I Became a Tycoon During World War I: Saving France from the Start

Chapter 21: Left and Right

Grevi had never felt so exhilarated. It was as though the doors of opportunity had swung wide open for him once again. His excitement was so intense that he traveled through the night by carriage to Armand's estate.

"What's going on, Grevi?" Armand appeared in his robe, and the sounds of a few women laughing carefreely drifted from the bedroom behind him.

Grevi didn't bat an eye—he was long accustomed to Armand's peculiar habits.

"Our forces defeated the Germans at Davaz, Armand!" Grevi announced, barely able to contain his enthusiasm.

"Oh?" Armand sauntered over to the bar, poured two glasses of wine with practiced ease, and handed one to Grevi. He took a measured sip from his own glass and responded coolly, "And what of it?"

"They beat them with only a few hundred soldiers! Three hundred, to be precise!" Grevi waved his arms in the air as if commanding troops in battle.

Armand slouched lazily on the couch and replied, "So you came here in the dead of night to tell me the story of 300 Spartans defeating the Persian army?"

Three hundred German soldiers defeating thousands of French? Sure, that was possible. But three hundred French soldiers defeating thousands of Germans? That belonged in fairy tales.

"It's true!" Grevi insisted, grabbing Armand's shoulders and shaking him. "Wake up, Armand! You have no idea what's happening out there! The story is all over France. It's about a young man named Charles—he's invented something called a tank!"

Armand's eyes widened with interest. After a brief pause, he said, "And what does this have to do with us? Are you telling me the Left is about to gain another advantage?"

The Left was dominated by the rising capitalist class—industrialists who controlled banks, factories, and machinery. The Right, on the other hand, represented the old capitalists, mostly aristocrats and landowners. Though wealthy, they wielded little influence in society and had been consistently outmaneuvered in the National Assembly.

It was clear that this "tank" belonged to the sort of innovations supported by the rising capitalist Left.

Grevi sighed, casting a disappointed look at Armand. "Think about it, Armand. We've been losing ground to the Left for ages. And why is that?"

Armand led the royalist party, while Grevi headed the Bonapartists. Though technically rivals due to their conflicting visions of imperial rule, both factions fell under the Right's banner. Constantly overshadowed and marginalized by the Left, they had been forced to band together as allies.

Armand sank back into the couch, too weary even to sit up properly. He tilted his wine glass and replied, "What could we possibly do? The Left has machines that churn out rifles and artillery, and they control the military. All we have are farmers and their tools."

"But what if we had tanks?" Grevi prompted. "What if we had this machine that allowed three hundred men to defeat thousands of German elite soldiers?"

Armand sat up suddenly, as if struck by lightning. He set down his glass, considered the idea, and finally nodded. "You're right, Grevi. This could be our chance to gain the upper hand. With tanks, we wouldn't need large numbers or expensive weapons. We could finally match the Left's power."

"That's exactly what I'm saying!" Grevi snapped his fingers. "This is our opportunity to rise again, Armand—perhaps our only chance!"

"But…" Armand hesitated. "The Left… they must understand the importance of this equipment too, right?"

"Which is why I came to you," Grevi replied. "We need to pool our resources and use all the wealth at our disposal to secure the tank's industrial patent. The army needs tanks, and this will increase our influence over the military."

Armand's eyes gleamed with renewed fervor, like a long-extinguished flame rekindled. Only those who had faced years of marginalization could understand this feeling—the bitterness of being sidelined, watching helplessly as the world moved on. It was a sorrow that wealth alone couldn't alleviate—a despair rooted in powerlessness and humiliation.

But now, a glimmer of hope had appeared. All that remained was to seize it.

…

"500,000 francs!"

That was Grevi and Armand's opening bid to Francis.

Francis was stunned. Half a million francs was a tenth of what his tractor factory was worth. And that was only their starting offer.

Are tanks really worth that much?

A pang of jealousy rose in Francis's heart. He had spent his entire life building up the tractor factory, while Charles had cobbled a few pieces of steel together like a child's toy, and now it was worth a tenth of the entire factory?

But ever the seasoned businessman, Francis kept his feelings concealed. He adopted a look of reluctant consideration and said, "Gentlemen, this equipment can help win wars and lead France to victory. Let's not forget that just forty years ago, the Franco-Prussian War cost us fifty billion francs in reparations alone."

"Today, tanks could help us win the war, protect France's honor, and secure countless lives and priceless assets. Wouldn't all of this be worth more than 500,000 francs?"

Francis casually refilled their glasses, his movements unhurried. As he set the bottle down, he added, "I believe Crosway might also be interested in this innovation."

Crosway was the leader of the Radical Party on the Left.

Francis knew how to provoke these two Right-wing nobles. As expected, Grevi and Armand exchanged anxious glances.

"600,000 francs. No more than that," Grevi said, his voice firm.

Francis resisted the urge to smirk. He knew he could get even more—perhaps as much as 800,000 francs. That lucky little brat.

Of course, Francis had no intention of letting that money fall directly into Charles's lap.

But what excuse could he use?

At that moment, the butler, Simon, leaned in to whisper something in Francis's ear. Francis excused himself. "Gentlemen, I apologize, but there's a matter I need to attend to. You can continue discussing the details with Pierre."

"Of course." Grevi and Armand rose politely, feeling an odd sense of relief. Negotiating with Pierre would be far easier than with Francis.

To Grevi and Armand's surprise, however, Francis soon returned, looking like he'd just seen a ghost. Following him were two individuals: a middle-aged man and a young boy, dressed in worn, ill-fitting clothes that gave them a shabby appearance.

"Gentlemen," Francis said, his face a mask of resignation, "allow me to introduce you. This is Derek, and his son, Charles."

"Charles?" Grevi leapt to his feet. "The young man who invented the tank?"

"Yes," Francis replied, nodding. "They hold the tank's industrial patent."

Once the patent was formally registered, there would be no way to bypass Charles or his guardian, Derek, in any negotiations.

Derek felt an immense sense of relief. Thank goodness Charles had the foresight to register the patent just in time.

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