Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 74: The world would indeed forget everything soon.

Next day, morning of the funeral procession in Belgrade arrived shrouded in cold air and unspoken grief.

The city had been holding its breath for days, and now, as the sun struggled to break through the cloud the people couldn’t hold it back anymore.

The tears started falling as door to flood gates were open.

From every corner of the capital, mourners flooded toward the wide boulevards and narrow alleys, dressed in black coats and thick scarves.

Soldiers lined the roads, standing at full attention, rifles in hand.

Étienne Moreau stood with the French delegation near the eastern end of the royal boulevard.

He wore his dress uniform, freshly pressed, his cap tucked under his arm.

To his right stood Ambassador Dufort, his breath fogging the air.

A Yugoslav official approached quietly. "The procession will begin in twenty minutes," he said in heavily-accented French.

"You will follow behind the British and Italian delegations."

Dufort nodded respectfully. "Understood."

Moreau’s eyes scanned the crowd.

Thousands had gathered in silence.

Children clung to their mothers, priests murmured prayers.

The black-draped buildings looked like specters looming above the living.

It was not just the death of a king, it was the death of an era.

"Look at them," Renaud muttered beside him. "They don’t blink. It’s like they’re carved out of the stone."

Moreau didn’t answer right away.

His jaw was tight.

"You feel it, don’t you?" he said finally.

"What?"

"This isn’t just mourning. It’s fear. Fear of what comes next."

The booming of drums shattered the silence.

The funeral procession had begun.

At the head marched an honor guard of Yugoslav infantry, their black armbands stark against crisp blue uniforms.

Behind them, priests in gold-trimmed vestments swung censers, their smoke curling like ghosts in the cold air.

Then came the coffin.

It was draped in the flag of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia blue, white, and red its golden royal seal stitched into the cloth.

Atop it lay King Alexander’s ceremonial sword and a wreath of Serbian laurel, its green now tinged with frost.

The horse-drawn carriage that bore the coffin was flanked by silent guards, their expressions unreadable.

As it rolled forward, the crowd bowed their heads.

Some wept openly.

Others simply watched, hollow-eyed.

But amidst them also were few who watched this with hidden smile.

With immense satisfaction and pride.

They have finally undone it.

Only if someone could tell them they just destroyed the foundation of their own nation.

The foreign delegations began their march behind the coffin.

First, the British formal and silent, their ambassador walking with hands clasped.

Then the Italians, stiff and aloof.

And then, France.

Dufort led with dignity. Moreau walked beside him, holding his head high, aware that every pair of eyes could become a witness or a target.

As they passed a row of mourners near a church, a cry broke the silence.

"Where were you in Marseille?" A woman’s voice, cracking with grief.

Her husband pulled her close, but others began whispering.

"They let him die."

"Foreigners..."

"Traitors in suits."

Moreau kept his face forward.

Renaud muttered behind him, "If one of them spits, I swear..."

"Don’t," Moreau said sharply. "Not today."

Ahead, Dufort whispered out the side of his mouth. "We’re diplomats today, remember?"

"I’m trying," Moreau replied, "but I’m still a soldier."

The procession reached the cathedral.

The cathedral of St. Michael loomed, its ancient stone dark with age and rain.

Bells tolled again, louder now, the sound ringing off rooftops and down alleyways like waves.

Inside, candles flickered along the nave, their small flames lost in the vast vaulted chamber.

The coffin was placed beneath the central dome, surrounded by priests and royal guards.

The service began in Old Church Slavonic, the solemn hymns rising like smoke.

The incense was thick.

The grief was thicker.

Moreau stood in the designated row, between Dufort and a Romanian colonel.

Across from him, Prince Paul stood with clenched fists, his face pale and stony.

When the priest began reciting the list of names those lost in the attack, Moreau’s hand curled into a fist.

He remembered the French foreign minister’s name Louis Barthou spoken with the same solemnity.

His death had nearly been forgotten in the shadow of the king.

As the final prayers were said, the coffin was lifted again.

Outside, the cortege resumed toward the royal mausoleum.

The march was slower now, more labored.

The crowd had grown.

Someone in the back began to sing an old war song, faint and full of sorrow.

Tamo Daleko. (Serbian song).

Others joined.

Soon, it spread through the streets like fire.

Tamo daleko, daleko od mora,

Tamo je selo moje, tamo je Srbija.

Tamo je selo moje, tamo je Srbija.

(There, far away, far away from the sea,

There is my village, there lies Serbia.

There is my village, there lies Serbia.)

Tamo daleko, gde cveta limun žut,

Tamo mi spava draga, tamo mi grobu put.

Tamo mi spava draga, tamo mi grobu put.

(There, far away, where yellow lemons bloom,

There my beloved sleeps, there leads my grave-bound road.

There my beloved sleeps, there leads my grave-bound road.)

Tamo gde tiho sapće srpski dom,

Tamo gde rane peku ja moram, tamo tom.

Tamo gde rane peku ja moram, tamo tom.

(There, where the Serbian home whispers low,

There, where wounds still burn I must, I have to go.

There, where wounds still burn I must, I have to go.)

Tamo gde sunce sja kroz magle i sneg,

Tamo me majka čeka, sa suzom na prag.

Tamo me majka čeka, sa suzom na prag.

(There, where sun shines through mist and snow,

There, my mother waits, tearful on the threshold.

There, my mother waits, tearful on the threshold.)

Tamo daleko, još sviram harmoniku,

Tamo mi srce ostade u starom zavičaju.

Tamo mi srce ostade u starom zavičaju.

(There, far away, I still play the accordion,

There my heart remained in my old homeland.

There my heart remained in my old homeland.)

Moreau didn’t understand the words, but he knew what they meant.

Grief.

Fury.

Pride.

And fear.

The sounds of the funeral had become a warning.

The world might forget this day.

But Belgrade would remember.

How right these people were.

The world would indeed forget everything soon.

Later, back in the French consulate, Moreau sat quietly at the window, watching the city.

The sun had finally broken through the clouds, casting golden light across the rooftops.

Behind him, Dufort poured two glasses of rakija and handed one to him.

"You did well today," the ambassador said.

"I didn’t do anything."

"You walked beside the coffin of a king. You carried more than a flag."

Moreau sipped slowly. "Do you think they believe us? That we didn’t know?"

Dufort didn’t answer right away.

Then he said, "I think they don’t care."

Moreau nodded.

"That’s worse."

That night, Moreau wrote in his notebook:

There is something terrifying about silence. The kind of silence that follows after a thousand voices cry at once, then vanish. That is what Belgrade sounds like tonight.

I have never seen a city mourn like this. It’s not just the king they mourn. It’s the illusion of unity, of peace, of a future.

Tomorrow we are expected to dine with ministers. I will eat food prepared by men who believe we betrayed them. And I will smile.

He closed the notebook and stared at the dark sky.