Chapter 5 - Chapter 5: The Family Divide

The late morning sun cast long shadows across the Dubois estate's sprawling lawn, where Julien stood, the cryptic note from his window crumpled in his fist. The air was crisp, laced with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil from the nearby fields and the faint tang of coal smoke drifting from the factory a mile away. His heart still raced from the note's threat— Keep your secrets close, Dubois, or they'll bury you—but he shoved it into his pocket, forcing his mind to the task at hand. The factory. The rifle. France's future. He had one month to convince his father, and the shadow of an unknown enemy only sharpened his resolve. Inside the estate's drawing room, Julien faced his family, the tension as thick as the velvet drapes framing the tall windows. Henri sat in a high-backed chair, his posture rigid, the lines of his face etched deeper by skepticism. Marguerite stood by the fireplace, her hands clasped, her calm presence a quiet anchor. Élise lounged on a settee, her eyes darting between Julien and their father, a half-smile betraying her excitement. Antoine, invited to bolster Julien's case, leaned against a bookcase, his casual air masking the sharp interest Julien knew he felt. Julien cleared his throat, holding up a rolled blueprint. "Papa, Maman, I know this sounds mad, but hear me out. Our tractor factory is bleeding money—taxes, upkeep, competition. We can't keep up. But weapons—modern, efficient ones—could make us untouchable. I've designed a semi-automatic rifle, better than the Lebel, and a light machine gun to replace the Chauchat's flaws. In three years, France will need them. I can make it happen." Henri's eyes narrowed, his voice low and clipped. "You're asking me to abandon a century of Dubois tradition for a gamble. Tractors are honest work. Guns are for mercenaries." He leaned forward, his knuckles white on the chair's arms. "You're a scholar, Julien, not a gunsmith. What makes you think you can do this?" Julien's jaw tightened, memories of his past life—his leg gone, France in ruins—flashing like gunfire. "Because I know, Papa. I've studied every rifle in the armory, every failure in the field. The Lebel's too slow, too heavy. My design fires faster, weighs less, costs half to produce. Give me the factory, and I'll prove it." Élise clapped, her voice bright. "See, Papa? Julien's not just dreaming—he's got plans! Let him try. What's the worst that happens? We make a few guns, and I get to shoot one?" Her grin was impish, but her eyes flicked to Julien, urging him on. Marguerite stepped forward, her voice soft but commanding attention. "Henri, our son is no fool. He was the pride of Paris, and he's asking for a chance to save us. The estate's debts are mounting—you know this. If Julien believes in this, I believe in him." Her gaze met Julien's, warm but searching, as if she sensed the weight of his unspoken past. Henri's face softened at her words, but his skepticism held. "Marguerite, you indulge him too much. And you, Julien—where's the money for this? The factory's stretched thin. Investors won't back a boy's whim." Antoine stepped forward, his voice smooth as polished oak. "That's where I come in, Monsieur Dubois. My father knows men in Paris—bankers, generals, even a minister or two. If Julien's designs are as good as he claims, I can get us a meeting. But he needs something to show them. One prototype, that's all." Julien shot Antoine a grateful look, then unrolled the blueprint on the table, revealing the semi­automatic rifle's sleek lines. "This is it. Gas-operated, ten-round magazine, light enough for a soldier to carry all day. I can build one in a month with the factory's tools. If it works, we convert production. If it fails, I'll stop." Henri studied the blueprint, his frown deepening. "And if you fail, we lose what little we have left. The factory's our lifeline, Julien. You're asking me to bet it on a sketch." "It's not just a sketch," Julien said, his voice rising. "It's a future. France is sleepwalking into a war it can't win with outdated weapons. I can change that. Let me try, or we'll lose everything anyway." The room fell silent, the crackle of the fireplace loud in the stillness. Élise leaned forward, her voice teasing but sharp. "Papa, you always say we're Dubois—proud, unbreakable. Let Julien prove it. Or are you afraid he'll outshine you?" Henri's eyes flashed, but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "You're as bold as your mother, girl." He looked at Marguerite, then back at Julien. "One prototype. One month. But if you waste our resources, you'll answer to me." Julien nodded, his chest tight with relief and determination. "You won't regret this, Papa." Marguerite touched his arm, her voice low. "I know you'll make us proud, Julien. But be careful. Ambition draws enemies." Her words echoed the note in his pocket, chilling him. As the family dispersed, Antoine lingered, clapping Julien's shoulder. "You're crazier than I thought, but I like it. Let's make that rifle sing. And maybe name it after me, eh?" Julien laughed, the sound lighter than he felt. "Keep dreaming, poet. It's a Dubois." But as Antoine grinned and headed out, Julien's hand brushed the note in his pocket. He slipped into the hallway, checking for shadows. The tobacco scent was gone, but the threat lingered. Someone knew he was different—maybe too different. He needed to move fast, starting with the factory. But first, he'd check the grounds. If someone was watching, he'd find them before they struck. As he stepped outside, a glint of metal caught his eye near the stables—a cigarette butt, still smoldering. Not Antoine's. Julien's blood ran cold. The game was getting dangerous, and he wasn't ready. Not yet.