Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 220: "I thought I’d never hear France’s heart again. And then… there it was."

Chapter 220: "I thought I’d never hear France’s heart again. And then... there it was."

The radio lines were dead, and the streets were silent in the hours following Moreau’s speech.

No newspapers printed extra editions.

The country seemed to hold its breath, holding something fragile between resignation and hope.

By late morning, however, the hush unraveled as whispers turned to murmurs and murmurs roared into calls of unity.

The speech lived inside every heart it touched.

In a café near Rue de Rivoli, hushed conversations ceased as the owner switched off the radio.

Monsieur Dorbe, in his mid-sixties and accustomed to national pessimism, leaned forward.

His voice trembled not with fear, but something else.

"She... she spoke for me. For my grandchildren. For this city."

His wife, Agnès, smiled as she gently placed her hand on his.

The barista wiped a tear from her cheek.

"I thought I’d never hear France’s heart again. And then... there it was."

They weren’t alone.

Across the café, regulars once silent now shared nods.

Quiet solidarity.

At the entrance to the prefecture in Lyon, a trio of Republican officers approached Moreau-aligned troops.

Lieutenant Deschamps, young and nervous, lowered his helmet.

"We heard the speech. It... it changed things."

The sergeant in command, older and stern, stepped forward. "You want to surrender?" he asked.

Deschamps looked at his men.

They’d grown silent, eyes fixed on the flag.

"We want to build, not continue this."

He extended his sword.

The sergeant hesitated, then saluted not the old salute, but the new one Moreau introduced.

"Welcome," he said.

"Welcome to France."

They walked back into the prefecture together.

In Bordeaux, laborers at the docks had been near mutiny yesterday.

Today, they listened as their foreman, Pierre Martin, stepped onto a raft.

"Friends, they talk of revolution but Moreau’s speech... it sounded nothing like that."

Men laid down their hammers and tools.

A union rep climbed beside him.

"We’ve lost bread before," she said. "That speech gave me hope we’ll find it again."

They hoisted a flag blue, white, red but on one stripe, they sewed a small lion.

A symbol of restoration, not rebellion.

In remote hamlets, the news traveled as fast as the wind.

At a roadside inn in Lorraine, a group of veterans huddled around a makeshift radio.

When the broadcast ended, each man was quiet for a full minute.

Then old Moulin who hadn’t spoken more than three words in ten years poured two glasses of wine.

"To France," he said, his voice breaking.

"To Moreau," his neighbors replied softly.

The toast carried.

No military discipline.

Just raw, human faith.

General Garrel, the last resistant commander in Grenoble, sat in his office surveying maps.

The speech its words replayed in his mind had unsettled him more than any battlefield defeat.

He received a radio message from Lieutenant Foron.

"Sir, we’ve had ten defections. Major Lamont resigned. Says he can’t..."

Garrel closed his eyes.

"Stand down," he whispered.

Moments later, he left the office.

His coat was draped across his arm his uniform starless.

He stepped into the street and walked to the nearest Moreau checkpoint.

A sergeant recognized him, and their eyes met.

Garrel nodded. "For France."

The sergeant returned the salute. "For her."

Captain Vasseur, who had watched soldiers fall at the docks in Marseille, looked worn older than his forty years.

He turned to a corporal, Carbone, sitting beside him scavenging rations.

"Did you hear it?"

"Every word."

Vasseur exhaled.

"They asked for calm." He paused. "And I felt... calm."

Carbone nodded.

"Major Durand just surrendered with the last loyalist platoon."

Vasseur wrapped an arm around Carbone’s shoulder.

"Tomorrow, we help rebuild."

The church bells, silent for years in suburban Orléans, began to ring again as Moreau’s radio announcement ended.

Sister Marie adjusted her habit and stepped outside.

In the square, crowds had gathered.

"Who’s next?" someone asked.

Another called back, "We are."

They marched to the prefecture and filed in to offer volunteer service.

Teachers.

Clerks.

Farmers.

Joined by surrendering gendarmes.

The prefect uncertain minutes before now faced them, tears glistening.

"This... this is what France should feel like," he said.

On the road near Lille, Benoît approached a checkpoint.

The guard recognized him.

"Benoît?

"Yes."

The guard bit his lip. "I... I stayed loyal."

Benoît nodded.

"But after the speech?"

The guard exhaled.

"I joined your line."

They swapped rifles and shoulder to shoulder, walked back toward the camp.

Moreau’s voice had stopped them.

One by one, the last holdouts Metz, Limoges, Brest, Grenoble were gone.

Grenache, the stubborn militia commander holding Brest’s waterfront, surrendered publicly.

He stood in the square, hands in the air, and read from a letter.

"I... declare the city under new order. Because I believe there can be a better France."

Tears rolled down his cheeks through a dirty moustache.

In Clermont-Ferrand, a mother tucked her children into bed.

They walked into the room quietly, holding a small rooster statue gift and symbol of France.

She smiled.

"They’re listening too," she whispered.

In the next room, her husband, a local judge, took down the old seal of the Republic from his desk and placed it on the bookshelf.

And just like that, the seal cracked and didn’t matter anymore.

Beauchamp met Delon in the War Ministry’s main room.

They listened to an audio clip of the speech again.

Delon looked down at the file on the desk.

"It’s not empty," he said. "Ministers are writing letters. Asking for pardon. Offering service."

Beauchamp closed his eyes.

"Did we just inherit a Republic, or rebuild one?"

Delon touched the microphone set that had aired Moreau’s speech.

"Either way, it starts today."

25,000 loyalist officers had surrendered in the 24 hours since the speech.

50,000 civilians had volunteered to assist distributing food, teaching, repairing.

The last battalion loyal to the old regime was disbanding in Mont-de-Marsan.

Radio circuits across France replaced old words with Moreau’s, the one he paused in mid‑speech to listen for applause.

By sundown, the front lines had become invisible.

They were no longer lines of division but lines of purpose.

To rebuild.

To rebuild rightly.

That night, under the glow of cloud the lion flag waved silently in every town.

And everywhere, people Republicans turned reconstructionists, soldiers turned workers, cynics turned believers asked themselves.

What comes next?