Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 238: Discussion - II

Chapter 238: Discussion - II

Elsewhere, in the workers’ cafés of Lille, opinions flared with more heat than decorum.

Beneath cracked portraits of Jaurès, men and women gathered in numbers not seen since the winter strikes.

Leaflets circulated with the headline.

National Worker Camps Funded! CCC-style Employment!

"I’ll be damned," said Renaud, a laid-off machinist. "They’re actually putting hands to labor."

His comrade Lucie raised an eyebrow. "Two billion for youth camps. Good, yes. But not enough. If we get twenty thousand posts, what happens to the next fifty thousand?"

"They’re building something," offered Jeanne, who had worked in a now-closed textile plant. "We shouted for jobs. Now they say, ’Come and build roads, airfields.’ That’s not charity, that’s work."

The conversation turned toward vocational schools and worker housing.

Some remained skeptical.

"We’ve heard promises before," muttered an older man, Henri. "Blum promised factories. We got slogans. Moreau better deliver bricks, not banners."

Down in Marseille, in the corridors of the Port Authority, managers and union representatives gathered under the faded tricolor.

The dredging budget had become a talisman of contention.

"Three billion for ports and rivers," announced one official. "If that isn’t Marseille’s moment, I don’t know what is."

A young dockworker leader, Pascal, crossed his arms. "But how much of that comes here? Le Havre is already laying tracks. Don’t give us blueprints and send the gravel north."

Captain Focrm, retired naval logistics man, stood up. "Gentlemen, Marseille is the Empire’s artery. You think they’ll risk blood clots?"

His words drew chuckles.

Outside, at a street corner, a woman named Fatima handed out translated flyers in Arabic to Algerian port laborers.

"They say we’ll be hired under equal wages. First time ever."

"We’ll see," murmured one man. "But it’s in writing. That’s something."

Across the country in Clermont-Ferrand, the Catholic Social League held a more hushed discussion inside a schoolroom.

A priest named Father Loïc pointed to a poster that read.

State Clinics and Health Posts – ₣2 Billion.

"For our poor parishioners, especially mothers and veterans, this may be the difference between survival and silence."

Sister Anne added, "And vocational schools God willing they may teach a girl how to solder, not just sew."

In the Sorbonne’s amphitheater, student bodies held fiery roundtables.

Law students debated the budget’s constitutionality, economics students argued its viability, literature students penned satirical poems about ’National Champions and National Charades.’

Éton, a final-year economics student, raised a chalk in mid-lecture. "This budget proposes national innovation grants. Two billion francs. Does this mark the beginning of a dirigiste future?"

"Or just a desperate gamble," quipped another.

In Bordeaux, winegrowers spoke with their mayors about agricultural supports.

The ₣10 billion allocation had farmers calculating something.

"The subsidies on grain and milk could stabilize us," said an older vigneron. "But I want guarantees for wine export routes. If the Rhône is dredged, fine. But where are the rail lines to carry our bottles?"

The mayor nodded. "I’ve drafted a telegram to the Ministry of Agriculture. This is our hour to speak."

All over France, such debates thundered through town halls, village squares, universities, even among café regulars and priests at Sunday homilies.

In Strasbourg, Alsatian merchants cautiously praised the regional fairness of the allocations.

In Algiers, French colonial governors telegraphed requests for clarification, how much of the ₣7 billion allocated to colonial integration would arrive in cash and how much in expectations?

Even in far-flung Saint-Pierre-et-Miquelon, the mayor sent a note.

"We request confirmation that postal aviation routes will pass our territory, per strategic airfield clause."

Back in Paris, Moreau was briefed by his ministers every four hours.

Auriol presented compiled responses from judicial associations.

"Regional judges are delighted. They view the ₣1.5 billion for tribunals as the backbone of legitimacy."

Zay had updates from school inspectors. "We’re already mapping schools to reassign heating budgets. Civic education programs are welcomed, but parents worry about ’politicization.’ I’m preparing reassurances."

Mandel had notes from prefectures. "Some former loyalists of the old regime whisper treason over this budget. They say it’s a prelude to military rule wrapped in republican silk."

Moreau didn’t flinch. "And what do we whisper back?"

"That we build roads, not purge cells."

Déat brought reports from the labor leagues. "So far, no strikes. Cautious support, tempered by demand for follow-through. I’ve been invited to speak in Le Havre tomorrow."

Muselier handed a chart showing naval projections. "Marseille, Le Havre, Brest. If funds arrive within 45 days, freight capacity triples by year-end."

Mendès France offered a slim sheaf of agricultural complaints. "Farmers ask whether synthetic fuel investments mean higher fuel taxes. I told them no. But I need your word."

Moreau nodded. "They’ll get it."

Gamelin stood at last. "The Engineering Corps receives curious praise. Citizens like the notion of soldiers building roads. But some generals feel dishonored. I’ve silenced them for now."

Reynaud, as always, focused on the ledger. "Our reserves hold. Currency markets are quiet. But if we change a single major allocation, the Banque de France may grow nervous."

Beauchamp entered with public opinion metrics. "Of 150 departmental associations polled, 112 support the draft. Twenty-seven call it insufficient. Eleven reject it entirely—mostly in former right-wing bastions."

"None call it tyrannical?" asked Moreau.

"Not yet."

That evening, Moreau retired to his study alone.

Outside his window, the lights of Paris flickered.

He picked up the latest draft signed, circulated, read, praised, ridiculed.

And then he opened a folder labeled.

"Citizen Letters."

It was a new initiative.

The first letter read.

Monsieur Moreau,

I am the widow of a soldier. I receive no pension. I’ve read your budget. If it gives my son a place to learn and my daughter a clinic to visit, I shall vote for your republic, even if I cannot vote at all.

Elodie Marcelle, Clermont-Ferrand

Another read

Dear sir,

I am a dockworker in Le Havre. If I can return to the port with dignity, not charity, you have my support.

Pascal B.

Moreau folded the letters and rose.

Tomorrow, the ministers would reconvene.

Feedback would be assessed.

Final edits made.