I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 20

Chapter 20: The Man with the Smiling Face

Djoka and Charles stepped out of the car in front of Francis's villa.

Waving goodbye to Browning and the others, the car sped off toward the Marne River, its engine humming. Faint gunfire echoed from the frontlines, punctuated occasionally by the rumble of artillery. Charles guessed these were the French Army’s 75mm field guns being brought to bear.

Led by the servants, the two entered the villa. In the distance, Francis and Pierre could be seen in the living room, engaged in a discussion with several others over glasses of red wine.

Djoka was about to approach and greet them when the butler, Simon, stepped forward politely and blocked their path.

“Mr. Djoka, Master Charles, the master is currently discussing business with his guests. He instructed me to ask you to wait for him in the study. He has matters to discuss with you.”

Djoka acknowledged with a nod and led Charles upstairs.

As they climbed the stairs, Charles deliberately slowed his pace, straining to catch snippets of the conversation in the living room.

Although the distance made the details unclear, he distinctly caught the word “tank.” That was enough to confirm his suspicions.

Noticing Charles lagging behind, Djoka turned back and asked curiously, “What’s the matter, Charles? Tired?”

“No, father. It’s nothing!” Charles replied, quickening his steps to catch up.

...

The study had an antique charm. The butler thoughtfully brought coffee for Djoka and Charles. “If you need anything else, just let me know,” he said.

“Thank you, Simon,” Djoka said, settling into a chair and stretching out his limbs. The cramped taxi ride had left him feeling stifled.

Taking a sip of coffee, Djoka looked at Charles, who was idly browsing the bookshelf. “Are you certain someone is willing to purchase the tank production rights at a higher price?”

If not, they would face suppression from the two hundred old military-industrial families, whose wealth, connections, and power far outweighed the Bernard family’s. Djoka lacked confidence in their ability to withstand such opposition.

To him, selling the production rights to strengthen their position seemed the best option for now.

“Absolutely,” Charles replied calmly. “Because they’re downstairs.”

Clang!

Djoka’s coffee cup clattered onto the tray, spilling some onto his trousers.

“You’re saying…” Djoka stammered as he reached for his handkerchief, half-doubting Charles. “The people negotiating with Francis downstairs are here to buy the tank production rights?”

Charles pulled a book from the shelf—Victor Hugo’s The Man Who Laughs. The book exposed the decadence, corruption, and ruthlessness of France’s aristocratic elite.

He flipped through its pages leisurely and replied with a casual tone, “If I’m not mistaken, they’ve offered a substantial price.”

“The reason Mr. Francis asked us to wait upstairs is to…”

Charles left his sentence unfinished. Djoka, who always cherished familial bonds, now faced the potential severance of that fragile connection.

Djoka’s face turned pale, his gaze growing vacant as he stared at the half-empty cup of coffee before him. With some effort, he completed Charles’s thought: “To divert the profits away from us?”

Charles didn’t answer, leaving his father to draw his own conclusions.

“No, that’s impossible!” Djoka shook his head slightly. “He wouldn’t do that. You’re his grandson…”

“Father!” Charles interrupted sharply. “When Mr. Francis comes upstairs, he might find an excuse to ask for the production rights—or offer what he considers a fair exchange. You should start thinking about how to respond!”

Djoka fell silent. He didn’t want to believe Charles, but a part of him was filled with an inexplicable urge to grab Charles and flee.

...

Downstairs in the living room, the butler whispered something into Francis’s ear. He nodded slightly, stood, and gave a small bow. “I apologize, gentlemen, but I have a matter to attend to. Please continue discussing the details.”

He gestured toward Pierre, who immediately took over, effortlessly keeping the conversation lively. It was a skill he had mastered.

Taking a damp towel from a servant, Francis wiped the sweat from his forehead, rubbed his hands thoroughly, and casually tossed the towel back to the servant. He glanced upstairs before ascending to the study.

As he climbed, he thought to himself:

“Sorry, Djoka, and you too, Charles.”

“If not for Camille, I might have treated you and Pierre’s family equally.”

“But I’ve neglected you for nearly twenty years. How can I be sure Charles isn’t acting out of revenge? Or that you don’t harbor resentment?”

In the living room, Pierre glanced toward Francis’s retreating figure, his expression briefly flashing with subtle meaning and relief.

...

Reaching the study door, Francis hesitated briefly before stepping in with a smile plastered on his face. “Djoka, Charles, have you been waiting long?”

“No, father,” Djoka replied expressionlessly. “We just arrived.”

Sensing something off in Djoka’s tone, Francis tilted his head and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing!” Djoka deflected. “It’s just… Camille was frightened by the gunfire. I’m a bit concerned.”

Francis chuckled. “Don’t worry about that. The frontlines have stabilized, Paris has sent reinforcements, and the 6th Army is reportedly assembling for a counteroffensive against the Germans!”

Turning to Charles with a warm smile, he added, “All thanks to Charles, of course.”

“I was merely doing my duty, Mr. Francis,” Charles replied politely.

Francis nodded approvingly, as if suddenly remembering something. “Have you heard? Jarrell is coming back!”

Jarrell, Pierre’s eldest son and Francis’s chosen heir, had been studying in Britain.

“Is that so?” Djoka responded, his tone flat.

“Yes!” Francis said, seating himself at the head of the desk. “Next time, bring Camille along. The Bernard family should take this opportunity to gather.”

Djoka was stunned. His father had never invited Camille before. Could this mean… he was finally acknowledging her and Charles?

Relaxing visibly, Djoka said with emotion, “Thank you, father! It would be an honor. I—”

“Let bygones be bygones,” Francis interjected, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ve raised my grandson well, and that’s something to be proud of.”

He directed another look of approval toward Charles.

Djoka exhaled deeply, casting Charles a meaningful glance, as if to say, “You were wrong this time, Charles. Grandfather just wants to recognize us!”

Charles remained unresponsive, pretending not to hear. He continued flipping through his book, knowing that the critical part often lay ahead.

Francis’s tone shifted suddenly. “But there’s one issue, Djoka.”

“What is it?” Djoka asked.

“Well,” Francis said gravely, “Jarrell has been conscripted, and we need to resolve this.”

Djoka tensed. “What are you suggesting?”

Francis explained, “I’m considering transferring the rights to the tractor factory—where tanks and machine guns are produced—to Jarrell. That way, he could qualify as an essential industrial expert and avoid conscription. In return, I’ll hand the motorcycle factory over to Charles for management.”

The joy faded from Djoka’s face, replaced by disappointment, anger, and sorrow.

Francis, sensing the shift, spread his hands. “I know this is unfair to Charles, but… you wouldn’t want Jarrell to be conscripted, would you?”

Unfair?
The tractor factory, whose potential Charles had uncovered, was on the brink of a major breakthrough. Now Francis wanted to take it away.

Even worse, he wanted to seize the rights to Charles’s tank invention.

The machine gun factory, secured through Charles’s efforts, would also be stripped away, leaving him only the valueless motorcycle factory, with no guarantee it wouldn’t be taken later.

All this, in exchange for a mere acknowledgment of Charles and Camille’s existence!

This was beyond unfair—it was blatant robbery.

Djoka rose slowly, his voice unnervingly calm.
“Apologies, father.”

“Unfortunately, we’ve just returned from Paris, where we registered the tank’s industrial rights this morning—and we’ve already found a buyer.”

“You mean you’ve registered the rights? And secured a buyer?” Francis asked, astonished.

Charles was taken aback. He knew this wasn’t true. The tank rights hadn’t been sold, but his father seemed like a changed man.

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