Chapter 17 - Chapter 17: A Mother’s Faith

The Dubois estate's drawing room was awash in the golden flicker of oil lamps, their light dancing across the velvet drapes and the polished mahogany of the mantel. The air carried the faint sweetness of Marguerite's rosewater perfume, undercut by the lingering sharpness of Henri's pipe tobacco, though he hadn't smoked tonight. Julien sat across from his parents, the coded letter Élise had found tucked safely in his pocket, its cryptic words— Moreau, factory takeover—burning in his mind. The weight of Monsieur Roche's bribe demand and Victor Moreau's growing threat pressed against him, but the memory of his past life—Antoine's death, France's ruin—drove him to keep his focus. He'd just returned from the training field with Antoine, their sparring session sharpening his friend's reflexes, but the tobacco-scented spy's shadow loomed larger than ever. Henri leaned forward in his armchair, his stern face etched with worry, his fingers drumming on the armrest. "Julien, this rifle of yours—it's stirring trouble. Roche's visit last night wasn't a courtesy call. The Ministry's sniffing around, and Moreau's got their ear. Are you sure you can handle this?" Julien met his father's gaze, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "I'm sure, Papa. The Mark I's patented, Leclerc's trial is set, and we've got ten rifles in progress. Moreau's desperate because he knows we're better. But we need to expand the factory—more workers, more tools. If we don't, he'll bury us with his connections." Henri's jaw tightened, his traditionalist heart warring with the pride flickering in his eyes. "Expand? The estate's funds are stretched thin. You're asking me to bet everything on your… invention." Marguerite, seated beside Henri, set her needlepoint aside, her calm presence like a lighthouse in a squall. "Henri, enough," she said, her voice soft but unyielding, the de facto leader of the family asserting herself. "Julien's not the boy who left for university. He's carrying a fire I haven't seen since he was a child. If he says this rifle can save us, I believe him." Her eyes, warm but piercing, locked onto Julien's. "But you're holding something back, my love. What is it?" Julien's throat tightened. Marguerite's intuition was uncanny, cutting too close to the secret of his past life and Patrick Arnaud's knowledge. He forced a smile, deflecting with the charm he'd once wielded as a playboy. "Just the weight of saving France, Maman. Nothing you need to worry about." Élise, perched on a settee, snorted, her mischief barely contained. "Oh, please, Julien. You're jumpier than a cat in a storm. Tell them about the spy—or should I?" She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming, the coded letter's discovery her latest triumph. Henri's head snapped up. "Spy? What's this nonsense?" Julien sighed, pulling the letter from his pocket and handing it to Marguerite. "Élise found this in the spy's things—the one we caught at the factory. It's coded, but it mentions Moreau and a plan to take over the factory. Roche's bribe is part of it. They're trying to choke us before Leclerc's trial." Marguerite's fingers traced the letter's scrawl, her face unreadable but her eyes sharp. "This is dangerous, Julien. Moreau's not just an arms dealer—he's a predator. And the Ministry's corruption runs deep. You need more than rifles to fight this." Henri's face darkened, his voice a low growl. "You've brought trouble to our door, Julien. I gave you a month, not a war. Why should I pour more money into this?" Julien leaned forward, his soldier's resolve blending with Arnaud's strategic clarity. "Because we're already in a war, Papa. Not with guns yet, but with money, influence, spies. If we don't expand, Moreau will crush us. The Mark I's our edge—Leclerc sees it, and the Ministry will too if we deliver. Give me the funds to hire ten more workers and upgrade the machines. I'll make it pay." Henri's eyes flicked to Marguerite, his resolve wavering under her steady gaze. She placed a hand on his arm, her voice gentle but firm. "Henri, our son's not asking for blind faith. He's shown us results—the demonstration, the patent, Leclerc's interest. We've lost too much to doubt him now. Let him try." The room fell silent, the crackle of the fire loud in the stillness. Henri rubbed his temples, his voice gruff but softer. "You're too much like your mother, Julien—stubborn. Fine. I'll free up funds for ten workers and new tools. But if this fails, we're done. No more gambles." Julien's chest loosened, relief mixing with determination. "You won't regret it, Papa." He glanced at Marguerite, her nod a quiet promise of support, and at Élise, whose grin said she was already plotting her next move. As Henri stood to retire, Marguerite lingered, pulling Julien aside. "You're fighting for more than the family, aren't you?" she whispered, her eyes searching his. "I see it in you—a weight no boy should carry. Whatever it is, Julien, you don't have to face it alone." Julien swallowed, the truth of his past life—Antoine's blood, France's fall—too heavy to share. "I know, Maman. But I need to do this. For all of us." He kissed her cheek, her rosewater scent grounding him, and headed to his study. There, Élise followed, her voice low. "I cracked part of the code," she said, handing him a scrap of paper. "It's not just Moreau. Someone higher up—'the patron'—is pulling strings. They want the factory, and they're not waiting." Julien's blood chilled, his hand tightening on the paper. The tobacco scent, the spy, Roche's bribe—now this. The net was tightening, and Leclerc's trial was his only shot to break free. But as he glanced out the window, a flicker of movement caught his eye—a shadow by the stables, cigarette glowing briefly before vanishing. The fight was coming to him, and he wasn't ready. Not yet.