I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 63

Chapter 63: The Conscription Order

After speaking with Grevy, Charles realized he had misconceptions about the "traditional aristocracy" of this era.

He had always believed that "traditional aristocrats" ruled with a top-down authoritarian model akin to the feudal nobility. However, the reality was different—today's "traditional aristocrats" had also adapted to the times. They supported elections but opposed industrialization.

The foundation of the "traditional aristocracy" was the peasantry. They derived their income from the rents or agricultural taxes paid by farmers. However, the capitalists’ construction of factories turned farmers into workers, gradually eroding the aristocracy’s economic base.

Thus, the struggle between the left and the right was essentially a competition among the wealthy over the allegiance of workers and farmers.

Left-wing capitalists called out to the farmers: "Come, become workers, and I will pay you wages!"

Right-wing aristocrats countered: "Stay as farmers, and I will provide you with a better life!"

The aristocrats indeed adapted. They offered farmers more favorable terms and encouraged agricultural production.

To the aristocrats, workers were people deceived and manipulated by the capitalists. The capitalists treated workers as fattened sheep, repeatedly shearing their wool and eventually slaughtering them. From start to finish, the capitalists exploited workers' labor and value.

If a country continued on this path, it would inevitably face crises and even destruction. Therefore, the traditional aristocracy sought to establish an agricultural society where industry served only as an auxiliary force under full government control. This society would operate in an organized, orderly, and planned manner, rather than descending into chaos from excessive competition.

Grevy understood that to persuade Charles to join their side, he had to shift Charles’ stance as a capitalist. Hence, he delivered this grand argument.

However, this was destined to be futile.

Charles knew that industrialization was inevitable. He knew that the aristocracy would ultimately be marginalized and that powerful industrialized nations were the trend of the future, no matter how hard one resisted.

"You’re wasting your time, Grevy," Charles said bluntly.

Since the two were bound to become adversaries, there was no point in entertaining false hopes.

Yet Grevy persisted. "What is it you want, Charles? A strong nation? Look at Germany—it thrives under an imperial system, while our republic is battered and humiliated. We could achieve the same, especially with your talents combined with the right-wing’s financial, human, and material resources. One day…”

Charles shook his head but said nothing.

Men like Grevy, visionaries capable of drafting grand, coherent national blueprints, were rare. Even though his vision was flawed, it was clearly the result of deep thought and careful reasoning. At this point, Grevy was resolutely convinced that his ideas were correct.

Trying to convince such a man otherwise would be futile and meaningless.

“Very well!” Grevy said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Even if you don’t agree with me now, if the day ever comes when you’re willing to join us… you’ll always be welcome!”

Grevy’s words were polite, but he had already seen something in Charles’ eyes.

This young man didn’t believe in the world Grevy envisioned—not in the slightest—and his conviction was unshakable. It was as if Charles already knew how the future would unfold.

Charles looked at Grevy with an expression of pity, even sympathy. He felt sorry for someone struggling in ignorance, someone seeking truth but heading in the wrong direction.

Grevy understood this look, and it stung him deeply. For a moment, he even doubted everything he had so firmly believed in.

Why was this happening?

Could a seventeen-year-old truly see things more clearly than he could?

Grevy refused to believe it. He stared at Charles’ retreating figure as the young man climbed into a car, murmuring to himself: "No, he’s just blinded by wealth. One day, he’ll understand."

As Djoka turned the car around, he glanced at Grevy, who stood rooted in place, dazed. “What did you two talk about?” he asked.

Charles evaded the question. “He’s a man of conviction, Father! He has his ideals.”

Djoka raised his eyebrows slightly. Aristocrats with ideals and convictions were indeed a rarity.

On the way home, Charles couldn’t help but reflect on Grevy’s words.

If traditional aristocrats and emerging capitalists were natural enemies locked in an irreconcilable struggle for farmers and workers…

Then, based on the principle that "the enemy of my enemy is my friend," shouldn’t Charles align himself with one or more of the emerging capitalists?

This way, Charles wouldn’t have to face the traditional aristocracy’s retaliation alone. After all, with his current resources, he might not yet be able to contend with the two major aristocratic parties.

But whom should he approach?

Charles had no clue.

...

Before long, they arrived home.

Djoka parked the car by the front door, but to their surprise, Camille was not waiting for them outside.

Normally, at this hour, she would be sitting on the front steps, knitting a sweater while gazing in the direction of the factory. Upon seeing their car in the distance, she would rise with a smile and wave.

Puzzled, the two men hurried toward the house and pushed the door open.

Inside, Camille was sitting at the dining table, staring blankly ahead, her face pale as if she’d lost the ability to think. She held a piece of paper in her trembling hands.

Charles immediately understood what had happened—it was a conscription order. Gallieni had acted swiftly; the draft notice had already arrived.

Camille, her thoughts lagging, suddenly came to her senses upon realizing they had returned. She leapt up and rushed toward Djoka, stammering incoherently:
“Djoka, take me to the recruitment office! This has to be a mistake—they’ve sent Charles a conscription order!”

“Charles is only seventeen! They can’t just ignore that!”

“We… we need to go right now to sort this out!”

...

Djoka remained motionless, as did Charles. They both understood the situation and knew that going to the recruitment office would be pointless.

Camille looked at them in confusion, sensing there was something she didn’t know.

After a moment of hesitation, Djoka finally spoke, though he withheld the full truth.
“It’s because of Charles’ military talent, Camille.”

“They believe Charles can contribute significantly to the war effort, so they’ve drafted him early.”

Camille angrily retorted, “And that’s reason enough to send Charles to the front lines? Those are nothing but unfounded rumors, sensationalized by journalists…”

Charles took the conscription letter and skimmed it. He reassured her, “It’s only to Paris, Mother. I’m not going to the front lines. The letter says I’m to report directly to General Gallieni, and he’ll take care of me.”

Djoka nodded emphatically, exuding confidence. “Nothing will happen. I promise. Paris is perfectly safe—it’s right next to Lavaz.”

But in truth, Djoka was far from certain. What worried him wasn’t the battlefield—it was the traditional aristocracy.

If they could manipulate events to draft Charles into the army, they wouldn’t stop there.

Charles was intelligent and talented in military strategy, but he lacked experience. The traditional aristocrats, cunning and scheming, were already plotting in the shadows.

Djoka could only hope his son would survive their machinations.

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