Chapter 3: A Cunning Plan on Triumphal Street

Time, as it often does, flew by with alarming speed. More than half a year had vanished in a blink, and already, nearly half of the new year had drawn to a close.

It was May in Paris, the majestic capital of the Francian Republic, nestled in the western reaches of the Western Continent. Along the grand avenues of this opulent city, the ceaseless flow of traffic remained as vibrant as ever.

Pedestrians ambled along with unhurried steps, enjoying the perfect weather. A warm breeze, having traveled from the Brittany Channel to the west, whispered secrets of late spring and early summer against the boy’s ear.

Fran gently brushed a lock of hair from his ear. Lately, it had grown a little too long.

As he lowered his hand, a troop of soldiers, clad in crisp military uniforms, cycled past him with swift precision, heading eastward. Watching their rapid departure, Fran finally registered a subtle, unsettling shift in the rhythm of everyday life.

Indeed, the war had officially begun just a few days prior.

‘These must be reinforcements, heading for the front lines,’ he mused.

He sighed.

What did this truly have to do with him? Would the war genuinely reach the capital’s gates?

He tightened his grip on the handle of his medical kit, shaking his head. Then, he quickened his pace to catch up with Alina, the Doctor who walked ahead.

The boy with the medical kit was Fran, the devoted assistant and student to Alina.

It was worth noting that Alina was far more than just a doctor; she was also a clandestine political operative.

‘How best to describe it?’ he wondered.

Outwardly, she performed her professional duties without fault. Yet, beneath that facade, she maintained intimate connections with various influential political factions.

Alina glanced back at Fran, who had now caught up, a faint smile playing on her lips. She shook her head gently as she spoke:

“Although war has indeed been declared, the streets themselves appear much the same as before. Aside from the occasional bicycle-mounted troops and the hurried expressions of officials, life simply continues. Don’t you agree, Fran?”

“Yes, Teacher,” Fran echoed, walking beside her. “It truly does seem that way. Everyone’s lives appear quite normal. After all, the front lines have only just ignited; surely, it won’t impact daily life too significantly, will it?”

Yet, Fran seemed to miss the true implication of his teacher’s words. Alina merely smiled, shaking her head once more.

“Not necessarily,” she replied. “There will always be those for whom the war brings a flurry of activity.”

Suddenly, she halted. Without realizing it, Fran and Alina had arrived at the circular, star-shaped plaza on Triumphal Street in Paris. Alina cast her gaze upward, pointing to one of the opulent high-rises that majestically flanked the Arc de Triomphe.

“Fran, do you see it?” she asked. “That room with the pansies adorning its balcony? Just two days ago, when the Teuton Empire launched its initial assault on the Low Countries, I received an urgent call to attend a gravely ill old man there.”

“That is Colonel Raif’s home,” Alina explained. “The old man was once a distinguished veteran of the Imperial Guard during the Second Empire, boasting an illustrious military career. After his retirement, he settled in the Parisian suburbs. He harbors an almost fanatical devotion to glory and his country. Once the war erupted between Teuton and Francian forces, he relocated his home to this very building, directly beside the Arc de Triomphe—the very place where our Emperor once made his triumphant return. Can you guess why?”

“Hmm…” Fran murmured, pondering.

“To witness with his own eyes the glorious return of our nation’s victorious army!” Alina sighed, a note of pity in her voice. “Alas, the poor old man. They say that after breakfast that day, he picked up the newspaper, read the disheartening news from the front lines, and promptly collapsed at the dining table, suffering a stroke right then and there.”

Fran’s heart clenched in sympathy. He unconsciously tightened his grip on his cuff, letting out a soft sigh.

“What happened next?” he asked.

“Afterward?” Alina repeated. “Following my emergency intervention, the old man’s condition did show a slight improvement. However, for an eighty-year-old, it’s inevitable that his health would decline after such a profound shock. Indeed, that brings us to the very reason for our visit today.”

Alina’s lips curved into a cunning smile. She waved a dismissive hand, then spoke:

“I’ll still need your help, Fran,” Alina began. “I’ll introduce you to Colonel Raif’s son, and you’ll be tasked with looking after the old man for a time. Be diligent, be conscientious, earn their trust, and then—”

“Once you’ve secured the trust of the old man’s councillor son, you are to exert every effort, discreetly and without a trace, to uncover and document any scandals involving him. Be it infidelity or electoral bribery, the more extensive and detailed your findings, the better!”

