Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 73: "Be careful, Frenchman. Belgrade may smile, but it never forgets."

Chapter 73: "Be careful, Frenchman. Belgrade may smile, but it never forgets."

The marble steps of the Royal Palace in Belgrade flet cold.

Moreau adjusted the buttons on his coat as he walked beside Ambassador Dufort, flanked by Yugoslav officers.

Their boots clicked across the stone floor as they approached the great ceremonial hall.

"This is a trap," Renaud whispered under his breath, walking behind them.

Moreau gave the slightest nod. "If it is, then we give them nothing to sink teeth into."

The doors opened into the throne room.

Grand chandeliers hung overhead, dimmed out of respect.

On the dais beneath the royal crest stood Prince Paul now the regent of Yugoslavia, his posture tired but unbending.

Beside him stood a semicircle of military brass and cabinet ministers.

Their expressions ranged from blank civility to open contempt.

Dufort offered a short bow. "Your Highness, honored gentlemen. France extends its deepest sorrow and reverence."

Prince Paul nodded once, curtly. "We appreciate the gesture. But we require truth more than condolences."

No time wasted.

A general stepped forward bald, with silver-fringed temples and a scowl carved from decades of Balkan weather. "Let us not play diplomat. The King is dead. Killed on French soil. Your soil. And your foreign minister as well. A day of mourning has become a wound."

Dufort clasped his hands. "General Vojnovic, I assure you, no nation is more shaken than France. Our internal investigation is underway. The culprits..."

"I do not want promises," Vojnovic snapped. "I want answers. Who failed? Who allowed a man with a gun to come within five meters of our King?"

Moreau stepped forward slightly. "General, I won’t insult you with excuses. Marseille was a failure one that cost both our nations dearly. But the man who pulled the trigger wasn’t French. He was a coordinated extremist likely supported by anti-Yugoslav cells from beyond our borders."

"And how did he enter France, Capitaine?" another minister demanded. "Did he have wings?"

"No," Moreau answered calmly. "But evil moves with money and silence. And Marseille’s underworld is fluent in both."

"You say this man acted independently?" the younger foreign advisor snapped. "What about whispers that Hungary supports the Ustaše? That Italy arms them?"

Dufort raised a hand. "France is not the guardian of Hungarian or Italian secrets. But neither are we blind. We are investigating these links thoroughly."

The room murmured.

A senior general sneered. "You speak as if you have control. But your press mocks us. Your people whisper ’another Balkan blood feud.’ We are not fools. We know how France sees us."

Moreau’s voice cut clean. "If anyone mocks Yugoslavia, they do not speak for France. And if anyone here believes that France does not mourn your loss, come walk our streets. Attend our funerals. Look into the eyes of our soldiers who have bled beside yours." freёwebnoѵel.com

The chamber quieted.

One of the ministers older, quieter leaned in. "Then tell me, Capitaine, what does France intend to do? Beyond polite letters?"

Moreau hesitated for a breath, then said clearly, "France intends to honor our alliance. To show up when the world retreats. To stand by you not out of pity, but because you are a vital piece in the wall between Europe and chaos."

The ministers exchanged looks.

Prince Paul finally spoke. "And how, Capitaine, would you suggest we proceed? Our people cry out. Half demand revenge. The other half demand separation. Serbs blame Croats. Croats blame the court. And some now blame France. What would you advise?"

Moreau stepped forward. "I would advise you, Your Highness, to let the funeral speak louder than revenge. Let the world see a nation united in grief, not fractured in suspicion. Use this moment not to splinter but to remind them that Yugoslavia exists because it was born of survival. If it breaks now, then everything your King fought for will be buried with him."

A long silence.

Then, a general’s voice rang out, sharp. "You speak like a man who knows pain."

"I do," Moreau replied, his voice lower. "I’ve seen friends gutted by coward’s bullets. I’ve watched brothers die in the dirt beside me. But none of those deaths broke me. Because I remembered why we stood together. Why we chose each other."

The older general with the scar narrowed his eyes. "You’re young. Yet you speak as though the world has already tried to kill you."

"It has," Moreau answered.

A murmur rippled again.

The younger minister barked, "Fine words. But France has spies. Influence. Ambition. You expect us to believe there was no gain in this?"

Moreau locked eyes with him. "France gains nothing from a wounded Yugoslavia. Only a strong Balkan ally holds the Danube line. And believe me if France were plotting in secret, I would not be here answering your questions. I’d be reading about your fall in a newspaper."

The prince smirked slightly, the faintest hint of amusement.

Ambassador Dufort spoke then, his voice calm but direct. "Enough of trials by accusation. France stands ready to cooperate in full. Intelligence, extraditions, memorial support. We did not come to convince you with words. We came to offer our hands. If you refuse them, then you will stand alone and the wolves in Rome and Berlin will tear you limb from limb."

That silenced even the harshest voices.

Finally, Prince Paul rose from his seat.

He looked over them slowly, then to Moreau.

"You do not sound like a Capitaine," he said. "You sound like someone building something greater."

Moreau met his gaze. "I’m only trying to keep what hasn’t broken yet."

There was another pause.

Then, the prince turned. "You will attend the funeral with your delegation. With dignity. No press. No banners. No French flags."

Dufort nodded. "Understood."

Prince Paul walked forward, stopping before Moreau. "You have earned my respect, Capitaine. But know this: in Yugoslavia, respect does not mean safety."

Moreau nodded once. "I never asked for it, sir. Just the chance to speak plainly."

He offered a sharp salute. Prince Paul didn’t return it, but he offered something rarer, a faint nod of genuine regard.

As they turned to leave, the scar-faced general barked, "Be careful, Frenchman. Belgrade may smile, but it never forgets."

Moreau turned and offered a thin smile. "Neither do I, General."

The doors closed behind them with diplomacy finally concluded for now.

Outside in the corridor, Renaud let out a long breath. "Jesus Christ. You weren’t joking. That was a knife-dance."

Dufort gave Moreau a sidelong glance. "You should consider switching careers."

"I already have," Moreau muttered.

"Into what?"

"Staying alive."