Chapter 9: The Fall

“They’re entering the city. Soon. If things move quickly, maybe as early as tomorrow.”

Those were the words Alina had whispered to Fran during their secret conversation the night before. Even then, Fran had noticed something amiss in the old man’s expression.

In truth, the old man had overheard them through the wall. His heart had pounded with excitement all night. Tomorrow… was tomorrow finally the day they had all been waiting for? The victory parade for the Francian army?

He pictured it: Francian generals marching down the streets, showered with flowers, to the sound of rousing military anthems. And he would be there, dressed in his old guard uniform, carrying the glory of his past, proudly saluting the new generation of Francian heroes and the tricolor flag that symbolized the revolution.

‘Purburg must have already been taken,’ he thought. ‘That young lad Fran probably just kept it from me, worried I’d get too excited.’

But no matter what, he had to see it for himself.

It was a miracle, born of some unknown conviction, some hidden well of strength. The old man, still half-paralyzed, donned his helmet, fastened a saber to his waist, and dressed himself immaculately in his old heavy cavalry uniform. He slipped out of the house unnoticed and made his way to the Arc de Triomphe.

The wide street was empty, a stark testament to the silence that had shrouded the city for days. The old man stood there, bewildered. He was stunned by the grim atmosphere hanging over Purburg, by the strange white flags hanging everywhere, making the entire city feel like a massive quarantine zone.

Residents were fleeing to the suburbs in droves. Those who remained were hidden away in their homes, peering out from their balconies. The old man felt a strange sense of confusion; he thought he must be mistaken. There was no crowd to welcome the victorious army.

But he did see them. Faintly, in the distance, a dark column of troops appeared beyond the Arc. At their head rumbled steel war machines.

He wasn’t mistaken. The sound of marching grew closer, louder. The old man strained his eyes, trying to get a clearer view of the approaching forces.

Closer and closer they came, until—

He saw it. The Teuton eagle flag, black on a white field. The turrets of Teuton tanks began to turn. The bayonets of Teuton soldiers glinted in the light. Beneath the arch of the monument, Schubert’s *Marche Militaire* echoed, accompanied by the unified chants of Teuton soldiers and the roar of tank treads grinding against the pavement.

The square fell deathly silent. Then, a single shout, a terrible call to arms.

“Quick, take up your weapons! The Teutons are here! Quick!”

He stood in the center of the square, shouting with all his might. “Quick! To arms!”

“Old man!”

Fran appeared in a panic, rushing toward him and grabbing his arm. But the old man’s body, no longer obeying his will, began to collapse.

He fell to the ground.

His vision blurred. In a daze, he saw flashes of his life: the Great Revolution, the coup, the Second Empire, the Old Guard, the charge of the heavy cavalry, the Battle of Poznan, the march into Teuton territory, the northern expedition, Fontainebleau, His Majesty the Emperor, the National Guard, the King of Rome, the southern landing, the return to the throne, defeat, farewell, the funeral… and so much more.

With his last ounce of strength, even as darkness consumed his sight, he forced his hand up, offering his pistol to the empty air.

“Fran… take up your weapon… and f… fight…”

His eyes remained open as he struggled to place the gun in Fran’s hand.

The lead Teuton unit saw it all. In the desolate square, there was only a tall, old man, waving his arms erratically before collapsing in a heap.

Just then, a government broadcast blared from speakers across Purburg.

“People of the Francian Republic…”

Fran’s eyes trembled as he listened numbly to the somber voice drifting over the city. It was a voice he knew all too well, which only deepened his despair.

“At the request of the National Assembly and the President, I, General Philippe, will assume the duties of leading the government of the Francian Republic as of today.”

“I have requested that our enemies cease all hostilities. I have made this decision which saddens all Francians, but the current military situation leaves us no choice. Our army is surrounded on the northwestern coast, with no path of retreat.”

“It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you all: we must stop fighting. May all Francians unite around me and the government chosen in this grave ordeal, to protect our nation and spare her from further misfortune…”

****

The silence outside the tavern window was still terrifying. The tavern was closed today. In truth, no one would be in the mood to visit anyway.

The faces of those who remained in Purburg were etched with an indescribable melancholy. War veterans wept openly, factory workers wore masks of despair, and Fran just slumped over the counter.

He didn’t know how he had gotten back. It felt as though an eternity had passed, but in reality, it had only been a short while since the broadcast ended.

Though the tavern was empty, Fran had to be there. It wasn’t just his place of work; it was also a rendezvous point for the political faction his teacher belonged to.

Alina was idly inspecting the camera Fran had brought back. After a moment, she placed it on the counter with a careless air.

“This thing is completely useless now…” Alina sighed. “The Francian government has already surrendered. Once the Teuton army occupies Purburg, who’s going to care about collaborators?”

Fran said nothing, only letting out a soft sigh. His thoughts were still with the old man. He had taken him to the hospital, but the doctors had said there was little hope…

He could still see the look in the old man’s eyes as he fell—a look of defiance and sorrow.

‘Maybe… maybe I shouldn’t have told that lie. But…’

“Fran, what are your plans?”

Alina suddenly turned to her student. Fran fell silent. It was true. Everyone in Purburg was now scrambling to find a way out for themselves.

Should he leave the city? Flee by sea to the Kingdom of Brittany or to the free zone in the south? Or should he stay, and gamble on the discipline of the Teuton army?

No one could decide.

Fran was lost in thought for a moment before Alina moved to his side, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Don’t lose hope, Fran,” she urged. “This is only a temporary defeat. There is still hope. There are still resistance fighters in Purburg. We should all do our part.”

“Teacher…”

Fran was torn. He was tormented by the image of the old man’s fall and the pain of defeat, of a nation on the brink of collapse. But he was also afraid—afraid of the Teutons’ gleaming bayonets, the dark muzzles of their guns, their massive cannons.

He glanced down at his own slender frame.

This…

He let out a bitter laugh.

“Teacher, I’m sorry. I… I think… I want to go back to my hometown in the south. To… stay there for a while.”

The pain in Fran’s voice was palpable as he covered his face. At the word “hometown,” Alina paused.

“I’m surprised you have the courage to go back, Fran. But… I won’t force you. Do… do what you feel you must.”

With that, she turned her back to him in silence and prepared to leave.

Just as she was about to go, Fran suddenly asked her a question.

“Teacher, why… why did we lose this war?”

Alina gave a bitter, scornful laugh.

“Who knows? People from different sides all claim the other is to blame for ruining our country. Everyone points fingers, everyone shifts responsibility, and in the end, we all just stood by and watched the government we elected hand a humiliating peace request to the enemy.”

“If you really want to assign blame,” she continued, “the conservative military high command and those civilian politicians—not a single one of them can escape responsibility.”

Politicians…

Fran raised the pistol the old man had given him. He brought the dark muzzle, with its faint metallic sheen, up to his own eye.

A plague of vermin…

‘Well, I’m leaving anyway…’