Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 601: The Last Illusion

The Versailles Palace was silent.

Not the solemn quiet of ceremony or contemplation.

But the oppressive stillness of a mausoleum, where even the walls seemed to mourn what had just been lost.

General Charles de Gaulle stood alone in his private study, arms crossed behind his back, his reflection long and distorted in the rain-flecked window before him.

Outside, Paris wept.

A steady downpour streaked the glass, as if the heavens themselves wished to wash away the shame.

Spain had fallen.

And with it, the last bulwark against the inevitable.

Reports had arrived in the early morning hours. Not filtered through diplomats or softened by press secretaries.

No, these were raw, brutal dispatches, delivered straight from the front, compiled by France’s remaining agents in the field.

Barcelona had fallen without a protracted siege.

The Republican command had crumbled.

French volunteers had either fled or surrendered.

The international brigades were in disarray. And the Royalist standard now flew above every ministry and boulevard in Catalonia.

What stung more than defeat… was how decisive it all had been.

How clean. How efficient.

How German.

De Gaulle turned from the window and faced the large map unfurled across the table behind him.

He had stared at it for hours now, France and her neighbors inked in pale relief.

The border no longer reassured him.

To the north: Belgium and the Netherlands, both neutral on paper, but increasingly tied to Berlin by trade and quiet agreements.

To the east: Germany, swollen by the annexation of Austria, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, and parts of Burgundy now bordered France directly through Alsace-Lorraine, and Burgundy.

To the southeast: Italy, once a wildcard, now firmly within the German economic bloc, having reaped the benefits of the Spanish campaign.

And if their participation in the Spanish Civil War was anything to go by, they had also militarily aligned themselves with the German Reich.

That was to be expected after the marriage between the Crown Prince of Italy, and Bruno’s daughter Anna.

And now to the south: Spain, once a partner, now fully in the German camp.

Not just politically, but ideologically. Strategically. Militarily.

France was surrounded.

And Charles de Gaulle knew it.

A knock came at the door.

He did not speak.

The door opened regardless.

It was Marshal Alphonse Georges, rain still glistening on his coat, cap tucked under one arm. He hesitated at the threshold.

“You’ve heard?”

De Gaulle nodded.

“Sit,” he said curtly.

The Marshal obeyed.

They said nothing for a long time.

Only the rhythmic tapping of the rain and the faint buzz of the electric heater disturbed the silence.

Finally, Georges spoke.

“Our analysts confirm it. German-supplied heavy armor led the charge through the western ridges. Royalist units were reinforced by elements of the International Legion, yes, but they largely stood back. The offensive was planned, supplied, and executed by Spanish forces.”

De Gaulle stared into the fire, his voice low.

“Which means the Germans no longer need to fight the wars themselves.”

Georges grimaced. “It’s worse than that. They’ve created a doctrine that can be exported. Political loyalty, military discipline, economic support. Package it properly, and any failing monarchy or empire becomes a client state.”

“Spain was never meant to fall,” de Gaulle said quietly. “It was meant to bleed. To buy us time. To anchor German attention abroad while we rebuilt at home.”

“You misjudged,” Georges said softly.

De Gaulle’s jaw tightened. “No. We misjudged. All of us. We thought we could guide the Republicans toward a softer kind of order, an ally born of necessity, not ideology.”

He stepped forward and tapped a finger against the map.

The Pyrenees, now little more than a memory.

“And now we’re alone.”

There was another silence.

“America?” Georges asked.

De Gaulle shook his head. “Roosevelt faces revolt at home. He gambled in Spain and lost. He won’t risk another confrontation now. Not with coffins arriving from both Spain and the Philippines.”

“The British?”

“They’re still pretending they can appease the Reich with diplomacy and trade deals. They’ll protest. They’ll issue statements. But they won’t march for Spain. Not after this.”

Georges leaned forward. “Then what do we do?”

De Gaulle stared down at the red-and-blue lines crossing the map, his voice hollow.

“We prepare to standalone.”

Later that evening, the French president stood before the press corps, his face carved from marble.

He did not speak of Spain directly.

Instead, he spoke of “sovereignty,” “duty,” and “the great burden of civilization in a world on fire.”

He promised that France would never yield, never surrender, never kneel to tyranny or totalitarianism.

He called on the French people to stand firm, to believe in the Republic, to endure.

The applause was polite.

But the silence afterward was louder.

That night, as the storm raged beyond the walls of the Élysée, de Gaulle wrote a single sentence in his journal:

“The shadows lengthen, and the circle tightens. I do not fear war. I fear irrelevance.”

He paused, then added:

“There will be a reckoning. The only question is when, and whether we will meet it with sword in hand, or with empty hands raised in futile protest.”

—

Bruno witnessed de Gaulle’s speech in full. Watching it on a screen in his office. Projected in a film captured from spies embedded in Paris.

He needed not listen to the radio, when his people had mastered film already thanks in part to his hefty investments into cinematography.

de Gaulle’s speech was lengthy, incendiary, and above all, painted France as a victim.

Revanchism had not died after a German victory in the Great War; rather it had only poured gasoline on the fire that already raged.

And de Gaulle? His words were designed to incite.

Because of this, Bruno reached over to his phone and dialled a number.

It rang briefly, but did not keep him waiting long. And in the end he spoke perfectly fluent French. As if he were a native Parisian himself.

“Henri, my old friend, the time has come to sow the seeds which will ensure the rise of the House of Orléans once more…”