Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 276: A mirror. We fix it, or it breaks us.

Chapter 276: A mirror. We fix it, or it breaks us.

Next day.

The paper wasn’t large.

One page.

Typed.

Signed at the bottom in Moreau’s fast, angular script.

Marked URGENT.

Stamped with the seal of the Élysée.

It left his desk at 06:42.

By 06:57, it was in Bonnet’s hands.

By 07:05, the Cabinet had it.

By 07:23, the military had already begun transmitting its contents under coded cipher.

The message was simple.

Same as the meeting yesterday.

"Mobilize. Reorganize. Prepare. France must function faster."

Vincent Auriol’s aide read it aloud once in his office and then sat down, suddenly pale.

"Justice commission is frozen," Auriol said. "Reassign half our clerks to identification work. Every former officer still unregistered needs to be catalogued by month’s end."

"What about trials?"

"They can wait. War won’t."

At the Ministry of Education, Jean Zay passed the note to his deputy without sitting.

"I want a school report from every province by Sunday."

"That’s impossible."

"It’s mandatory. We’re reclassifying schools in the northeast as dual-use facilities. Classrooms by day, civil shelters by night."

"Who will enforce that?"

"The teachers. Give them rations and backup stoves. Don’t ask. Inform."

At Agriculture, Mendès France read the memo, then looked out at the city from his balcony.

"Open the emergency silos."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"They’re meant for famine."

"Better fed than conquered. And put soldiers on convoys. No more delays from guilds."

Reynaud didn’t even blink when the message hit his desk.

They already knew it’s content from yesterday meeting.

This was just official.

He just picked up the phone and barked.

"Pull the reserve currency now. Issue rural credits. Suspend estate valuations."

"Sir?"

"We’re not taxing anymore. We’re stockpiling. Move."

At Interior, Mandel pulled the loyalty file from his drawer and stared at the top sheet.

"Start town hall drills in every department. One per week. Run them like fire exercises. Don’t tell them it’s for defense. Tell them it’s for function."

"Sir, that will cause panic."

"No. That will cause preparedness."

In the Navy office, Muselier read the order three times, then pointed to the map.

"Saint-Nazaire goes first. We convert drydock two into full submarine construction. Reassign engineers from Brest."

"They’re still working on maintenance."

"Then they’ll build faster."

In Lyon, General Vuillemin didn’t wait for Paris confirmation.

He grounded all training flights, rerouted fuel tankers from Marseille, and ordered a night-shift air drill.

"No formation flights. We train in combat sequence now."

The major looked up from the telegram.

"What changed?"

"The wind," Vuillemin said. "And the calendar."

The order hit Gamelin by 08:12.

He was already in uniform.

"No announcements," he told his aide. "No parades. Quiet movement. Get me ten reserve colonels. We’re building field divisions, but we don’t want them to look like it."

Delon nodded without a word.

And across the country, the order rippled.

In Reims, a small town clerk opened his mail slot and blinked at the Ministry letter.

He handed it to the mayor.

They read it once.

Then twice.

Then the mayor stood.

"Close the fairground. We’ll turn it into a drill yard."

"But the carnival is next week."

"There won’t be one."

In Brest, the dockmaster at basin six shouted across the yard.

"Clear the netting. Sub-hauls incoming. We double-crew every shift until the end of the month."

"What happened?"

"Nothing yet. That’s the point."

In Toulouse, a teacher arrived to find a uniformed officer standing in her classroom.

"You’re being requisitioned."

"For what?"

"Translation. We’re building command guides for regional dialects."

"I teach grammar."

"Now you teach clarity. We leave for the south tomorrow."

In Strasbourg, a locomotive repairman opened his paycheck and found a note folded beside the bills.

"You are now part of the Rail Readiness Corps. Effective immediately."

He handed it to his wife.

She said nothing.

She just nodded and poured more coffee.

In Paris, an architect stepped off the tram and was pulled aside by two officers.

"You submitted blueprints for reinforced shelters last month?"

"Yes."

"Report to the Interior Ministry. You’ll be drawing for the Republic now."

"But I’m freelance..."

"Now you’re national."

Everywhere, the tempo changed.

The baker in Dijon stopped selling croissants by the dozen he sold them by the hour to passing soldiers.

In Lille, posters were torn down and replaced with diagrams on how to build improvised basements.

In the National Radio Bureau, a producer read the directive and ordered all entertainment segments postponed.

"We switch to preparedness broadcasts."

The announcer blinked.

"What do I say?"

"Start with calm. End with function."

By nightfall, the printing presses in Marseille were churning out new field manuals, labeled CIVIL RESILIENCE.

No logos.

No names.

Just a tricolor stripe and the line.

"Stability is not optional."

In a village near Limoges, an old woman squinted at her grandson running home from school.

He waved a letter.

"Grandma! They said we’re learning how to make radios!"

"For what?"

"For talking to planes!"

She smiled faintly.

"They’ll teach you to listen first."

In the Ministry War Room, Bonnet watched the updates roll in.

He looked up at Moreau.

"They’re moving."

"They must."

"You think they understand?"

"They don’t need to."

Bonnet studied his face.

"You really think we’ve only got months?"

Moreau didn’t answer at first.

He turned to the map.

Pins everywhere.

Most recent.

Vienna.

"Not months. Events. Europe doesn’t measure time anymore. It measures silence. And this silence is too loud."

He tapped Spain.

"Next time, someone else will try this."

"And they won’t use bread."

"No," Moreau said. "They’ll use fire."

By the second day, the jokes had stopped.

By the third, drills were routine.

But no one protested.

Not yet.

At a rural airstrip, a mechanic stared at a shipment manifest.

"What’s this?"

The captain checked his clipboard.

"New fighter prototypes."

"We’ve never built them here."

The captain smiled.

"We do now."

At a steel mill in Metz, a foreman climbed onto a crate.

"Men," he said, voice hoarse, "we’ve been told to switch to armored plating. There’s a bonus for every metric ton over quota."

One man asked, "Who’s buying it?"

"France," the foreman said.

"And who’s it for?"

He paused.

"Us."

Moreau didn’t leave the Élysée for two days.

He met with engineers, radio technicians, linguists, farmers, munitions experts.

He skipped meals.

He kept reading.

One night, Bonnet walked into his office with two cups of black coffee.

"You have to sleep eventually."

Moreau stared at a new directive.

Integrated command response between Spanish and French field units.

"We’ve started combining officers."

"That’s dangerous," Bonnet said.

"It’s permanent."

"You said Spain wasn’t a colony."

"It isn’t."

"Then what is it?"

Moreau looked up.

"A mirror. We fix it, or it breaks us."