Next day after so much traveling and exhaustion of not just mind but body they arrived in Verdun and directly took another train to the base.
Before he goes to paris Moreau needed to clear one thing with the Colonel.
Then after another tireso journey they arrived at the base in the pale light of morning, just as the guard rotation changed..
The sky was overcast, the clouds hanging low.
Renaud walked beside Moreau in silence, boots crunching on the gravel.
Neither of them said a word as they passed the outer post, just a nod to the duty sergeant who returned their salute with a tired flick of the wrist.
No identification was needed or rather in the current situation they didn't dare ask one.
News in the military spread more fast then anyone can ever expect.
Moreau walked with urgency through the halls he didn't even glance at the n training in the courtyard or the lieutenant who tried to stop him mid-corridor.
He moved with too much frustration and anger boiling in his blood.
And he stopped only when he reached the door of Colonel Perrin.
He didn't knock.
Just pushed it open.
Perrin was seated at his desk, writing sothing with a fountain pen.
He didn't even look up.
"Ah," the colonel said calmly, "Capitaine Moreau. I figured you'd co here first."
Moreau stepped in, his jaw tight. "Yes, sir. Because, truth be told, I have no fucking clue why I've been summoned to Paris. The notice ca out of nowhere. They cut my leave short, no explanation just a ti, a date, and a destination."
Perrin finally put down his pen.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed through his nose.
There was a long pause.
Then Perrin said, flatly, "Last ti, when the general executed those traitors publicly, Paris went silent. Not a single whisper. Just silence. But that kind of silence… never lasts long."
He looked up at Moreau, tired and serious. "Now they've decided to make noise. But the general he's too big of a tree to cut down."
"So they picked ," Moreau said coldly. "Of course they did."
"Yes," Perrin said. "They picked you, Capitaine. Because you've made too many people nervous. Because you're the symbol they think they can crush without consequences."
Moreau clenched his fists. "So this is no committee summon. This is a fucking ambush. A preemptive strike?"
"Call it what you want," Perrin said, voice low. "But I won't lie to you. That's exactly what it feels like."
He stood slowly and walked to the window, staring out at the grey yard.
The barracks beyond looked peaceful normal, even.
Soldiers training.
Officers walking.
A world pretending everything was fine.
He didn't turn around as he spoke again.
"But I want you to understand sothing, Capitaine. If sixty out of a hundred n in this army are corrupted rotten to the core there are still forty who will fight for what's right. That's all we have left. That forty."
He turned back to him. "I cannot promise you safety. I don't know what's waiting for you in Paris. But I can tell you this trust the general."
Moreau's anger flared again. "And what is he going to do from Paris? Smile while I'm dragged across the floor like a criminal? Give a speech at my court martial?"
Perrin didn't react.
His voice was soft when he replied.
"Do you know what the general said to the day he left this base?"
Moreau paused. "No. What did he say?"
Perrin looked him in the eye.
"He told … 'look after Capitaine Moreau. He might be needed sowhere.'"
The words sank into the room like stones dropped into still water.
Moreau was speechless.
Perrin continued, voice steady but heavier now. "So, you see, Capitaine there are still those who see reality. Those who will help. Maybe not loudly, maybe not openly… but they're there. You're not alone. And all I can give you right now is hope."
Moreau stared at him.
Sothing reflected behind his eyes.
Not belief no, not anymore but exhaustion.
He stepped forward and said, quietly but firmly, "Even those who died a week ago… they had hope, Colonel. Hope that soone would co. Hope that soone would save them."
His tone hardened. "No one did."
There was silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
"That's the only lesson I've learned in this uniform," Moreau finished. "Never hope in the French army. Because you will be disappointed."
Perrin opened his mouth, but Moreau raised his hand not in disrespect, but offered a short salute.
Then he turned on his heel and walked out.
The office was silent.
Perrin didn't sit back down right away.
He just stood there for a long ti, staring out the window again.
His hand trembled slightly.
When he finally returned to his chair, he reached into the drawer and took out a small wooden case.
Inside was a half-used cigar, dark and dry, the sll faint but familiar.
He lit it with a match, letting the fla burn for a mont longer than necessary before it kissed the tip.
He inhaled.
And then he let the smoke roll slowly from his nostrils.
His eyes didn't blink.
He rembered the trenches.
The sll of mud and blood and tal.
The screams of dying n.
The gas.
The rats.
The damnable sound of boots squelching through churned earth.
The sound of a whistle that ant death.
And the brothers who died so this country could rise again.
And now?
Now Paris was rotting from within.
Selling its honor to the highest bidder while good n bled to keep the republic afloat.
His lips tightened.
He whispered, to no one in particular:
"Forgive , Lord… for I am incompetent."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk.
"Forgive , comrades… for I am useless."
A single tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn't wipe it.
Instead, he looked up at the sky beyond the glass.
And he whispered again, "Forgive …"
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