moscow or Berlin to stand for something."

A younger deputy stood. "And the Soviets? They’re pressuring us to remove him. They’re threatening to withdraw aid."

Beauchamp nodded. "Yes. Because they fear him. Because he’s the only man they didn’t plant. The only officer who doesn’t bow. Moreau is the last free commander on a chessboard of puppets."

He then looks at Armand. "You don’t hate Moreau because he’s reckless. You hate him because he doesn’t beg for permission."

Gasps rippled across the room.

Armand rose furiously. "This is slander!"

"It’s the truth," Beauchamp growled. "You’ve spent your career waiting for the wind to change. Moreau walks into storms and dares them to break first."

Dubois leaned forward and controlling the conversation making sure it doesn’t go to far.

"You really believe he holds it all together?"

"I don’t believe it," Beauchamp said. "I know it. Remove him, and the lines between Teruel and Valencia collapse. The Unified Column disintegrates. And with it, the last breath of the Spanish Republic."

Armand laughed bitterly. "So we’re hostages to his legend now?"

Beauchamp looked straight at him. "No. You’re guests at a funeral you’ve done nothing to stop."

Outside the Assembly, a crowd chanted.

"MOREAU! MOREAU! MOREAU!"

Journalists swarmed Beauchamp as he exited the chamber.

"General! Do you support Moreau’s defiance of Moscow?"

"I support his defense of dignity," Beauchamp replied.

"Do you think he’s become a myth?"

Beauchamp paused.

"No. He became something harder."

"What’s that?"

"A man who couldn’t be bought."

"General, do you think France is being bullied by the Soviets?"

"I think France is being tested,"

Beauchamp replied. "And right now, our best answer is a man limping through Spain with a rifle and a flag no one dares lower."

Inside the committee room.

Deputy Marceau a centrist known for her neutrality requested to speak.

"I visited Madrid two months ago," she said.

"At the time, all I saw was disorder. Factions fighting factions. Food lines and chaos. But last week, I received a letter from a Spanish woman in Valencia. Her village had been saved by Moreau’s forces. She called him ’the man who gave us one more day.’"

She paused.

"I don’t know if that makes him a general or a poet. But I know Spain hasn’t fallen yet."

Then a young deputy stood.

"I was raised on the stories of Joffre, of Foch. We worship generals who never saw the mud. But now, in this era of fear, it’s the limping ones who lead."

He turned to Dubois.

"Let history record that we did not betray him when it mattered most."

Dubois cleared his throat.

"This committee will deliberate."

Beauchamp stood once more.

"One more thing," he said.

He pulled a small radio from his coat.

A recorded command was played in front of everyone.

"This is Valencia. Unified Column still holding. Free Militia and POUM reporting zero defections. Command remains with Major Moreau. The line stands."

Beauchamp turned it off.

He smiled faintly.

"You hear that?"

He waited.

"That’s not a ghost. That’s France’s last honest voice on a dying front."

And with that, he walked out.

Later that night, newspapers across Paris ran different headlines.

THE MAN WHO HOLDS THE REPUBLIC

MOREAU: HERO OR HERETIC?

But for the first time, even Moreau’s enemies had to admit.

The myth was no longer hollow.

It walked with a limp.

And it would not fall quietly.