Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 72: "How a single bullet can collapse years of diplomacy."

Chapter 72: "How a single bullet can collapse years of diplomacy."

The streets of Belgrade were dressed in mourning, but the silence was mixed not with reverence but with suspicion.

Black banners hung heavy over old stone buildings, fluttering lifelessly in the damp wind.

Posters of King Alexander I were plastered to every public wall his face stoic, eyes full of a stern melancholy that now seemed prophetic.

On street corners, Serbian Royal Guards stood like statues, their rifles polished, their faces hardened.

After replying to Dufort, Moreau stepped out of the embassy car and onto the wet cobblestone of Kneza Miloša Street in front of the French Embassy.

Renaud followed, adjusting his scarf with a muttered curse about Balkan winters.

Behind them, Ambassador Dufort stepped out, greeted not by smiles, but by a stiff nod from the awaiting Yugoslavian official a tall man in an old blue uniform that looked more ceremonial than practical.

"Ambassador," the man said in French with a thick Slavic accent. "Welcome to Belgrade. You must forgive us if our hospitality is limited. These are difficult days."

Dufort nodded solemnly. "We are here to grieve with you, Colonel. France mourns this tragedy as her own."

The Colonel’s eyes flicked to Moreau. "And this is?"

"Capitaine Étienne Moreau. Our defence attaché, here on behalf of the French Army."

The Colonel offered no handshake. He simply nodded. "This way. The arrangements are underway. But understand, the city is not safe for uniforms."

Moreau kept his face neutral, but his chest tightened.

As they walked the avenue toward the royal chapel, the cold air pressed against them like a second skin.

The crowd on the sidewalks was quiet, watching, unwelcoming.

Murmurs ran beneath the sound of bootsteps.

A young boy in a wool coat whispered something in Serbian to his father, who responded, "Francuzi su zaklali kralja."

Moreau, understanding enough to catch the slur, flinched.

Renaud, walking beside him, leaned in. "What did he say?"

"He said, ’The French slaughtered the king.’"

Renaud’s jaw tightened. "Charming."

Ahead, the chapel came into view an old Orthodox structure with frescoed walls and tall iron gates.

Black veils hung from its towers like funereal sails.

A line of Yugoslav officers waited inside.

The French delegation was met with formal gestures, but no warmth.

Not even eye contact.

In the candlelit interior, King Alexander’s coffin rested atop a raised marble dais, draped in the royal standard.

A crown lay atop it, glinting softly beneath the golden light.

Two guards stood at attention beside the body, their faces unreadable.

Moreau stood in silence, eyes fixed on the casket.

Renaud’s whisper was barely audible. "He was really holding this place together?"

"Yes," Moreau said. "With his voice, with his image, with his fists when needed. He unified Serbs, Croats, Slovenes... all under the crown. Even if not willingly."

He exhaled slowly. Started thinking about his last life as he murmured to himself.

"Historians argued whether he was a tyrant or a savior. But here, standing in this silence, I think he was just a man trying to keep a country from tearing itself apart."

Dufort came close to them and spoke with a sad face.

"He was the spine of the Yugoslav state," he said. "Now that he’s gone, every limb might break off."

A priest passed near them, offering a solemn blessing in Old Church Slavonic.

As he chanted, several local civilians turned to look at the French officers.

Their faces were red-eyed, some trembling with sorrow, others with barely concealed rage.

After the brief viewing, they were escorted to the royal palace where high-ranking officials would offer private condolences.

But there, too, they were met with cold eyes.

General Marković, chief of Yugoslav intelligence, approached Moreau and Dufort with thinly veiled hostility.

"I hope France’s military will explain," he said stiffly, "why a king was allowed to be murdered on your soil."

Dufort remained composed. "We are conducting full investigations. It was not a failure of intention, General, but of seconds and steel."

Moreau added quietly, "The assassin died on the spot. But the questions remain and I will do my part to answer them."

Marković’s gaze pierced through him. "See that you do, Capitaine. Because the next war may not wait for investigations."

Later, in a quieter corner of the palace garden, Moreau sat beside a solemn marble fountain.

Renaud joined him with two small cups of thick Turkish-style coffee.

"You’re quiet," Renaud said, handing him one.

"I’m thinking," Moreau replied.

"About what?"

Moreau’s eyes drifted toward the city skyline rooftops lined with snipers, soldiers patrolling every street, civilians whispering under their breath.

"About how fragile everything is. How a single bullet can collapse years of diplomacy."

Others may not understand but he knows this won’t be the last bullet.

One more bullet will be shoot and that will kill thirty to forty millions.

Otto von Bismarck rightly said if europe was to explode in future the fuse will be lit by the damn Balkans.

Renaud took a long sip and muttered, "I thought we left this kind of tension back in Paris."

"This is worse," Moreau said. "This is personal. These people are grieving and looking for someone to blame. And we’re here, wearing the name of the country where their king died."

They sat in silence.

Then Moreau turned to him. "Do you know what this city looked like in the last war?"

Renaud shook his head.

"Shells, famine, executions. The Austrians tried to crush it. The Serbs held out until their last man. When Alexander came into power after the war, he swore never to let foreign boots march here again."

"And now?" Renaud asked.

Moreau looked at the palace behind him. "Now he’s in a coffin because foreign boots let a pistol pass the gates."

As dusk fell, the French delegation was escorted back to the embassy compound.

The drive through Belgrade was even quieter now.

Posters of the king flapped in the wind, some torn, others freshly placed.

In one square, Moreau saw a crowd gathered around a public speaker shouting from a soapbox.

He couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the faces: tired, angry, afraid.

Inside the embassy, Dufort called him to a private office.

"They’re watching us, Étienne," he said quietly. "The Yugoslav government, their military, the press. One wrong word from us and they’ll turn this into a national humiliation."

"I understand."

"I’ll do the politics. You speak for the army. With respect, but with honesty. If they sense condescension, they’ll throw you out."

Moreau nodded. "Then I won’t give them any. Only what they deserve."

Dufort nodded and Moreau takes his leave.