Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 166: "I’d ask them if neutrality comforted the dead. If the charred bones outside Teruel were reassured by our principles."

Chapter 166: "I’d ask them if neutrality comforted the dead. If the charred bones outside Teruel were reassured by our principles."

The train pulled into Gare de Lyon just past dawn.

Outside, the early Paris fog spread over the platforms, blurring the edges of the city.

Inside the carriage, Moreau sat quietly by the window, watching the station come into view.

His coat was buttoned to the collar and the carved wooden figure from Tomas sat in his breast pocket.

Across from him, Renaud shifted in his seat, stretching his good arm.

"You think anyone’s going to be there?" he asked.

Moreau didn’t respond immediately.

He watched a man sweep cigarette butts from the edge of the track.

"Depends," he finally muttered.

"On whether they prefer stories over ghosts."

The train slowed down as it came to a stop, the doors opened.

The platform was quiet at first.

Then came the sound boots.

Dozens of them.

Marching in precise formation.

Soldiers in full dress uniform lined the exit ramp, shoulder to shoulder, their rifles slung and polished.

A colonel in a long navy-blue coat stepped forward, hand raised in salute.

Moreau hesitated.

He hadn’t expected this.

"Major Moreau," the colonel said, voice steady.

"Welcome home."

Moreau returned the salute, stiff from injury.

Renaud stepped out behind him and muttered under his breath.

"Paris fuckers forgot about me."

The soldiers didn’t cheer.

They didn’t speak.

Outside the station, a motorcade of black cars waited in neat rows.

There were no insignias, no fanfare.

As they drove through Paris, Moreau noticed people staring from sidewalks and balconies.

Some pointed.

Others simply stared.

Posters of his face drawn from a photograph taken months earlier hung from kiosks.

THE MAN WHO STOOD

MAJOR MOREAU RETURNS

"That’s a terrible likeness," Renaud said, squinting.

"They didn’t get the limp," Moreau replied.

They arrived at the Ministry of Defense just after 8 a.m.

The central courtyard bustled with aides and journalists.

Uniformed guards kept the press back behind barricades.

Moreau stepped from the car and paused.

Waiting for him at the top of the stone stairs was General Beauchamp.

He descended slowly, stopping at the base.

For a moment, he and Moreau stood face to face.

Then Beauchamp saluted.

"Major," he said, voice tight with emotion.

"You have done France proud."

Moreau returned the salute, and then Beauchamp embraced him without hesitation.

"Come inside," the general said. "We have much to discuss."

They walked side by side through the corridors of the Ministry, past clerks who paused to stand.

They entered Beauchamp’s office.

Maps of Spain were still pinned to the walls, but most had red slashes drawn across them.

Beauchamp poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Moreau.

"Spain still burns," Beauchamp said.

"And the men who stood there?"

Beauchamp paused. "Some made it. Many did not."

Moreau nodded.

"But France has its lion back," Beauchamp added with a half-smile.

"Careful. I might bite someone."

Beauchamp laughed.

"You already have. Now it’s time to speak."

"Speak?"

"Tomorrow a personal interview."

Moreau looked uneasy. "What do I even say?"

Beauchamp sipped his brandy. "I trust you to say the right thing. But do make sure not give everything especially your duel with Guderian."

Next day.

The interview room had none of the flamboyance that the newspapers described.

There was no velvet curtain, no elaborate set.

Just a grey wall, a single hanging light, and two chairs.

At the far end of the room, a gramophone made noise as a technician checked the recording equipment.

Moreau sat stiffly in his seat, wearing a freshly pressed uniform.

His medals had been removed at his own request.

Across from him sat Jacques Deveraux, one of France’s most respected columnists middle-aged, sharp-eyed, and understated.

A stenographer sat in the corner, tapping slowly.

Deveraux opened his leather notebook. "Thank you for coming, Major."

Moreau nodded. "I would have preferred a less... elaborate welcome."

"The people demanded answers. You’ve become more than a soldier."

"I never asked to be anything more than one."

"What made you leave for Spain?"

"Because I saw what was coming. And I remembered what happened when men stayed home and hoped monsters would pass them by."

Deveraux nodded. "And the Germans? Their role?"

Moreau’s eyes darkened.

"The Germans weren’t just observers. They were architects. I saw their tanks in the dust outside Zaragoza. I heard their engines in the night. I fought men who spoke Prussian orders and left nothing standing."

"Do you believe Germany is preparing for war?"

Moreau didn’t hesitate. "Not preparing. Already moving. Spain was their rehearsal. And the world gave them a stage."

Deveraux wrote quickly.

"Tell us about Alborán. About how you survived."

Moreau looked away.

"The last stand wasn’t romantic. It was horror. Ortega blowed himself to pieces rather than let them through. Clara turned a medical station into a bunker. I held the square with children and broken rifles. The Germans didn’t come to win. They came to erase us."

He took a slow breath.

"When the tower collapsed, I thought that was it. Fire. Stone. Silence. I lay there days. I don’t remember most of it. I drifted in and out. Until three people who were salvaging ruins found me and saved me."

"They saved you."

"No. They preserved me. Like an ember beneath ash. The fire hadn’t gone out. It had just gone underground."

Deveraux looked at him. "Why come back now? You could have stayed lost."

Moreau straightened.

"Because we don’t have time. France is still dreaming of peace while others sharpen their knives. Germany has tested its weapons in Spain. They know what works. They know we won’t stop them."

"So this is a warning?"

"It’s a mirror. If France wants to see its future, it needs only to look at what I saw, towns erased, civilians machine-gunned, ideals drowned in chemicals and flame. We let Spain bleed. If we let France do the same, then shame on all of us."

"What would you say to those who want neutrality?"

"I’d ask them if neutrality comforted the dead. If the charred bones outside Teruel were reassured by our principles."

Deveraux lowered his pen. "And now? What does Major Moreau want?"

Moreau leaned forward.

"I want France to remember. Not speeches. Not ceremonies. Memory that acts. Memory that builds barricades before it builds museums."

The room fell quiet.

Deveraux finally asked, "What should we call you, Major? The Lion of Valencia? The Ghost of Alborán?"

Moreau smiled faintly.

"Just Moreau. Titles didn’t bleed. I did."

The next morning, every major paper carried his words.

Headlines shouted warnings.

Commentaries debated his truth.

But no one could deny.

Moreau has reached to a point where his influence can now affect this country future.