Chapter 27 - Chapter 27: The Victory Banquet

The Dubois estate's grand dining hall shimmered under the glow of chandeliers, their crystal facets scattering light across polished silver and fine china. The air was rich with the aroma of roasted pheasant, fresh-baked bread, and the subtle sweetness of Marguerite's rosewater perfume, mingling with the faint musk of wax from dozens of candles. The room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, a celebration of the Ministry's contract for a thousand Mark I rifles, secured after Julien's trap had exposed Fournier's treachery and sent Victor Moreau's schemes crashing down. General Leclerc sat at the head of the table, his flinty eyes warm with approval, while Henri and Marguerite beamed with pride, their traditionalist doubts replaced by belief in their son. Yet, Julien's triumph felt fragile, the faint tobacco scent from the woods after the riders' defeat a reminder that the "patron's" shadow still lingered. Antoine raised a glass, his poet's charm back in full force, his grin lighting the room. "To Julien Dubois," he said, his voice carrying over the chatter, "the boy genius who turned our tractor factory into France's future. And to the Mark I—may it keep us safe!" The guests—factory workers, local gentry, and Leclerc's officers—cheered, their applause a roar that warmed Julien's chest, though his soldier's instincts, honed in the trenches of his past life, kept him scanning the room for threats. Claire sat beside him, her auburn hair catching the candlelight, her hazel eyes soft but searching. Her hand brushed his under the table, a quiet spark that stirred memories of their garden moment, her kiss a promise he couldn't yet claim. "You did it, Julien," she whispered, her voice low, intimate. "But you're still watching shadows. What's wrong?" Julien forced a smile, his playboy charm masking the weight of Patrick Arnaud's knowledge and the losses of his past life—Antoine's blood, France's ruin. "Just making sure we keep what we've won," he said, his eyes flicking to the windows, where moonlight gleamed off the estate's grounds. "Fournier's down, but that tobacco scent in the woods… someone's still out there." Élise, seated across from them, leaned forward, her mischief undimmed despite the formal gown she'd been forced into. "You're paranoid, brother," she teased, but her eyes were sharp, her notepad tucked under her plate. "I checked the grounds before dinner—no cigarette butts, no strangers. But I did overhear Leclerc's men talking. They say Fournier's singing to the gendarmes, naming names. Roche is finished, but there's someone above him—a 'silent partner.'" Julien's gut twisted, the "patron" again. He leaned closer, keeping his voice low. "Keep digging, little fox. If Fournier's talking, we need to know who's left. This contract's only the start—we're building an army's worth of rifles now." Henri stood, his stern face softened by pride as he raised his glass. "To my son," he said, his voice gruff but warm, "and to the Dubois name, which will echo through France. You've earned this, Julien." Marguerite's smile was radiant, her hand on Henri's arm a silent echo of her faith in their son. Leclerc rose next, his voice cutting through the cheers. "Dubois, your rifles are the edge we need. Germany's arming fast—my sources say they're testing new machine guns. Your factory's our answer, but it'll need to scale up. I'm recommending you to the Minister himself. Be ready for bigger orders." The room erupted again, but Julien's mind raced, Arnaud's 2025 insights flashing warnings of industrial espionage and supply chain wars. Scaling the factory meant more workers, more steel, more risks. The "silent partner" Élise mentioned could strike at any weak point. He squeezed Claire's hand, grounding himself, and stood to speak. "Thank you, General, Papa, all of you," he said, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his mission. "The Mark I's just the beginning. We'll build faster, stronger, and keep France ahead. To victory!" As the guests toasted, Claire leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "You're carrying too much, Julien. Let us help—me, Antoine, Élise. You're not alone." Her words echoed Marguerite's, cutting deep, and for a moment, he wanted to tell her everything—his past life, the war coming, Antoine's death. But he held back, the burden too heavy for a banquet. Antoine clapped his shoulder, breaking the moment. "Come on, genius, enjoy the night. You've earned a dance or two." He winked at Claire, who blushed but didn't look away. Before Julien could respond, a servant slipped in, his face pale, and handed Julien a folded note. The room's chatter faded as he opened it, his heart sinking at the familiar scrawl: Well played, Dubois. But the game's not over. Watch your back. No signature, but the faint tobacco scent clinging to the paper was enough. The "silent partner" was still out there, and the banquet's glow couldn't hide the shadow creeping closer. Julien tucked the note away, his smile tight as he met Claire's worried gaze. "Later," he whispered, then raised his glass, his voice ringing. "To France!" The room echoed his call, but his eyes scanned the windows, the darkness beyond promising a fight far from finished.