Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 274: To whomever manages tomorrow, I offer yesterday. It served me. It may still serve others.

Chapter 274: To whomever manages tomorrow, I offer yesterday. It served me. It may still serve others.

The next morning, every European capital read the same sentence in different languages.

"Marshal Moreau has declined to comply with the Westminster Appeal."

But France didn’t wait for the newspapers.

They erupted on instinct.

Not from orders.

Not from radio.

From pride.

From something they hadn’t felt in decades.

From something their fathers hadn’t dared name since Verdun.

This was no manufactured euphoria.

It rang through Lyon’s cafés, crackled over radios in Brest, continued down the boulevards of Paris where the tricolor hung.

Moreau had returned from London not with signatures or treaties but with proof.

That he had defied the world.

And the world blinked.

The headline on Le Matin read simply.

"L’Honneur Repris."

Honor reclaimed.

By midday, Marseille had emptied into its port, ships blasting horns in unison.

In Nice, children chalked maps of Spain on sidewalks, labeling towns no one had bothered to name two months ago.

Thousands lined the streets from the Place de la Concorde to the Palais Bourbon.

Not called by decree.

Not ordered by radio.

They just came.

For the first time since the Great War, Paris felt victorious.

Not just free.

Victorious.

A banner hung from a window above the bakery where Moreau had once eaten alone.

"SPAIN FUNCTIONS. SO DOES FRANCE."

One man in the front clutched a paper.

Moreau’s Westminster quote.

"I did not enter Spain with flags. I entered with bread."

And they believed it.

On the other side.

Spanish cities had changed.

No new anthem.

No parade.

Just presence.

Moreau hadn’t ruled them.

He had arranged them.

Like scattered tools returned to drawers.

In Burgos, a former Nationalist mayor took the tram to work under French coordination.

He didn’t object.

The tram ran on time.

In Salamanca, schoolbooks bore new stamps.

"Department of Public Continuity."

No flag.

No seal.

Just standardized literacy.

In Sevilla, Franco drafted his final communication.

The wax seal still bore his crest, but the tone no longer carried threat.

He dictated slowly.

"To whomever manages tomorrow, I offer yesterday. It served me. It may still serve others."

Then he handed it to his clerk and turned to the window.

The bells of the cathedral rang twice.

And no one came to call him "Generalissimo."

He didn’t mind.

Not anymore.

In Berlin, Hitler paced beneath the chandeliers of the Reich Chancellery.

"This is not failure," he said to Göring. "It is exposure."

"Of what?"

"Of method. Of opportunity. The French have proven that Europe is not defended by armies. It is undefended by habit."

Göring grunted.

"They took Spain without firing a shot."

Hitler turned sharply.

"You want Austria? Then take it. Don’t ask. Don’t wait. No one will stop you now. They’re busy redrawing Spain."

Göring swallowed. "You’re saying... the window is open?"

"It was kicked open," Hitler said. "By a Frenchman with better shoes."

In Moscow, Stalin dismissed three advisors before noon.

He did not raise his voice.

He did not write anything down.

He simply circled a region on a map of Lithuania and whispered.

"They have no Moreau."

Molotov read the report.

"They’re cheering for him in Marseille."

"They cheer because they forget."

"Should we send agents?"

"No," Stalin said. "We send tractors. We build railways across Belarus. We bring bread where Warsaw brings bullets."

"And Europe?"

"Will hold meetings," Stalin said. "While we plant roots."

London dimmed down in silence.

The press had gone fucking mad.

The Times

"FRENCH PRESENCE IN SPAIN: DE FACTO CONTROL?"

The Daily Express

"MOREAU STAYS. WILL OTHERS FOLLOW?"

Chamberlain read them all without expression.

Halifax entered quietly. "If we call it a violation, we invite war."

"If we don’t," Chamberlain replied, "we invite precedent."

They both stared at the same document.

Typed, clean, direct.

Moreau’s words.

"Spain collapsed. I helped it stand. You all watched."

"I will not undo survival because your maps can’t keep up."

He handed them to Halifax and said, "They want blood, but they’ll settle for blueprints."

"And the Dominions?"

"Wary. But no one wants war."

"Do we?"

"No. We just want not to be surprised again."

He looked to the window.

Outside, the fog hugged the Thames.

"How do you stop a man who doesn’t invade?"

Halifax didn’t answer.

No one could.

The Americans held firm in public.

But behind embassy doors.

Roosevelt’s aides worked through the night.

"Any signs of expansion?" one asked.

