The Paris patent office loomed like a fortress of bureaucracy, its stone facade streaked with rain as Julien and Antoine stepped from their carriage into the bustling street. The air was thick with the scent of wet cobblestones and coal smoke, the city's pulse a chaotic mix of clattering hooves and vendors' shouts. Julien clutched his satchel, the Mark I's patent application and blueprint safely inside, his heart pounding with the urgency of Élise's message—Spy caught. Rough sketch stolen. Hurry. The tobacco-scented Gaston, now in custody at the estate, had already sent a crude copy of the rifle's design to Victor Moreau, but Julien was one step ahead. If he secured the patent today, Moreau's knockoffs would be worthless.
Antoine adjusted his coat, his usual grin tight with nerves. "Philippe's waiting inside," he said, nodding toward the office. "He'll rush the filing, but Moreau's got friends here too. We need to move fast."
Julien nodded, his soldier's instincts sharp from his past life. "If Moreau's got a sketch, he'll try to beat us to the punch. But it's incomplete—he can't replicate the gas system without my notes." He patted the satchel, his voice steady despite the weight of the threat. "Let's bury him."
Inside, the office buzzed with clerks shuffling papers, the air heavy with ink and dust. Philippe, Antoine's cousin, a lanky man with ink-stained fingers and a harried expression, met them at a side desk. "You're cutting it close, Antoine," he muttered, glancing at Julien's satchel. "Word's out—someone's been asking about rifle patents. Not naming names, but it smells like Moreau."
Julien slid the application across the desk, his voice low. "File this now, Philippe. The Dubois Mark I—full schematics, gas-operated mechanism, ten-round magazine. No one gets a look until it's sealed."
Philippe nodded, skimming the documents with practiced speed. "Impressive. I'll stamp it by noon, but keep your eyes open. Moreau's man was here yesterday, sniffing around." He disappeared into a back room, leaving Julien and Antoine to exchange a glance.
"Yesterday?" Julien said, his jaw tightening. "He's moving faster than I thought."
Antoine leaned closer, his voice a whisper. "If he's got a sketch, he'll try to pass it off as his own. But without the details, it's just a drawing. Right?"
"Right," Julien said, but doubt gnawed at him. Moreau's resources—factories, Ministry connections—could turn a rough sketch into a crude knockoff, enough to sway buyers who didn't know better. He needed to expose Moreau's fraud publicly, and soon.
By mid-afternoon, the patent was filed, a stamped receipt in Julien's hand as they left the office. The rain had stopped, leaving Paris gleaming under a weak sun. Antoine clapped his shoulder, his grin returning. "One step closer, mon ami. Now what? Back to the estate?" "Not yet," Julien said, his eyes scanning the street. A man in a low cap lingered across the road, his cigarette's glow flickering before he turned away. Tobacco scent, faint but unmistakable. "We need to know what Moreau's planning. Let's visit Leclerc—see if he's heard anything."
They found General Leclerc at a café near the Ministry of War, its air thick with coffee and cigar smoke. The general sat at a corner table, his gray mustache bristling as he read a newspaper. He looked up as they approached, his flinty eyes softening slightly. "Dubois, Lefèvre," he said, folding the paper. "Your rifle's the talk of Paris. But so is Moreau. He's hosting a demonstration tomorrow—says he's got a 'new' rifle to show the Ministry. Claims it's better than yours."
Julien's blood ran cold, but he kept his face calm, channeling Patrick Arnaud's strategic cool. "A knockoff," he said. "He stole a rough sketch of my Mark I. It won't work—his version's missing the gas system's specs. Let me attend his demonstration. I'll prove it's a sham."
Leclerc's eyes narrowed, a spark of respect flickering. "Bold move, boy. If you're right, you'll humiliate him. If you're wrong, you're finished. You in?"
"Absolutely," Julien said, his grin sharp. "I'll bring the Mark I. Let's see how his toy stacks up."
The next day, a crowd gathered at a Ministry testing ground, a muddy field ringed by officers and bureaucrats. Moreau stood at the center, his mustache waxed to perfection, a gleaming rifle in his hands—a crude imitation of the Mark I, its lines clumsy, its magazine bulky. He smirked at Julien, who stood with Antoine and Leclerc, the real Mark I cradled in his arms.
"Gentlemen," Moreau began, his voice booming, "my rifle surpasses the Lebel in every way— fast, light, reliable. Watch and see." He raised the weapon, aiming at a target fifty yards out. The first shot fired, a loud crack, but the second jammed, the bolt sticking with a grinding screech. Moreau's face reddened as he fumbled, the crowd murmuring.
Julien stepped forward, his voice carrying. "Having trouble, Monsieur Moreau? Maybe because your 'design' is a stolen sketch, missing the heart of my Mark I." He raised his rifle, firing ten rounds in a smooth, rapid burst, each hitting the target's center. The crowd gasped, then cheered, officers clapping as Moreau's face twisted in fury.
Leclerc stepped up, his voice cutting through the noise. "Enough, Moreau. Your rifle's a failure. Dubois, you've got my attention. We'll talk contracts tomorrow."
As the crowd dispersed, Moreau stormed over, his voice a hiss. "You think this is over, boy? You've made an enemy today."
Julien met his gaze, his smile cold. "Good. I fight better with enemies." But as Moreau stalked away, Julien caught the tobacco scent again, faint but close. The spy was here, watching, and the victory felt like a spark in a powder keg. He'd won this round, but the war was just beginning.