Reincarnated: Vive La France

The chamber doors opened with a creak long familiar to the Palais Bourbon.

Members of Parliament entered in slowly, their footsteps slow

Some still wore their morning coats and waistcoats, others had removed their jackets, the day already warm.

Whispers was everyone not of debate.

Everyone knew the bill would pass.

It wasn't that they lacked opinions.

But the architecture of power had shifted.

Moreau had not dismantled the Republic.

He had absorbed it.

Those who had fought him were gone or irrelevant.

Those who remained were, if not supporters, at least participants.

At precisely eleven o'clock, President Lebrun entered through the central aisle, flanked by his aides.

The deputies rose out of habit.

He nodded once, sat, and signaled the session open.

Moreau was not yet in the chamber.

Instead, it was Paul Reynaud, the Finance Minister, who stepped to the podium first.

He carried a single folder.

"This budget, composed of ninety-two sectoral clauses and twenty-three supplemental directives, is the culmination of national consultations regional boards, ministerial input, and public comments," Reynaud began.

"It represents not only fiscal allocation but strategic cohesion. The sum remains ₣100 billion. The structure is intact. The vision is executable."

He paused and opened the folder.

"Line by line, I will present a summary."

Most deputies didn't need it.

They'd received the summaries a week ago.

A few older ones listened intently, out of habit.

Others nodded along with practiced gestures.

Reynaud's voice was calm, almost sleepy.

"₣30 billion, National Reconstruction and Infrastructure. Emphasis on electrification, reinforced rail and road arteries, strategic airfields."

"₣20 billion, Industrial Modernization. Aviation, technical education, steel consolidation. Petrochemicals revised to ₣2 billion."

"₣15 billion, Military Readiness. Redirection of ₣500 million from R&D to Engineering Corps. Eight regiments on dual civil-military assignment."

"₣10 billion, Agriculture. Mechanization credit. Irrigation increase to ₣2.5 billion, targeting southwest reclamation."

"₣7 billion, Colonial Administration. With emphasis on port investment and fiscal audit trails."

"₣5 billion, Fiscal Stabilization. Currency reserve, gold stockpiles, State Development Bank, and tax amnesty for capital repatriation."

"₣3 billion, National Cohesion Programs. Fact-based public broadcasts, regional museum development, civic education."

He continued with the remaining lines Justice, Interior, Labor, Education, Civil Defense.

Each one recited without fanfare.

They weren't numbers anymore.

When Reynaud finished, there was a pause.

Then Jules Moch, leader of the Socialists who had opposed Moreau's rise but now sat in silent accommodation, rose.

"We note that this budget is not merely about numbers. It is a reflection of a new governance style. One that does not wait for consensus but constructs it from outcome. We acknowledge the direction. We do not oppose progress. But we hope mechanisms for transparency will remain active."

A few nods followed.

Then Albert Sarraut, a veteran centrist, stood.

"There is nothing in this budget to obstruct. Roads will be built. Farms will be irrigated. Industry will be modernized. If this is the price of peace, it is acceptable."

From the far right, Jean Ybarnégaray, always brief, added only, "Strong budgets serve strong states."

With that, procedural formality resumed.

Each deputy had the right to submit observations.

Only seven chose to.

One asked about ports in Indochina.

Another about school roof repairs in Brittany.

A few used their speaking time to praise the clarity of allocation.

It was 12:08 when the clerk announced.

"We await the Supreme Commander."

(Suggest me a good title. Head of State or Supreme Commander.)

The deputies turned slightly, some standing.

From the gallery door.

Étienne Moreau entered.

He wore civilian clothes, dark-grey suit.

He did not stop walking until he reached the raised speaker's platform beside the President's seat.

He looked across the hall.

"I will speak only once," he began.

"We do not assemble today to argue whether France shall rise. She must. We do not question whether we can afford it. We cannot afford not to."

He paused.

"This budget reflects every conversation I've had with engineers, farmers, teachers, machinists, veterans, and young apprentices. It is imperfect. But it is real. It includes you. It includes them. And it includes the millions who will never enter this chamber but who make France every morning when they open a shop, fix a road, cut a vine, or teach a child to read."

He turned slightly toward the deputies seated on the left.

"You may question the structure of this government. That is your right. But structure is not the same as purpose. And purpose today is unity. Action. Recovery."

He then turned toward the right side of the chamber.

"You may cheer this budget as a return to strength. But strength without responsibility is tyranny. We aim for cohesion not control."

He rested his hands on the wooden podium.

"Pass this not for me. Pass it for the fact that never again should a Frenchman walk past a broken track or a dead wire or an empty canal and say. 'Why did they wait?'"

A silence followed.

Then a murmur of approval.

From both sides.

President Lebrun stood and addressed the chamber. "We proceed now to vote on Decree 1937/7. Authorization of the National Reconstruction and Strategic Budget. Roll call by department."

The clerk began.

"Département de la Seine?"

"Oui."

"Département du Rhône?"

"Oui."

"Département du Nord?"

"Oui."

One by one, the votes continued.

No abstentions.

No oppositions.

The only variation was in tone some mechanical, some proud.

At 12:56 p.m., the final tally was announced.

407 in favor, 0 opposed.

The chamber applauded not erupting, but firm, sustained.

There was no celebration.

Just approval.

Moreau did not smile.

He merely nodded once and turned to Lebrun.

"It is done."

Lebrun answered, "It is confirmed."

Moreau stepped down from the platform. Several deputies tried to approach him.

He acknowledged them with a glance but did not pause.

He exited the chamber as he had entered quietly, without ceremony.

Outside, the city's bells rang noon.

Crowds had gathered around the Palais Bourbon's perimeter.

Word of the vote was already spreading.

Inside, Reynaud closed his folder.

"Finally the first step of this government is successful."