Reincarnated: Vive La France

The restaurant wasn't the kind of place where officers usually gathered.

It was a small, unassuming bistro tucked into the side of a quiet street, just a short walk from the Seine.

The air inside smelled of buttered escargots, roasted duck, and red wine the kind of warmth and indulgence that made men forget, for a moment, that the world outside was crumbling.

Moreau sat across from Renaud, his coat draped over the chair, his fork idly pushing a piece of veal across his plate.

He should have been hungry, but his mind was elsewhere.

"You haven't even touched your food,"

Renaud muttered, slicing through his steak with the precision of a man who had learned to savor the rare moments of good living.

Moreau smirked faintly, picking up his glass. "I'm eating."

"No, you're thinking."

Moreau took a sip of wine instead of answering.

Renaud shook his head. "We should be celebrating. You just walked out of that hearing without so much as a reprimand. You survived."

Moreau exhaled. "For now."

Renaud scoffed. "Merde. You really can't enjoy a moment, can you?"

Before Moreau could reply, a shadow fell over the table.

A young soldier stood at attention, his uniform crisp, his expression carefully neutral. "Capitaine Moreau?"

Moreau set his glass down. "Yes?"

The soldier hesitated before speaking. "Colonel Lemoine requests your presence. Upstairs."

Renaud raised an eyebrow, looking between Moreau and the soldier. "That didn't take long."

Moreau wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood. "Enjoy the rest of your meal."

Renaud smirked. "Don't start a war without me."

Moreau followed the soldier toward the upper rooms of the restaurant, past the main dining hall, up a narrow wooden staircase.

The sound of laughter and music faded behind him, replaced by the soft creak of floorboards and the distant noise of the city outside.

At the end of the hallway, a single door stood slightly ajar.

The soldier knocked once. "Capitaine Moreau is here, sir."

A voice from inside. "Let him in."

The soldier stepped aside. Moreau entered.

The room was small, dimly lit by a single oil lamp on the desk.

Colonel Lemoine sat in a leather chair, a glass of brandy in his hand, a cigar burning in an ashtray nearby.

He looked up as Moreau entered, his expression unreadable.

"Sit down, Captain."

Moreau took the chair opposite him, waiting.

Lemoine swirled the brandy in his glass, watching it as though it held the answers to something greater.

"You know," he began, his tone casual, almost conversational, "there was a time when this country belonged to men of action. Not politicians, not bureaucrats men who knew how to bend the world to their will."

Moreau said nothing.

This wasn't about politics.

It was a test.

Lemoine leaned forward slightly. "There was once a soldier. Young. Ambitious. He was brilliant, of course. But intelligence alone was not what set him apart. No, it was something else."

He took a slow sip of his drink.

"This man had no great family name to rely on. No powerful allies. And yet, within a few years, he had every general, every politician, every king watching him. Not because of his rank, but because of his reputation."

Lemoine looked directly at Moreau now, his gaze sharp. "Do you know what made him so dangerous?"

Moreau held his stare. "He understood people."

Lemoine smiled faintly. "Exactly." He set the glass down.

"He did not lecture men. He did not debate them. He did not waste time convincing them that he was right. He made them believe it on their own."

Moreau remained silent, letting the words settle.

Lemoine exhaled. "And so, he rose. Not just through battle, but through charm, through presence, through the force of reputation. He did not need to prove himself with words his name carried more weight than his arguments ever could."

A beat of silence.

Then Lemoine leaned back, resting his hands on the armrests. "Tell me, Captain. Do you think you are as charming as him?"

Moreau's lips curled into a smirk. "I wouldn't know, sir. You haven't given me much of a chance to charm you yet."

Lemoine chuckled, shaking his head. "Clever. But cleverness is not enough."

His tone turned sharper. "You're intelligent, Moreau. That much is obvious. But intelligence is present. Reputation is future."

He picked up his cigar, rolling it between his fingers. "You may be right about the army. About doctrine. About what's coming. But tell me why should anyone follow you?"

Moreau exhaled through his nose. "Because I'm right."

Lemoine let out a low laugh. "Ah. And you think that's enough?"

Moreau's smirk faded slightly.

Lemoine nodded, as if confirming something. "That soldier the one I was telling you about he was right, too. But the world didn't follow him because of that. It followed him because he made them believe in him, not just in his ideas."

Lemoine leaned forward, his eyes locked on Moreau.

"That man's name was Napoléon Bonaparte."

The name hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Moreau didn't move, but he felt the seriousness of the conversation shift.

Lemoine tilted his head slightly. "Do you think you're as reputable as Napoléon?"

Moreau met his gaze, thinking carefully. He could say no.

He could say yes.

But both answers would be the wrong ones.

So instead, he said, "Not yet."

Lemoine smiled slightly, as if that was the answer he had been waiting for.

He sat back. "Good. Then you understand the real challenge ahead of you."

Moreau exhaled slowly. "I take it this conversation isn't just about history."

Lemoine smirked. "Everything is about history, Captain. You just have to know where to look."

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, Lemoine picked up his glass again. "You're dismissed."

Moreau stood, giving a sharp salute before turning toward the door.

Just as he reached it, Lemoine spoke again. "Moreau."

Moreau paused.

Lemoine took a slow sip of brandy, then said, almost lazily, "Try not to lose your head before you even get a chance to build your legend."

Moreau smirked. "I'll do my best, sir."