I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 16

Chapter 16: The Little Journal

Dinner was white bean stew with beef—once Charles’s favorite. Now, he found it rather ordinary, thinking it could use more Sichuan pepper, chili, soy sauce, and dark soy sauce...

His mother, Camille, hummed a tune as she chopped vegetables in the kitchen.

Djoka, chewing on a piece of beef, remarked to Charles with admiration,
"Your mother has never been this happy before!"

Camille brought a plate of fruit to the table, placed it down, then carried her own bowl of stew and sat between them, beaming with pride.
“Why shouldn’t I be happy? Our Charles has become a hero!”

Djoka’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he looked at Charles.
“I’m a bit curious, Charles—how did you come up with that thing called a tank?”

“It was simple!” Charles replied as he worked through the food on his plate. “I just wanted something that could shield us from bullets. We happened to have a tractor, so I thought of modifying it!”

Djoka nodded slightly. It sounded simple enough, but every invention exists in a shroud of darkness before its creation—so, in truth, it was anything but simple.

Camille dotingly patted Charles on the head.
“Charles is a genius. Only he could come up with something like that!”

At that moment, her eyes saw no one but Charles.

To her, the entire world had changed. The Bernard family’s coldness, the scorn of the townsfolk, and the bitterness of being caught between those two pressures—all of it had vanished.

All because of Charles—her son!

Djoka, considering the situation, turned to Camille.
“Tomorrow, we should go visit Father...”

Camille nodded decisively.
“Of course!”

To Camille, Charles’s achievements were undeniable. Francis would have no choice but to acknowledge Charles, even their whole family, and confidently entrust the tractor factory to him.

But Djoka’s eyes held a trace of concern. He knew his father. Francis was a controlling and prideful man who relished being above others, basking in admiration. He disliked things or people beyond his control and, even more so, being overshadowed—especially by a family member.

Charles was undoubtedly brilliant. But he was too brilliant, and now, he outshone Francis. That wasn’t a good thing.

Charles seemed to catch on to Djoka’s thoughts and reassured him,
“Don’t worry, Father! Before we see Mr. Francis, I think we should take a trip to Paris first.”

“Paris?” Djoka was momentarily puzzled but soon understood and nodded in agreement.

...

Paris City Hall stood on the banks of the Seine River, north of Notre Dame in the heart of the city.

The original building had been destroyed during the Paris Commune uprising in 1871. The new structure was completed in 1882, retaining the Renaissance architectural style. Its rooftops formed a harmonious cluster of pyramid-shaped structures, and the building’s walls were adorned with 136 statues of notable figures throughout French history.

When Djoka and Charles entered the office area, it was already 10 a.m. The vast hall bustled with activity. Telephones rang, typewriters clattered, and heated arguments over tax issues filled the air.

By contrast, the industrial property counter was much quieter.

“Industrial property” was the term for what is now known as patents. At the time, most inventions stemmed from industrial production, and to distinguish it from literary or artistic property (copyright), the term “industrial property” was adopted.

Behind the counter sat a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. He lounged in his chair, glasses perched on his nose, one leg crossed over the other, leisurely sipping coffee while flipping through The Little Journal, a sly smile occasionally creeping across his face.

It was obvious what he was enjoying.

In this era, The Little Journal was known in France as a “sou newspaper,” costing just one sou. Catering to the lower and middle classes, its content often included salacious serialized stories.

“Good day, sir!” Djoka leaned toward the counter and politely said,
“We’re here to apply for industrial property.”

The balding man glanced up at Djoka, then lazily handed over a form before returning his attention to the newspaper.

Djoka carefully filled out the form, consulting Charles occasionally. The man behind the counter ignored them entirely, sipping his coffee and flipping the newspaper’s pages in search of more “highlights.”

Charles was startled to see the front-page headline of The Little Journal:
“Tractors Save France.”

The article even included a cartoonish illustration of a tractor-turned-tank. Though inaccurate, it was close enough to convey the idea.

This was why The Little Journal cost just one sou—it didn’t require reporters to visit the scene. They simply imagined the events and drew them.

Once the form was filled, Djoka handed it back through the window, unsure if it was correct.
“Sir, could you please check if this is acceptable?”

The balding man gave a curt “hmm,” set down his coffee, and took the form without looking away from the newspaper, as if he could multitask perfectly.

But Charles underestimated the man’s professional instincts. A mere glance at the form froze him in place.
“Tank?”

He shifted his gaze from the form to Djoka, then to Charles, barely taller than the counter. Hesitantly, he asked,
“Are you... Mr. Charles, from Davaus?”

Charles nodded.
“Yes, I am.”

The balding man sprang to his feet, nervously checking the newspaper’s headline again before hastily setting it aside. He rummaged through the desk for a pen and notebook, mumbling,
“My God! My deepest apologies, Mr. Charles. And this gentleman is...?”

Djoka introduced himself with pride.
“I’m his father, Djoka.”

Djoka shot Charles a knowing look, as if to say, It seems your reputation has already reached Paris.

Charles shrugged slightly. Davaus was only ten kilometers from Paris, and the city was a hub of politics, economics, and transportation. If the news hadn’t arrived by now, it wasn’t worth reporting.

“Mr. Djoka!” The balding man quickly exited the side door, his demeanor transformed. He was no longer indifferent but energetic and respectful as he shook hands with Djoka and Charles. Gesturing toward the VIP room, he said,
“This way, gentlemen, please!”

The VIP room featured sofas, a coffee table, a safe, and a few pots of irises—symbols of light and liberty.

Charles found it ironic. Did only VIPs deserve light and liberty? Everyone else had to endure the scowls of clerks at the counter?

After some time, the balding man entered with two cups of coffee.
“Thank you for waiting. My name is Manuel. It’s an honor to handle your industrial property application.”

He carefully placed Djoka’s form on the table.
“The form is mostly fine, but I suggest publishing a notice in the newspaper. This would timestamp your claim and serve as strong evidence in case of future disputes.”

“Is that all?” Charles asked, surprised. “No searches required?”

“That’s correct!” Manuel nodded. “Aside from a few details.”

Charles later learned that in France at this time, industrial property applications didn’t involve checks for duplication or theft. Any disputes had to be resolved in court.

This explained why Manuel recommended publishing a notice—to create direct, irrefutable evidence.

Manuel engaged Djoka in a conversation about the finer details, but Charles suspected he was stalling.

He wasn’t wrong. Ten minutes later, a man in a bowler hat and suit arrived at the VIP room’s door, leaning on a cane and walking briskly.

“Allow me to introduce him!” Manuel visibly relaxed as he gestured to the man.
“This is Mr. Bonnet, the owner of The Little Journal. He would like to discuss purchasing the rights to the tank.”

Djoka’s expression changed, realizing they’d been deliberately delayed.

Charles smirked inwardly. A member of the Two Hundred Families—already making a move!

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