Chapter 748: The Master of Toppling Cabinets
The fog had not yet cleared, and a light spring rain began to fall over Paris once again.
Charles stood silently in the hallway of Salpêtrière Hospital, half a cigarette between his fingers, watching the rain trickle down and listening to it tapping on the plane tree leaves outside with crisp, rhythmic sounds.
He realized he had grown accustomed to Gallieni's presence—had taken it for granted.
Like a child who assumes their parents' love will always be there.
Like assuming the air will always fill your lungs, or that your limbs will always obey.
Only at the edge of loss does one suddenly understand just how essential it was.
"General," Lieutenant Colonel Fernand's voice broke the silence.
"General Gallieni is awake."
Charles nodded, dropped the cigarette to the floor, crushed it underfoot, and turned toward Gallieni's room.
Gallieni lay in bed, his face deathly pale from blood loss.
He didn't look old—he looked like someone whose life was slowly ebbing away.
Yet, the moment he saw Charles, he managed a faint smile.
His voice was weak and sluggish:
"They told you, after all?"
"You should have told me yourself," Charles said, tone laced with reproach.
"What would be the point?" Gallieni replied logically.
"People die every day on the battlefield, Charles. I'm just an old man with a failing body.
Calling you back from the front—would that mean more soldiers die in your place?"
Charles had no answer.
In Gallieni's mind, Charles' time equated to soldiers' lives.
Gallieni continued:
"They're just like you, Charles.
Every soldier has a family, friends, someone they care about.
You're saving them. That fills me with pride."
That was one reason he had hidden his illness.
He felt that making Charles worry about him would be a crime—an injustice to the soldiers at the front.
"General," Charles asked quietly,
"Even so… did you consider that your life might save countless soldiers, too?"
Gallieni gave a faint smile.
He knew what Charles meant.
"You'll find a way," Gallieni said with confidence.
"No one can stop you."
At that moment, Lieutenant Colonel Fernand entered and whispered something into Charles' ear.
Charles nodded, then gently pulled Gallieni's blanket up:
"I need to take care of something. Rest. I'll handle the rest."
Gallieni gave a weak nod, his smile saying, "I'm fine. Don't worry about me."
Outside the room, Charles found Lieutenant Colonel Dura waiting.
He immediately understood what this was about—
He just hadn't expected the government to move this fast.
Then it became clear.
They'd heard Gallieni was at death's door—so now they wanted to "stimulate" his exit with some paperwork.
How ironic.
Joffre was gone—yet others stepped in to take his place.
It seemed many people didn't want Gallieni to live.
"Colonel," Charles said, checking his pocket watch with mocking coldness.
"Parliament convenes in just over two hours, doesn't it?
This might be the most efficient session in their history."
Dura offered a forced smile.
"Yes, General.
Everyone hopes General Gallieni can finally put down his burden."
"Is that so?" Charles replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
These people were disgusting.
"Of course," Dura replied without flinching.
He opened his briefcase and pulled out an envelope.
"I'm here to deliver Parliament's decision to General Gallieni—personally."
"Give it to me," Charles interrupted him.
"But I must deliver it in person," Dura insisted.
Charles didn't speak.
He simply stared at Dura.
His eyes radiated a silent, dangerous fury.
Dura understood immediately.
Charles wouldn't allow this—he'd block it by any means, even if it meant mobilizing soldiers to kill him.
He quickly backed down.
"Of course. You can deliver it yourself."
He handed the envelope to Charles, saluted, and left in a hurry.
Charles opened it.
Inside, the letter read:
"To the Esteemed General Gallieni,
In light of your health and the urgent demands of the war,
we regret to inform you that you are hereby relieved of your post as Commander of the Reserve Army Group.
Major General Gamelin will assume this role.
Thank you for your service to France.
We wish you a swift recovery."
Normally, such letters would not include the name of the successor.
But this one did—specifically to emphasize Gamelin.
It was a message, a provocation, and a mockery.
Because Gamelin was one of Joffre's people—
A loyal agent of the Parliament and its backers.
This meant that everything Charles had built—his factories, his technologies, even his family's safety—would now be in Gamelin's hands.
Charles felt thankful he was the one standing here.
If he weren't, no one would have been able to block this.
They'd have claimed it was "for Gallieni's health," and there would have been no way to stop it.
Lieutenant Colonel Fernand leaned over and read the letter.
His face showed shock:
"Gamelin? He's going to command the Reserve Army Group?"
"No," Charles said coldly.
"He won't."
"What do we do?" Fernand asked.
Then his eyes shifted, and he whispered:
"The 6th Army Group?"
He meant a mutiny, just like what happened before—
A calculated insubordination that would force Parliament to back down.
Charles understood.
But he shook his head.
The Reserve Army Group wasn't the same as frontline troops.
They were responsible for training and internal security, not combat.
There was no imminent threat to use as leverage.
After a moment of thought, Charles instructed Fernand:
"I need to step out. You know what to do."
Fernand stood straight and saluted.
"Yes, General.
I won't let anyone or anything interfere with General Gallieni."
…
Ritz Hotel, meeting room
Charles had arranged to meet Clemenceau, under his own name.
When Clemenceau arrived, he was smiling, even smug.
He assumed Charles was coming to make peace—to compromise with the government.
"Good to see you, General," Clemenceau said cheerfully.
He extended his hand first.
"You could have come to City Hall—we're all fans of yours."
It wasn't a lie.
No one disliked a victorious general.
Even Clemenceau admired Charles.
But admiration and self-interest were two different things.
Opposing Charles was politics.
"Is that so? I'm honored," Charles replied, offering a coffee and gesturing to the seat opposite.
"Actually, I asked to see you today to say this:
I want to support you as the next Prime Minister, Monsieur Clemenceau."
Clemenceau froze.
He had just taken a sip of coffee, but now his hand stopped mid-stir.
His smile stiffened.
He had imagined a hundred reactions from Charles—
But never this.
Charles smiled, calm and relaxed.
"What do you say?"
He knew Clemenceau couldn't resist.
Becoming Prime Minister was his lifelong dream—the peak of French political power.
With Charles' backing, it could finally come true.
But to become PM, Clemenceau would need to make use of his famous skill:
Toppling cabinets.
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