"None. But he’s reorganizing postal networks now."

"The hell for?"

"Delivery rates," the aide said. "And surveillance."

Roosevelt read every telegram, every field note.

Then he leaned back.

"No blood. No occupation. Just order."

And for the first time, he didn’t sound angry.

He sounded intrigued.

The Vatican remained silent.

But Rome did not.

In Mussolini’s study, papers littered the carpet.

Ciano stepped over them, handed his father-in-law a note.

"Moreau rejected the papal appeal for negotiations."

Mussolini didn’t blink.

"He doesn’t need Rome," he muttered. "He has Granada."

And he poured another drink.

"It took Caesar twenty years. He did it in weeks."

Back in Paris, Moreau refused to speak to the press.

He stood instead at the window of the Élysée, watching the boulevard below.

Thousands moved beneath him.

Some waved.

Some stood still.

They didn’t chant.

They simply looked up.

Bonnet entered the room, coat in hand.

"They’re calling it a bloodless miracle," he said.

"No miracle," Moreau replied.

"Still, you’re being compared to Napoleon."

"I didn’t cross the Alps."

"You crossed their expectations."

Moreau turned.

"I crossed into vacuum. The others brought ideology. I brought plumbers."

"Still," Bonnet said. "This isn’t diplomacy anymore."

"No," Moreau replied. "It’s demonstration."

He turned back to the window.

"Let them build statues if they must. But keep the engineers working."

In Madrid, Caballero walked through a district school with French coordinators.

He stopped at the entrance where children removed their shoes before entering.

"No uniform?" he asked.

"Just function," the director replied.

He nodded.

Later, he stood before a small memorial to the fallen of both sides.

The plaque said.

"Not for who they followed, but for what they lacked."

He stared a long time.

Then whispered, "Never again."

In Lisbon, Salazar met with his cabinet.

"We have already recieved guarante and development fund from Franc. They also assure us that they will sign a treaty with us which is make the border between Spain and us not militarized as a sign of trust." his defense minister said.

Salazar laughed.

"Trust my ass, they don’t care about us because they know we will be defeated by them in days. Instead they are willing to leave an opportunity that somehow we will get influenced by other and attack them. So that they can rain down hell upon us."

The defence minister went silent because he knew this was the reality.

The reality of small nations.

He just wanted to put it in a better way which will not hurt the ego of this country.

Alas!

Salazar sighed.

"How far this great nation has fallen."

By week’s end in Spain, train routes reopened.

Customs lanes resumed.

Letters reached homes in the Basque countryside that hadn’t seen mail in six years.

And a woman in Zaragoza received a phone call from her son in Bordeaux.

First words?

"Do you have milk again?"

She laughed.

"Yes. And tomorrow, we have oranges."

The line crackled.

"Then Spain is Spain again."

She didn’t answer.

Not out loud.

But she looked at the the warm kitchen tiles, and nodded.

"Yes," she said softly. "Spain is... something again."

That night, Moreau walked alone through the French Embassy in Madrid.

Not the palace.

The embassy.

He refused permanent residence.

"Spain doesn’t need a throne," he told Bonnet. "It needs an inbox."

On the upper floor, he looked out over the rooftops.

He turned as Caballero entered.

"They still call you Marshal," Caballero said.

"I don’t stop them."

"Maybe you should."

"I’m not here to replace culture."

"Some say you already have."

Moreau sat.

"If it’s a choice between order and nostalgia, I’ll take lights that stay on."

Caballero smiled faintly.

"You’ve changed everything. And nothing at all."

"That’s how it works," Moreau said.

They shared a drink.

The silence was comfortable.

"I heard Franco is drafting terms," Caballero said.

"He already sent them."

"And?"

"I’ll let the local councils respond."

"You’re not going to sign?"

Moreau stood.

"I already signed with roads. With grain shipments. With water. Let the politicians put ink to it."

He looked out again.

"They’ll follow."

Caballero sipped his drink.

"You’ve left no one to resist."

"No," Moreau said. "I gave them no reason to."

In Berlin, the Reichswehr intensified training.

In Rome, maps of the Balkans reappeared.

In London, embassies received new protocol updates marked HIGH PRIORITY.

In Moscow, supply lines deep into Ukraine were quietly reinforced.

But in Spain?

Trains ran on time.

Children returned to school.

Bakeries stayed open past dusk.

And for now, for one clear moment the lights of Europe bent toward the Pyrenees.

Not in conquest.

Not in resistance.

But in curiosity.

And maybe envy.