Alina, the Doctor, whispered the intricate details of her plan to her student, a cunning glint in her eyes. This brilliant strategy to undermine the ruling faction had been meticulously conceived over a considerable period. Now, at last, the moment had arrived for her to make her decisive move on the political chessboard.

Fran nodded, a complex swirl of emotions churning within him. He simply couldn’t refuse a task assigned by his teacher; Alina, after all, was his benefactor. Yet…

‘Was it truly right,’ he mused, ‘to approach such a decorated veteran—a man who had bravely defended the Francian nation—with such an ulterior motive?’

‘He had encountered many individuals in his life, even the unforgettable silver-haired girl. But this time…’

There was no more time for such introspection. Soon, the old man’s councillor son descended the stairs, ready to greet Alina and Fran. It was clear he and Alina were well-acquainted, for he warmly ushered them upstairs without further preamble.

Fran followed their ascent up the winding staircase, which was adorned with magnificent portraits from the Second Empire. These depicted His Majesty the Emperor, leading his Imperial Guards in resplendent blue, white, and red uniforms on a distant expedition against Teuton. Inside the room, shelves brimmed with exquisite ceramics, and in the grand living room, a golden statue of an Imperial Guard stood proudly.

‘Truly wealthy people,’ Fran mused, a hint of awe in his thoughts.

Fran, Alina, and the Councillor ascended to the second floor. Bright midday sunlight streamed into the room from the balcony, illuminating a wicker chair placed beside it. This was Fran’s first glimpse of Colonel Raif; the old man lay weakly in the chair, his head tilted, his gaze fixed on the distant Arc de Triomphe, punctuated by an occasional cough.

“Father!” the Councillor gently announced. “Doctor Alina has come to visit you!”

The old man’s body trembled almost imperceptibly. As he turned his head, Fran finally caught a clear glimpse of his features.

Though seated, Fran could discern the old man’s inherent stature; even reclined in the wicker chair, his resilient back remained remarkably straight. His grizzled hair curled softly, framing rugged features. Despite the evident frailty of his body and the weariness etched on his face, an unmistakable aura of courage and pride still shone through, a veteran’s spirit that paradoxically made him appear years younger.

A hint of displeasure clouded his expression as he regarded them. Whether directed at his councillor son, Doctor Alina, or even Fran, a subtle undercurrent of dissatisfaction was always present. It became clear that he didn’t dislike any individual; rather, he resented the very act of being visited.

The old man’s gaze first fell upon Alina, and he shook his head, a faint trace of shame in his demeanor as he spoke:

“The war has begun, Doctor Alina,” he stated, his voice raspy. “An old man such as I no longer requires your attention. Please, return swiftly to the hospital and tend to the wounded returning from the front lines.”

Alina offered no immediate reply. The old man then shifted his gaze to his disappointing councillor son, letting out a heavy, exasperated sigh.

“You good-for-nothing!” he barked. “Why are you loitering here instead of attending to vital front-line matters in Parliament?”

“Father…” the Councillor began, a hint of helplessness in his tone. “Even councillors require rest, and besides, I came specifically to visit you… Oh, that reminds me, Father, this is Miss Fran, Doctor Alina’s student. We intend for her to look after you for a period.”

The old man waved a hand dismissively, clearly not having absorbed a word his son said. He then turned his gaze to Fran, shaking his head with a resigned air.

“Alas, even a young girl should have her heart set on serving the nation!” he lamented. “What good is there in tending to an old man like me, whose bones are already decaying? I…” He turned his head, his gaze filled with profound emotion as he looked towards the Arc de Triomphe. “I… I will have no regrets, so long as I can witness the generals and soldiers of the Francian nation return in triumph.”

“Um… excuse me,” Fran interjected, raising a hesitant hand. “Colonel, and Mr. Councillor, I just wanted to say…”

Fran weakly raised his hand, his gaze flickering between the Councillor and the old man. “Actually… I’m a boy.”