I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 134

Chapter 134: The Saint-Étienne Arms Factory

In the 16th arrondissement of Paris, Steed strolled across the golf course with Bonnet, the owner of Le Petit Journal. Two caddies followed a few steps behind, each carrying their respective golf bags and equipment.

Steed and Bonnet both belonged to the Republican Party—a party within the broader coalition of the Left.

This was somewhat convoluted. The term "Republican Party" referred collectively to all left-wing factions under the banner of the Republic, symbolizing allegiance to the Third Republic. Yet, within the Left, there existed a specific party also named the Republican Party, meant in its literal sense.

Steed was the leader of this Republican Party. He had intentionally chosen the name to create confusion. Hearing the name, many would mistakenly associate it with the entire powerful Left, giving the impression that his party embodied the entirety of their victories and enthusiasm.

Still, this tactic failed to stop the Republican Party from being increasingly marginalized within the Left.

“Innovation, Bonnet, we need innovation!” Golf may have been a leisurely sport, but the sixty-year-old Steed was anything but relaxed. “They’ve already driven our machine guns out of the military, and now they’re trying to do the same with rifles. At this rate, we’ll have nothing left!”

Bonnet muttered in agreement, knowing Steed was referring to the French government’s decision to replace the Lebel rifle with the Berthier rifle.

The Berthier rifle, initially developed from the Lebel as a shorter firearm for cavalry, featured modifications such as a shortened barrel, a vertical magazine, and a 3-round clip-loading mechanism.

These changes were intended to make the rifle more convenient for mounted troops. It was even considered second-rate equipment and handed down to colonial forces. To everyone’s surprise, the rifle became highly popular.

Soldiers reported that the Berthier was far superior to the Lebel—it was easier to use, cheaper to manufacture, and overall more practical.

The parliamentary conclusion was clear: Lebel rifles would be phased out, and the Berthier rifle would be further refined for infantry use, ultimately replacing the Lebel.

Crucially, the improvement project had been assigned to the American company Remington, not Saint-Étienne!

The Saint-Étienne Arms Factory was already sidelined to light weapons production. Its machine guns had been eliminated, and now, with rifles also on the verge of obsolescence, what was left for Saint-Étienne? Revolvers, more suited to ceremonial use than the battlefield?

Steed found his golf ball on the grass, accepted a club from a caddie, and positioned himself. With a natural, practiced swing, he sent the ball rolling across the green. It hopped a few times before slowing and dropping neatly into the hole several meters away.

Yet Steed’s face showed no joy. He let out a long sigh as he stared at the hole.

In this age of mechanization, a single innovative idea could rejuvenate a company. Just one idea!

And yet...

Steed felt utterly helpless. His mind was like a long-dried well—no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t draw a single drop of inspiration.

It was as if he could only stand by and watch as the enterprise he had built gradually withered away, like the bare plane trees lining the streets. One morning, he’d wake up, pull open the curtains, and suddenly realize that the lush canopy of leaves had all fallen, leaving behind only barren branches.

His gaze wandered to the lake by the grass, and his thoughts drifted to the man who filled him with envy and fury. Word had it that this man had achieved another breakthrough—he had successfully mounted a machine gun on an airplane and achieved a resounding victory!

“Lucky bastard,” Steed muttered. “God gave him the best gifts.”

Bonnet remained silent. He knew this was typical of golfing with Steed; the man didn’t need a conversation partner, just someone to listen.

At that moment, a subordinate came rushing over like the wind.

Bonnet immediately tensed, certain there was breaking news.

Sure enough, the man arrived, breathless, and announced, “Sir, Charles has made a new invention! His father is already filing for industrial rights!”

Steed spun around, his previously lifeless eyes suddenly alight with energy. “What? What did he invent this time?”

“It’s something called a ‘grenade,’” the subordinate explained. “Details are unclear, but based on descriptions, it seems to be a hand-thrown light weapon designed to replace hand-thrown explosives.”

Steed’s breathing grew rapid, his eyes gleaming with greed. Abruptly, he dropped his club and began striding toward the exit. His pace quickened with each step until it became a trot. He shouted urgently, “Bring the car around! To City Hall—immediately!”

Bonnet hurried after him. “Steed, we can take our time. I’ll have someone stabilize the situation...”

Steed had a heart condition—he couldn’t afford strenuous activity or undue excitement. Bonnet was terrified something might happen.

But Steed paid him no mind. As he moved, he declared, “We can’t miss this chance. This could be our only opportunity—the only one!”

Last time, they had hesitated over acquiring the industrial rights to the tank. It had been deemed "unsuitable" due to the high technical barriers of heavy machinery, such as the engine.

This time, however, the grenade was unquestionably a light weapon with low technical complexity and ease of production. It was perfect for the Saint-Étienne Arms Factory. It was their hope.

...

City Hall’s VIP Lounge

Djoka sat in the lounge, filling out forms with some confusion. He couldn’t fathom why Charles had bothered to invent this small contraption.

Was it for profit?

The tractor factory, motorcycle factory, and aircraft manufacturing plant—all of them made far more money than this so-called grenade ever could.

Moreover, the grenade was an inherently dangerous product, requiring a separate factory in a remote area for its production to avoid accidents.

Manufacturing it would demand significant upfront investment, yet the returns seemed far from promising.

As Djoka contemplated this, a convoy of over a dozen cars screeched to a stop outside City Hall. Moments later, an elderly man, leaning on a cane and breathing heavily, appeared hurriedly at the VIP lounge door. His gaze sought Manuel, the government official on duty.

Manuel nodded slightly, signaling that the industrial rights had not yet been sold. His eyes held a trace of puzzlement, as if to say, “There’s no need to be in such a rush—no one else would want this little gadget.”

Djoka also noticed the man at the door and immediately stood in shock. “Mr. Steed!”

The owner of the Saint-Étienne Arms Factory, the man who produced nearly all of France’s light weaponry, was a name known to almost everyone in the country.

Steed exhaled in relief as he stepped forward, discarded his cane, and shook Djoka’s hand with a mix of urgency and gratitude. “Mr. Djoka, let’s discuss the industrial rights to the grenade. And if you’re willing to cooperate with us, all the better!”

Djoka was utterly stunned. He finally understood the meaning of Charles’ words: “I’ll have my allies come to me.”

And why Charles had chosen this moment to design such a seemingly insignificant device.

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