Chapter 4 - Chapter 4: A Vow to Change

The dining room of the Dubois estate glowed with the soft warmth of morning light, filtering through heavy velvet curtains to dance on the polished mahogany table. The air carried the rich aroma of fresh croissants, buttery and warm, mingling with the sharp tang of coffee and the faint floral notes of Marguerite's rosewater perfume. Julien sat across from Antoine, his fork pausing mid-air as he watched his friend tear into a pastry with the enthusiasm of a man who'd never known death. The sight was a balm to Julien's fractured soul, but the shadow he'd glimpsed in the hallway—a flicker of movement, too deliberate for a servant— gnawed at him. He forced his focus back to the table, where his family and Antoine bantered over breakfast. Élise, perched beside their mother, was mid-story, her hands waving as she recounted a prank she'd played on the stableboy. "And then he tripped right into the hay bale, thinking it was a ghost!" she said, her laugh bright and infectious. Marguerite, elegant in a cream blouse, smiled indulgently, while Henri, at the head of the table, frowned over his newspaper, his mustache twitching with disapproval. "Élise, must you torment the staff?" Henri said, his voice stern but softened by the faintest hint of amusement. "You're not a child anymore." "Oh, Papa, I'm keeping them sharp," Élise retorted, tossing a curl over her shoulder. "Besides, Julien's the one plotting something mad, aren't you, brother?" Her eyes locked onto his, gleaming with that fox-like cunning. Julien froze, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. Antoine raised an eyebrow, smirking, while Marguerite tilted her head, her gaze warm but probing. Henri lowered his paper, his stern eyes narrowing. "Plotting?" he said. "What's this now, Julien? Another of your university fancies?" The room felt smaller, the weight of their stares pressing against Julien's resolve. In his past life, he'd dodged these moments, deflecting with charm or drowning them in wine. But now, with Patrick Arnaud's knowledge burning in his mind and the memory of France's war-torn future, he couldn't afford to falter. He set down his cup, the clink loud in the sudden quiet, and leaned forward. "Not a fancy, Papa," he said, his voice steady. "A plan. The factory—our tractors—they're not enough. The world's changing, and we're falling behind. I want to build weapons. Rifles, machine guns, better than anything France has now. Weapons to protect us, to make the Dubois name mean something again." Henri's face darkened, his knuckles whitening around the newspaper. "Weapons? You'd throw away our legacy for guns? We're farmers, Julien, not warmongers." "Farmers who can't pay the estate's taxes," Julien shot back, sharper than he intended. Marguerite's hand tensed on her napkin, but she didn't interrupt. "The aristocracy is dying, Papa. You know it. I can save us, but it starts with the factory. I've got designs—new ones, better than the Lebel, cheaper to make, faster to fire." Élise's eyes widened, a grin tugging at her lips. "You're serious," she said, leaning forward. "What kind of rifles? Like the ones in those adventure novels?" Julien chuckled, grateful for her spark. "Better than novels, little fox. Think a rifle that can fire ten rounds without reloading, light enough for a soldier to carry all day. And a machine gun that won't jam every five shots, unlike the junk they're testing now." Antoine whistled, leaning back in his chair. "You've been busy, haven't you? But why weapons, Julien? You think war's coming?" Julien's throat tightened. He saw the trenches, the mud, the screams of 1914. "I know it is," he said quietly. "And when it comes, France won't be ready unless we act now." Henri scoffed, tossing his paper onto the table. "War talk is for generals, not boys. You're nineteen, Julien. Your job is to study, not play soldier." "Henri," Marguerite said softly, her voice like a velvet glove over steel. "Let him speak. He's not the boy who left for university last year. Look at him." Her eyes, soft but piercing, met Julien's, and he felt a surge of gratitude. She saw it—the change, the fire, even if she didn't understand it. Julien seized the moment. "Papa, I'm not playing. I graduated top of my class. I know machines, and I know what's coming. Let me prove it. Give me one month—one month to show you a prototype. If it fails, I'll go back to tractors. But if I'm right, we could save the family and France." The room fell silent, the only sound the distant clink of a servant's tray in the hall. Henri's jaw worked, his traditionalist heart warring with the spark of pride in his son's eyes. Antoine leaned forward, his voice low. "I'm with you, Julien. My family's got connections—investors, maybe even the Ministry of War. But you'd better have something worth showing." Élise clapped her hands, startling everyone. "Oh, this is going to be fun! Papa, you can't say no. Julien's going to make us famous!" Henri's gaze flicked to Marguerite, who gave a slight nod. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "One month, Julien. But if this fails, you're done with this nonsense. Understood?" "Understood," Julien said, his heart racing. He glanced at Antoine, then Élise, their faces alight with excitement. But Marguerite's eyes held something else—concern, as if she sensed the weight of secrets he carried. As breakfast ended, Julien excused himself, claiming a need to sketch. In his room, he locked the door, his mind racing. The rifle design was clear, but he needed more— materials, workers, and a way to convince skeptics. He pulled out his sketches, adding notes from Arnaud's knowledge: steel alloys for durability, a gas-operated mechanism for speed. But the shadow in the hallway haunted him. Someone was watching, and he'd bet his new life it wasn't a friend. A soft tap at the window made him jump. He turned, expecting a bird, but saw a folded note wedged in the frame. Heart pounding, he retrieved it, the paper rough and smelling faintly of tobacco—the same scent from the hallway. Unfolding it, he read a single line in sharp, unfamiliar script: "Keep your secrets close, Dubois, or they'll bury you." Julien's blood ran cold. Someone knew he was different. But who? And how?