As soon as Jules Ferry's words fell, the assembly hall instantly erupted.
Georges Clemenceau abruptly rose from his seat:
"Twenty million!"
Like an enraged lion, he waved his arms:
"Twenty million! Are you sure you know what you're saying?
Just a few months ago, you swindled four million in tax money with your 'civilizing mission' nonsense, throwing it into that bottomless pit in Tonkin!
Now, are you going to throw another twenty million francs, and the lives of more of our French youth, into the Tunisian desert?"
His supporters erupted in enthusiastic applause and shouts.
Édouard Vaillant also stood up:
"We were told that Tunisia had been pacified! That the Bey had submitted! And now?
The retreat from Kairouan, the ambushes in the western mountains, the tragic shelling of Sfax... Is this the 'order' and 'peace' you promised?
Mr. Ferry, your policies are staining the flag of France with the blood of innocents, and driving our national treasury to the brink of bankruptcy!"
Although the right-wing conservatives were pleased to see the republicans in internal conflict, they were also uneasy about the escalating military spending and overseas adventures.
A Bonapartist deputy spoke with sarcasm:
"Perhaps the Prime Minister believes that by constantly throwing money around, he can make those 'inferior races' willingly accept our 'civilization' to enlighten them?"
Even within the moderate republicans, there were murmurs, with some deputies who originally supported Ferry whispering to each other, their faces filled with doubt.
A veteran deputy whispered to a companion:
"With these endless appropriations, is Tunisia really worth it? We've already invested enough there."
Jules Ferry felt the veins in his temples throbbing.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
He knew this was the most crucial moment and he absolutely could not back down.
Speaker Gambetta forcefully hammered his gavel:
"Silence! Please be silent!"
Jules Ferry raised his voice, trying to overcome the din:
"Gentlemen! I understand your concerns! But please look at the map!"
He pointed to the large map specially displayed behind him:
"Tunisia is not just a piece of land! It is our crucial fulcrum in the Mediterranean!
It is our gateway to the heart of Africa! Controlling it means we can curb Italy's ambitions, ensure the security of Algeria!
And firmly bring North Africa into France's sphere of influence! This is a critical issue that concerns the nation's destiny for the next hundred years!"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the hesitant faces below the rostrum:
"Yes, we have encountered resistance and difficulties.
But this precisely indicates that the forces attempting to drive us out of this land still exist! If we retreat now, then I ask you all—
What will become of the Treaty of Bardo? A scrap of paper! A laughingstock to the international community!
If we do not consolidate our rule now, then soon, we will lose more than just the interior and the mountains!
We will lose control of all areas except Tunis City! All our previous investments, all the sacrifices of our soldiers, will be for naught!
France's honor and credibility will be swept away before the entire world!"
Jules Ferry almost shouted the last sentence:
"This is not just a matter of twenty million francs, it is about whether France still has the resolve and strength to defend the position and glory she deserves!"
The fierce debate lasted for several hours.
Clemenceau and others continuously attacked the hypocrisy and cost of colonial policy, demanding the government stop its adventures and focus on domestic issues.
Jules Ferry and his supporters, in turn, repeatedly emphasized the strategic necessity and the disastrous consequences of retreat.
Both sides engaged in a war of words, neither yielding.
Finally, as night fell and the exhausted deputies cast their votes, Jules Ferry's side passed the supplementary budget bill with a narrow margin.
Jules Ferry looked at the vote count, feeling no joy, only immense pressure.
He knew clearly that this was his last chance.
The situation in Tunisia had to be effectively controlled in the short term, and no more bad news could come.
Otherwise, next time, what awaited him would no longer be the rejection of a budget bill...
————————
Meanwhile, in a luxurious salon in Paris's Saint-Germain district, the atmosphere was equally oppressive.
This was once a place where core members of the "Youth Guard of the French Republic" often gathered, engaging in grand discussions and envisioning the glory of France.
Velvet curtains, gilded furniture, and oil paintings depicting the Napoleonic Wars hanging on the walls, everything here showcased its grandeur and stance.
But today, the salon lacked its usual bustle and fervor.
Charles de La Rochefoucauld sat in an armchair, his face pale, clutching a document that trembled incessantly in his hand.
It was a conscription notice, clearly stating—
He, Charles de La Rochefoucauld, was required to report to the Ministry of Overseas Colonies before October 1881, after which he would be sent to serve in Tonkin, Vietnam, with the rank of second lieutenant.
Around him sat or stood over a dozen other young men of prominent background, all active members of the "Youth Guard."
At this moment, they all held similar letters, the paper rustling faintly as they were flipped through, like the whispers of Death.
The places of service on the conscription notices varied:
Some, like Charles, were to be in distant Tonkin, Vietnam, where it was humid, hot, and rife with dysentery and ambushes from the Black Flag Army.
Others were for the western mountains of Tunisia, where tribal rebels rose in succession, locked in fierce battle with the garrison.
And some were for desert outposts in southern Algeria, which were dry, scorching hot, like a living hell.
There were even those sent to serve as prison guards in the penal colony of Guiana, or to Senegal and Upper Volta, both considered "white men's graves".
Fear was unmistakably etched on the faces of these young men, who were usually so arrogant.
Most of them had experienced the Franco-Prussian War and the Bloody Week of the Commune's suppression ten years prior, though they were just young teenagers at the time.
They might not have been on the front lines, but they vividly remembered the hunger and cold during the siege of Paris, and the sight of the defeated army retreating in disarray.
Many of their relatives had died in Sedan, Gravelotte, and the Marne, knowing that war was not a romantic fantasy in a salon, but brutal slaughter, disease, and death.
The deathly silence was suddenly broken.
A young man named Antoine suddenly jumped up; his father was a well-known merchant in Paris.
He rushed to Charles, his originally handsome face contorted with anger and fear, and grabbed the collar of Charles's velvet coat, almost lifting him from the chair.
"La Rochefoucauld! Look! Look at this!"
Antoine almost shoved the notice in his hand into Charles de La Rochefoucauld's face, his voice hoarse with agitation:
"Tonkin! They're sending me to Tonkin!
That place full of swamps and plagues, where the Chinese can slit your throat at any moment!"
He roared, spitting in the other's face:
"What did you tell us back then?
You said that as long as we went to 'teach a lesson' to that presumptuous writer Sorel, and let the authorities see our 'value' and 'loyalty'...
We would be able to serve domestically, or at least join a respectable dragoon regiment! And now? Is this the respectability you promised?"
(End of chapter)