Chapter 584: Riding the Tiger
Paris City Hall – Prime Minister's Office
When Clemenceau entered the room, he was surprised to see Briand pacing back and forth with uncharacteristic agitation behind his desk.
Briand, famous in political circles for his calm demeanor, was visibly disturbed.
"Is it because of what happened in Jambes, Prime Minister?" Clemenceau asked lightly, removing his coat, hat, and cane, and handing them off to his secretary.
Briand stopped and turned to look at Clemenceau, choosing not to answer the question directly.
"You don't seem too concerned."
Clemenceau poured himself a glass of red wine, took a seat on the sofa, and replied casually:
"I see no reason to panic. If Charles really orchestrated this, we can just use it to bring him before Parliament. This would be the perfect chance to remove him as commander of the Sixth Army Group."
True, Charles had acted flawlessly. Parliament couldn't find a shred of evidence linking him to the so-called "incident."
But this was Parliament—not a court. It didn't operate on evidence. It only needed justification. If necessary, a spoonful of washing powder could pass for proof of mass destruction.
"You're insane." Briand cut him off sharply.
"Do you even understand the consequences?"
"What consequences?" Clemenceau spread his hands.
"I admit Charles has influence in Parliament, but compared to us, it's insignificant."
He wasn't entirely wrong. Parliament, in theory, was elected by the people. But in practice, the cabinet could buy off MPs one by one to secure any decision it wanted.
Both Clemenceau and Briand had once been such MPs.
(Note: Briand, founder of the French Socialist Party, had supported labor strikes and even argued for the legal existence of the Communist Party. But once in power, he switched sides and helped capitalists suppress those same strikes, eventually being expelled from his own party. Clemenceau had a similar journey. This was standard practice: working-class representatives would be bought by elite interests. Those who refused were sidelined or destroyed.)
Briand let out a sarcastic laugh.
"You really think we can settle this with a vote?"
"What else is there?" Clemenceau asked.
"Worst case, we use the newspapers. Leak it all: Charles is encouraging soldiers to kill their own officers. It's treason. That'll destroy his public image—no question."
"Foolish," Briand snapped.
Clemenceau winced at the bluntness. Even if Briand disagreed, there was no need for insults.
But the intensity of Briand's reaction made Clemenceau wonder — was he losing his cool?
Briand sat opposite him, rubbing his temple with visible frustration.
"Have you even considered what the army's reaction will be if we go public with this?"
Clemenceau raised an eyebrow.
"You think they'll mutiny again?"
"No." Briand shook his head.
"They won't mutiny. But they'll continue enforcing their own unspoken laws. And with increasing fervor. That's even more dangerous."
Now Clemenceau began to grasp the weight of the situation.
A mutiny was visible, and could be negotiated. The soldiers wanted food, rest, and fair leadership. If those were provided, the unrest could be defused.
But these new "unspoken rules" were invisible.
On a battlefield riddled with bullets and shrapnel, if a disliked officer was shot in the back, who could say whether it was an accident or assassination?
Even if the government wanted to prosecute someone, there would be no evidence, no suspect—only more and more "mysterious deaths."
"This would give Charles absolute control over the army," Briand said gravely, pointing into the air for emphasis.
"Not just the Sixth Army. Every army. No one could stand against him."
Briand's frustration boiled over.
Clemenceau, he thought, was a master of political brawls in Parliament. He had overthrown eighteen cabinets, earning the nickname "the king slayer."
(Note: Clemenceau served twice as Prime Minister, but had orchestrated the fall of many governments before his own tenure.)
But he didn't understand the military. He didn't see that a man like Charles couldn't be crushed with spin and threats.
"Besides," Briand continued, "Charles won the Battle of the Somme. Then we immediately stripped him of real command. If the public finds out, how many generals will still side with us?"
Clemenceau fell silent.
"They'll worry they'll be the next Charles."
Briand gave a small nod.
"Exactly. So we cannot discuss this in Parliament. We must not let it reach the newspapers. It must stay buried."
There was something Briand didn't mention — or perhaps hadn't realized:
New recruits didn't yet know about the "unspoken rule."
So even if they were mistreated, it would never occur to them that there was a way to fight back.
But if Parliament made it public—even as negative propaganda—that knowledge would spread like wildfire.
Then every soldier who felt resentment would suddenly know exactly what to do.
This phenomenon had existed in every army, in every country, throughout history.
And in every case, it was met with silence.
Clemenceau's instincts were to fight it openly. But in this case, his heavy-handed approach would backfire.
Briand was starting to think: Perhaps we've pushed Charles too far.
Perhaps they had forced him into open confrontation, leaving him no room to compromise—and themselves no room to retreat.
Still, something had to be done.
"But we can't just do nothing," Clemenceau said at last.
"If we let this go, Charles will have full control of the Sixth Army."
Briand nodded. That was the biggest headache. He, too, regretted underestimating Charles's political mind. Everyone had assumed the boy was just good at engineering and battlefields.
But clearly, that wasn't the case.
"There's only one option left," Briand said through clenched teeth.
"We hand this off to the Northern Army Group and the British.
Tell them the Sixth Army is showing signs of mutiny again."
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