Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 271: You know it’s strange how often beauty ends up with power.

Chapter 271: You know it’s strange how often beauty ends up with power.

They arrived like kings in a chess game.

Not to win.

Not yet.

But to surround the board.

No civilians.

No press.

Only protocol.

Flags.

Anthems.

Marching bands that did not smile.

London had not seen this kind of assembly since Versailles.

And even then, not like this.

Not all at once.

The first to arrive was Mussolini.

He disembarked at Dover by battleship escort Regia Marina, black hull gleaming.

A full brass ensemble met him on the dock. White-gloved salutes.

Red carpets rolled.

Il Duce wore a dark grey uniform, medals glinting beneath the clouds.

He descended the gangplank slowly, boots heavy, chin high.

Beside him, Ciano kept pace silently.

"We are early," Mussolini said.

Ciano nodded. "It’s better to watch them arrive."

They boarded a black limousine, curtains drawn.

The escort took them north, straight to Claridge’s, where two entire floors had been cleared.

The Italians didn’t speak on the drive.

They stared.

They waited.

Next came Hitler.

By air.

The German Führer stepped off a Luftwaffe Ju-52 that had been cleared to land at Croydon Airport, an exception made under tight agreement.

The Reichsadler shimmered on the tail fin.

Göring met him first.

Ribbentrop was not far behind.

Hitler wore civilian wool, grey, long overcoat.

No cap.

No gloves.

Just a cane and his stride.

British officers lined the reception row but did not offer handshakes.

Still, they saluted.

Formal.

Fixed.

Polite.

The German motorcade ten vehicles, six security moved in silence toward the Dorchester.

Inside the car, Göring turned.

"You think Moreau will come alone?"

Hitler did not blink.

"He always comes alone."

"And if he brings nothing?"

"Then he brings everything."

By the time the Germans entered central London, the streets had been cleared five blocks in every direction.

Not for safety.

For symbolism.

Then came Stalin.

Not by air.

Not by warship.

But by rail.

Four days across Europe in a private train flanked by NKVD guards and Red Army engineers.

The arrival at St Pancras was unmarked by ceremony.

No anthem.

No announcement.

Just the slow screech of brakes and Stalin stepping down to wet cobblestone.

He lit a cigarette before his boots hit the platform.

Molotov followed with papers tucked under one arm.

Stalin turned to him.

"Do you believe this is history?"

"No," Molotov replied. "History doesn’t wear gloves."

Stalin smiled faintly.

He shook no hands.

He gave no interviews.

He entered a sealed limousine, black leather and frosted glass, and vanished into the streets.

They were housed near the Russian Embassy.

Twenty rooms cleared.

No staff without clearance.

One barometer in every hall.

Because weather mattered to Stalin.

Moreau arrived next.

But not with any entourage.

He stepped off a military courier train at an auxiliary station east of the city.

No one saw him disembark.

No one was there to greet him.

He carried a single leather case.

Two shirts, a razor, a set of coded notes.

He wore no insignia.

Just a coat.

The same one from Spain.

His aide met him at the gate with a small folder.

Bonnet had arrived separately the day before, already posted at the French Embassy.

Moreau declined the waiting car.

He walked.

Four kilometers.

Through city fog, past lamplighters and postboxes and children still in school uniforms.

No one stopped him.

But a few looked twice.

By the time he arrived at the embassy, his shoes were soaked.

He didn’t mind.

"They’ll expect a speech," Bonnet said.

"They won’t get one."

"And the others?"

Moreau sat.

"They’ll talk all night."

"About Spain?"

"No," Moreau said. "About women. About memory. About God. Then they’ll sharpen their tongues for the summit."

The British were already here.

Chamberlain had spent the past week coordinating guest security, motorcade arrangements, and fine-tuning seating order.

The first breach would not be military.

It would be etiquette.

The order of entry.

The angle of chairs.

The length of pauses.

At Whitehall, Baldwin handed him the final list of attendees.

"It’s everyone," he said.

Chamberlain exhaled.

"Good."

"You’re nervous."

"I’m awake."

"Same thing."

At 6:45 p.m., the royal procession passed quietly along the Mall.

The King would not attend.

But he approved the proceedings.

His guards lined every avenue.

Footfalls sharp as pendulums.

That night, each leader hosted a private reception.

Not official.

But expected.

A thousand cameras might be banned from the summit.

But none could be kept out of the Ritz bar.

At Claridge’s, Mussolini sat in an armchair with Ciano and Laval from France.

They sipped brandy and spoke in half-English.

"You know," Mussolini said, "I liked Spain better when it was unstable. It had flavor."

Laval didn’t blink.

"It still has flavor. You’re just not cooking anymore."

Ciano laughed.

Mussolini didn’t.

Across the city, Stalin stood in a second-floor study inside the Russian quarters.

He poured Georgian wine himself.

Hitler entered the room unannounced.

They stood a few feet apart.

Then Stalin nodded once.

"Berlin is cleaner than I remember."

"You remember too much," Hitler said.

"And you forget too fast."

They toasted.

No words for a while.

Then Stalin leaned closer.

"Will you speak first?"

"I’ll wait," Hitler said. "Let them chase."

In the lounge of the Ritz, Roosevelt’s envoy Cordell Hull sipped dark tea with Georges Bonnet.

Both wore civilian coats.

Bonnet adjusted his cuffs.

"Do you think they’ll all come to agreement?"

Hull shook his head.

"I think they’ll speak like gentlemen and then write like soldiers."

"You Americans always see the end first."

"And you French keep rewriting the middle."

Moreau entered late.

No announcement.

No car.

He stepped through the rear entrance of the hotel and went straight to the rooftop.

Only one man joined him.

Chamberlain.

They stood overlooking the foggy expanse of London.

"There’s no peace in this city," Moreau said.

"Only memory," Chamberlain replied.

"They’re afraid."

"They should be."

"Of me?"

Chamberlain turned.

"No. Of what you made possible."

Later, in a private room arranged by the Belgians, a handful of men gathered with no agenda.

Mussolini. Stalin. Chamberlain. Hitler. Bonnet. Hull.

Even Ribbentrop lingered near the brandy.

No aides.

No wives.

Just men who had caused, prevented, and rewritten the histories of entire nations.

"What was her name again?" Mussolini said.

He was talking about a French actress.

Bonnet raised an eyebrow.

"Yvette. I believe. From Montmartre."

"Ah, the one with the voice," Stalin said.

"She had legs, too," Mussolini added.

They chuckled.

Hull just watched.

Hitler sipped water.

"You know," he said, "it’s strange how often beauty ends up with power."

"Not strange," Stalin said. "Practical."

Chamberlain looked toward the fire.

"Perhaps that’s what Spain was. Beautiful. Broken. Practical."

"And now?" Hull asked.

"Now," Moreau said, from the door, "it’s functioning."

They turned.

He entered slowly.

No coat.

Just presence.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Bonnet raised his glass.

"To function, then."

Mussolini grinned.

"Not as romantic as victory."

"More permanent," Stalin said.

They toasted.

Not because they agreed.

But because the wine was open.

Outside, the carriages were waiting.

Polished.

Black.

Engines warm.

Tomorrow they would walk into the grand hall of Westminster.

Sit at a long table.

Speak into microphones.

And begin the war of words.

But tonight, for one hour, they were still men.

Not states.

Not doctrines.

Not maps.

Just men in warm rooms, watching a cold world lean closer.

And soon, strike.