The Dubois estate's library was a sanctuary of leather-bound books and flickering candlelight, the air heavy with the scent of aged paper and wax. Julien sat at a heavy oak table, the prototype rifle's blueprint spread before him, its lines now familiar but no less urgent. The triumph of yesterday's demonstration—humiliating Victor Moreau with the Mark I's flawless performance—still buzzed in his veins, but the shadow of the tobaccoscented spy and the threatening note tempered his victory. Élise's warning about the figure in the crowd, slipping away during the test, gnawed at him. Someone was watching, and now, with General Leclerc's arrival imminent, the stakes were climbing.
Antoine lounged across from him, his boots propped on a chair, a glass of brandy glinting in his hand. His easy grin belied the tension Julien sensed in his friend's shoulders. "You're brooding again, Julien," Antoine said, swirling his drink. "That rifle of yours made Moreau look like a fool. Enjoy it. Leclerc's coming tomorrow—he'll love it."
Julien's lips twitched, but his eyes stayed on the blueprint. "Leclerc's one man. Moreau's got the Ministry's ear, and someone's feeding him information. That spy in the crowd—Élise saw him. Same tobacco as the note."
Antoine's grin faded, his boots hitting the floor. "You're sure it's not just nerves? You've been jumpy since you started this. Not that I blame you—Moreau's a snake."
"Not nerves," Julien said, his voice low. He pulled the crumpled note from his pocket, sliding it across the table. Keep your secrets close, Dubois, or they'll bury you. "This wasn't a prank. Someone knows I'm… different."
Antoine's eyes narrowed as he read the note, his fingers tightening on the glass. "This is serious, Julien. You think Moreau's behind it?"
"Or someone using him," Julien said, leaning back, his mind racing. In his past life, he'd seen espionage in the trenches—double agents, stolen plans, lives lost over a single betrayal. Patrick Arnaud's knowledge gave him an edge, but it also made him a target. "We need Leclerc on our side. If he backs the Mark I, we can push for production before Moreau shuts us down."
A soft knock interrupted them, and Élise slipped in, her hair loose from its usual braid, her eyes bright with purpose. "Hope I'm not crashing your war council," she said, plopping into a chair. "Maman's fussing about dinner, but I heard something you'll want to know. One of the maids saw a man by the stables again—same cap, same tobacco stink. He was asking about you, Julien."
Julien's stomach twisted, but he kept his face calm. "Did she get a name?"
"No, but he mentioned Paris," Élise said, her voice low. "Said he was 'checking on the boy genius' for a friend. Sounded like trouble."
Before Julien could respond, the library door swung open, and General Leclerc strode in, unannounced. Tall and broad, with a gray mustache and eyes like flint, he carried the weight of a man who'd seen battle and loathed its waste. Henri followed, his face a mix of pride and unease, and Marguerite, ever the diplomat, offered a warm smile.
"Monsieur Dubois," Leclerc said, his voice gravelly as he nodded at Julien. "Your father says you've got something worth my time. That demonstration yesterday stirred up talk— Moreau's spitting venom, but I hear your rifle's the real thing. Show me."
Julien stood, his heart pounding but his soldier's instincts steady. "General, thank you for coming. The Mark I's not just a rifle—it's a game-changer. Ten rounds, fast, reliable. But it's more than that. Germany's arming up, and we're not ready. I've got intelligence—" He caught himself, Arnaud's knowledge flashing warnings of 1914. "I mean, I've studied patterns. Their factories are churning out weapons. We need to match them."
Leclerc's eyes sharpened, and he leaned forward. "Intelligence, you say? Speak plainly, boy. What do you know?"
Julien hesitated, the weight of his future knowledge a dangerous burden. He couldn't reveal too much, not yet. "I know Germany's building machine guns, better rifles, and they're not slowing down. My sources—books, university contacts—point to a war coming, maybe in three years. The Mark I can give us an edge, but we need to scale up now."
Henri frowned, but Leclerc nodded slowly. "You're not the first to say it. My men in Berlin report the same—Krupp's factories are working overtime. But the Ministry's complacent, and Moreau's got their ear, promising cheap Lebels. Why should I trust your rifle over his?"
Julien unrolled the blueprint, pointing to the gas system. "Because this works. You saw it yesterday—ten shots, no jams, lighter than anything else. Let me build a hundred, test them in the field. If they fail, I'm done. But if they work, France wins."
Leclerc studied the blueprint, his fingers tracing the lines. "Bold. Maybe too bold. But I like your fire. I'll arrange a trial with the Ministry, but you'll need more than one rifle. Can you deliver?"
"Give me two months," Julien said, his voice steady. "I'll have ten ready for testing."
Leclerc grunted, a faint smile breaking through. "Done. But watch your back, Dubois. Moreau doesn't take kindly to upstarts."
As Leclerc and Henri stepped out to discuss details, Marguerite lingered, her hand on Julien's arm. "You're carrying too much, my love," she said softly. "What aren't you telling us?"
Julien forced a smile, dodging her gaze. "Just trying to save the family, Maman." But her eyes held his, seeing too much.
Antoine clapped his shoulder, breaking the moment. "You're a madman, Julien, but Leclerc's hooked. Let's celebrate—my treat, no alleys this time."
Julien laughed, but his eyes flicked to Élise, who nodded subtly. The spy was still out there, and now Leclerc's interest made him a bigger target. As they left the library, a faint whiff of tobacco drifted from the hallway, gone as quickly as it came. Julien's hand brushed the knife in his pocket. The war wasn't here yet, but the battle had already begun.