Chapter 240: Putting on the Shackles
At the Élysée Palace in Paris, the meeting that would decide France's fate began with Daladier's arrival.
In truth, the meeting was already over before it had even started.
If Germany had not announced its impending bombing operation, the cabinet politicians might still have hesitated. They might still have argued, struggled, and clung to the last ragged threads of resistance.
But the coming bombardment hung over their heads like the Sword of Damocles.
It forced them to compromise.
That change was reflected most clearly in the seating arrangement.
The resistance faction led by Reynaud was almost completely absent, while the surrender faction led by Pétain occupied nearly every seat.
Reynaud stood with his arms crossed. The cold wind blowing in from outside ruffled his hair, while the pale yellow curtains swayed behind him like a mirror of his wavering fate.
He looked up, hoping to see even the faintest glimmer of hope from the President.
But after a moment of hesitation, Daladier sat down beside Pétain and announced in a hoarse voice, "I declare the discussion on the matter of surrender… now open."
No one spoke.
The conference room, which should have erupted in fierce debate, fell into a long silence.
"No discussion?"
Seeing that no one intended to speak, Daladier slowly raised his hand and became the first to state his position.
"Then let us proceed directly to a vote."
"I support surrender."
With the President taking the lead, the cabinet members all seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, as though they had finally found a reason to do what they had already wanted to do.
One after another, hands were raised.
"Minister of Water Resources, Calonne de la Roche, agrees to surrender."
"Minister of Economy… agrees to surrender."
"Minister of Foreign Affairs… agrees."
The raised hands pierced Reynaud's heart like thorns.
When Pétain raised the final hand, Reynaud gave a bitter smile and stood.
"I do not agree to surrender."
He gently pushed the document he had already prepared in front of Daladier.
"This is my resignation letter."
After saying this, Reynaud left the conference room without looking back.
The ministers exhaled deeply, as if they had finally rid themselves of a troublesome problem.
But Daladier's gaze remained fixed on the empty seat, then on the swaying curtains beyond it.
Calonne noticed his dazed expression and gently patted his shoulder.
"Mr. President, since Prime Minister Reynaud has resigned, we may now begin selecting a new Prime Minister. I believe Marshal Pétain is qualified to bear this heavy responsibility."
Daladier nodded.
"Do not call me President."
His voice was very soft.
"From this moment onward, I am no longer one."
With that, Daladier took a pen from his pocket, wrote his name on Reynaud's resignation letter, then signed his own resignation letter as well.
"From now on, all affairs of France will be taken over by Marshal Pétain."
He closed the pen.
"God bless France."
"God bless France."
The unified chant faded away with Daladier's departure.
Everyone's gazes met in the air, then finally settled on Pétain.
"As Prime Minister and interim President of France, I declare that from this moment onward, all front-line troops are to cease fire immediately."
Pétain's voice was old, tired, and heavy.
"The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is to send a telegram to Berlin at once."
"The war is over."
Berlin.
It was nearly night.
The Presidential Palace remained brightly lit.
The French foreign official stood on the soft Arab carpet.
Considering that the Presidential Palace was too old, Cardolan had ordered its renovation with an unlimited budget. Every wall lamp in the corridor had been meticulously designed, its intricate patterns crafted from gold. The carpet beneath Leon's feet was a state gift sent by Saudi Arabia that year. It was soft, dark red, and perfectly matched the mahogany patterns lining the corridor.
But even on the softest carpet, standing for an entire afternoon was enough to make one's legs go numb.
For an elderly diplomat like Leon, this was undoubtedly torture.
Leon knew that the other side was deliberately humiliating him.
He had once stood before Germany's new "Emperor," Jörg von Roman, and demanded that Germany cede its interests in Spain.
Now, the other side was bound to repay that humiliation.
Just as Leon was about to lose his footing, the door opened.
The office was unlit.
The air was filled with a faint fragrance of flowers and tea, while the fire in the fireplace made pine wood crackle softly.
And that European devil, that Satan wrapped in angelic skin, was leaning beside the fireplace, quietly reading a classic.
The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
The firelight cast half of Jörg's face in shadow and half in light. Yet he did not even glance at Leon.
It was as though the French special envoy was merely an insignificant moth, while the book in his hand was the true guest.
"Your Excellency von Roman…"
Jörg raised a finger, signaling for silence.
Only after turning to the final page did he finally look up, giving Leon an indifferent glance.
"Long time no see, Mr. Leon."
His tone was calm.
"Would you like to sit?"
Jörg lightly waved his left hand, and the lights came on.
A servant gently placed a tea table beside the fire, followed by freshly brewed black tea.
Looking at the leather chair in front of him, Leon shook his head.
"No, Your Excellency, I will not…"
Before he could finish his sentence, his legs went numb.
Leon lost his balance and fell to the floor. His index finger knocked over the teacup, and warm tea poured over his hair, making him look like a drenched chicken with nowhere left to flee.
Jörg could not help smiling.
He crossed his legs and sipped his tea, as if watching a humorous little comedy.
Only after Leon struggled to rise from the carpet did Jörg signal for a servant to hand him a towel.
"Mr. Leon, I asked you to sit, not kneel."
He looked at him with calm amusement.
"Tell me, Mr. Leon. Why have you come?"
Realizing that he had made a fool of himself, Leon wiped the tea from his face.
Despite the grief and indignation in his heart, he still forced a fawning expression onto his face.
Jörg had seen this expression before.
And not just once.
He had seen General Seeckt clench his fists amid the sarcastic remarks of French garrison inspectors. After the economic crisis, he had seen countless German officials wear the same fawning expression in various negotiations, trying to appease the French.
Now, at last, he saw the same expression on a Frenchman's face.
And tasted the same helplessness.
Only, the helplessness back then had been the bloody taste of biting one's tongue.
The helplessness now was the black tea savored by the victor.
"Your Excellency, France has actually never participated in any evil plot against Germany."
Leon suppressed the disgust in his heart and spoke again and again with forced humility.
"This is entirely a misunderstanding. France is a peace-loving nation. We have never thought of going to war with Germany."
"All those criminals who advocated war have already been purged by us."
"I implore you, for the sake of peace, to halt your Army and stop the bombing of Paris."
"France will offer a generous gift in return for your benevolence."
"Misunderstanding?"
Jörg stood and slowly leaned closer, gazing at Leon.
"Gift?"
"The misunderstanding you speak of caused tens of thousands of Germans to die. It caused hundreds of thousands of Germans to shed blood."
His voice remained even, but every word carried pressure.
"This misunderstanding was truly costly, Mr. Leon."
"I am giving you only one chance."
Jörg straightened.
"Tell me about that gift."
"If it satisfies me, then Christmas will become the finale that sends the soldiers home."
"If it does not satisfy me…"
Jörg took a sip of black tea.
"Then tomorrow, I will make Paris sing a dirge."
"I will let the Iron Tower be stained with blood."
"I will let the churches burn."
"And by Christmas, Paris, that city famous for romance, will become a field of ruins."
.....
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