I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 105

Chapter 105: Grevy's Surprise

The Chamber of Deputies in the Palais Bourbon was perpetually noisy, with spittle and scraps of paper occasionally flying through the air.

Republicans took turns delivering impassioned speeches from the rostrum, staunchly supporting Joffre’s continued role as Commander-in-Chief of the French Army without holding him accountable for any failures. Even though Joffre’s so-called “Plan XVII” had been discredited by the immense casualties suffered by hundreds of thousands of French soldiers, they remained resolute.

“At least Joffre is winning the war now!” Jamison declared from the podium. “Our army is advancing step by step toward victory. Can we replace a Commander-in-Chief who is winning the war? Or hold him accountable for mistakes? Such actions could affect morale and trigger a cascade of tragedies!”

His speech was immediately met with jeers from below. The opposition came from both the left and the right, with the leftists being particularly vehement.

The right opposed everything the Republicans supported, regardless of whether it had anything to do with them. Meanwhile, the left was fragmented into various parties that were often at odds with one another—otherwise, the right would have long ceased to be relevant.

Grevy sat at the edge of the chamber, observing this farce while lightly tapping his black top hat against the armrest. He found the debate meaningless and had no intention of getting involved.

Just then, a deputy entered from outside, approached Grevy, and bent down to whisper a few words in his ear.

Grevy’s expression darkened. His eyes showed surprise and confusion, along with a hint of barely perceptible delight.

After a brief hesitation, he gave the deputy a quiet instruction, donned his hat, grabbed his cane, and left without delay.

Armand was enthusiastically leading a group of pro-monarchist deputies in heckling the podium. He relished such occasions and even felt that he was born for them.

When he turned his head, he caught sight of Grevy’s retreating figure heading out the door. Armand quickly handed off his coat and followed.

…

Outside the Palais Bourbon, Armand, having broken into a jog, finally caught up with Grevy.

“What’s happened?” Armand asked. “We’re in the middle of debating whether to replace France’s great Commander-in-Chief!”

The implication was clear—what could be more important than this?

Grevy replied in a low voice, “Charles has returned!”

Armand came to an abrupt halt. Well, that was more important than the Commander-in-Chief!

The two men hurriedly climbed into a carriage. Armand wasted no time inquiring, “How did he manage to return?”

“We failed to account for the British,” Grevy replied flatly. “They rescued Charles.”

Armand nodded thoughtfully. The British, as part of the Entente, would certainly not want Charles to fall into German hands. Such an outcome would have been a disaster for the alliance.

“Blaise Manor,” Grevy instructed the coachman, providing an address.

Armand looked surprised. “My manor? Did you know I’d follow you?”

Grevy shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter much if you hadn’t.”

Armand smiled, conceding the point. Whenever meetings were held at the manor, he usually just listened, neither contributing useful suggestions nor expressing any opinions.

Small, family-style conspiracies didn’t excite Armand—much like how a single woman in bed failed to keep his interest.

…

Blaise Manor was as quiet as ever, but the two men waiting in the parlor were anything but calm.

Francis paced back and forth, while Nicolas sat on the sofa, trying hard to maintain his composure. Yet his gaze kept drifting toward the window.

Neither man sought to confer with the other. They knew the other couldn’t solve their problem—they weren’t even the same kind of people.

At long last, the sound of hooves broke the silence as a carriage entered the manor. Their expectant eyes followed it until it stopped at the door, and Grevy and Armand alighted, chatting as they ascended the steps.

A servant opened the door in advance. Grevy strode in, handing his hat to the servant and apologizing with a touch of elegance, “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting, gentlemen.”

Armand made a beeline for the liquor cabinet, deftly pouring two glasses of wine. After greedily downing a few sips, he brought another glass to Grevy, who was now seated on the sofa.

Grevy took the wineglass and gently swirled it, letting the red liquid whirl within the goblet. He relished this sense of control, though events seemed to be spiraling out of his grasp.

“Charles has returned!” was the first thing Francis said, his gaze shifting to a copy of Le Petit Journal on the table.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Grevy said, not even sparing the newspaper a glance.

Grevy already understood the full story, though two things had surprised him:

First, Charles had demonstrated an astonishing level of influence.

Grevy had assumed Antwerp would cave under German pressure, eventually handing Charles over. Instead, the entire city had erupted in celebration of Charles’s triumph, while the formidable German army suffered crushing defeats and even desertions.

Second, Charles had managed to escape captivity.

Though this could be chalked up to luck—Charles himself hadn’t known the British would rescue him—in Grevy’s view, it wasn’t mere fortune.

If Charles had been an ordinary man without the ability to sway the outcome of the war, the British wouldn’t have bothered to glance his way.

This was a testament to Charles’s strength. He had become a key player in determining the fate of nations and alliances.

Incredible.

One man could tip the scales of the world’s most powerful countries. A month ago, Grevy wouldn’t have believed it, but now it was undeniable.

Francis, assuming Grevy had read the newspaper, got straight to the point. “Monsieur Grevy, the conscription office has drafted Pierre!”

“Who is Pierre?” Armand asked, tilting his chin curiously toward Francis.

“My son!” Francis replied. “You’ve met him.”

With that reminder, Armand’s memory clicked. He raised a hand as though trying to recall, “During the purchase of tank industrial rights!”

“Yes, that’s him!” Francis said, a hint of pride crossing his face.

But the room soon fell silent.

Grevy had always remembered Pierre, though he held no interest in him. Speaking a single word about Pierre would be an insult.

Grevy recalled meeting Charles that same day. He regretted not making an effort to befriend him back then.

What a wasted opportunity. Grevy could have offered Charles a fortune, sought his collaboration, or even persuaded him to work under his command. At the time, Charles was penniless and might have easily been swayed by money.

But instead, Grevy had simply shaken his hand, focusing all his attention on the tank industrial rights.

How foolish.

Grevy now regretted it deeply. How could he have been so naive as to think Charles’s success was just a fluke, that he wouldn’t have more inventions or ideas? How could he have overlooked Charles’s military genius?

He had squandered a golden opportunity. Now, even arranging a meeting with Charles was an uphill battle.

Francis hesitated before speaking. “I was hoping you could help Pierre. He’s not suited for military service—it would kill him…”

Grevy impatiently interrupted him. “If that’s why you’re here, you can leave now.”

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