Late at night on January 6, before the final round of voting, Furina delivered a key amendment speech.
“I have heard your concerns,”
She stood on the podium, looking sincerely at the restless petty-bourgeois deputies.
“Reform is not meant to destroy the hardworking, but to destroy the plunderers.
I know that many deputies here, including Mr.
Bertrand, worry that nationalization will lead to production chaos, and that broken supply chains will affect your factories.”
She unfolded the amended bill, her voice clear and firm.
“Therefore, I propose the following amendments to the bill:
First, workers’ committees in nationalized enterprises must prioritize fulfilling existing supply chain contracts to ensure the legitimate rights and interests of small and medium-sized business owners;
Second, the state will establish an Industrial Production Coordination Agency specifically responsible for coordinating production docking between nationalized enterprises and private enterprises;
Third, during the six-month transition period, original business owners can serve as technical consultants to ensure production technology and management experience are not lost;
Fourth, small and medium-sized business owners have priority qualification for participating in new industrial management training and can compete for technical management positions in nationalized enterprises.”
She looked at Clemenceau and Zola, and the two old men nodded imperceptibly.
“This is not a concession, not a retreat.”
Her voice was firm, carrying unquestionable power.
“This is to let us walk further together.
We want to build a fair France.
But in this France, there must be the inheritance of technology, the continuation of production, and a place for the hardworking!
We must let those big capitalists exit the historical stage, but we must never let technical backbones and management talents be buried with their crimes!”
Bertrand raised his head, the hostility in his eyes began to melt, replaced by a complex relief.
Furina’s promise eliminated his biggest fear: the supply chain would not break, his factory would not close due to lack of orders, and he still had the chance to participate in the construction of the new system.
“Mr.
Bertrand,”
Furina looked straight at him.
“Are you willing to work with us for the revival of France?”
Silence.
The hall was so quiet one could hear the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.
Bertrand slowly stood up.
He looked at Furina, looked at this young Madam President standing on the podium, and the scale in his heart finally tilted.
He thought of his seventy-seven workers, the families supported by his factory.
“Madam President,”
His voice trembled slightly, but it was firm.
“I am willing.
For France, and for my seventy-seven employees.”
One by one, the petty-bourgeois deputies on the right stood up.
Martin, Leclerc, Dupont…
they shook hands and nodded.
In the subsequent voting, all five bills passed:
“National Assets Bill”: Passed, 486 votes in favor, 58 against.
“Anti-Monopoly Law”: Passed, 500 votes in favor, 44 against.
“Labor Protection Law”: Passed, 524 votes in favor, 20 against.
“Tax Reform Bill”: Passed, 495 votes in favor, 49 against.
When the last number was announced, Furina closed her eyes and let out a long breath.
She knew very well that this was just the beginning.
The real crisis had just arrived.
The news of the bill’s passage spread like wildfire across France, but before the flames could spread, the storm had already arrived.
In a mansion in the Saint-Honoré suburbs, heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the winter sun.
The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly, a dozen men sat around a long table, shadows dancing on their faces.
They were France’s most powerful tycoons: bankers, mine owners, railway magnates, factory owners, and a few of the largest landowners.
For the past twenty years, they had controlled the economic lifeline of this country, but now they faced the fate of being uprooted.
“Madman,”
A bald old man slapped the table, the red wine glass tipped over, and dark red liquid spreading on the white tablecloth like blood.
“That bitch is a madman!
Who does she think she is?
The Holy Goddess reincarnated?”
“Calm down, Mr.
de La Rochefoucauld,”
The middle-aged man at the head of the table spoke.
He was the chairman of the Paris United Bank, France’s largest private bank, Alphonse de Saint-Germain.
His fingers tapped the table lightly, a steady rhythm, as if calculating interest.
“Anger won’t solve the problem.
We need countermeasures.”
“What countermeasures?”
A railway magnate sneered, spreading his hands.
“Her bills have already passed.
The army is in her hands, the parliament is in her hands, and the people are in her hands.
What else can we do?”
The Marquis de Luynes, sitting in the corner, stood up.
He was the largest vineyard owner in Bordeaux, owning over two thousand hectares of land, and was the leader of the Southern Landowner Alliance.
His face looked pale from being indoors for so long, but his eyes were as gloomy as mold in a cellar.
“There is still us,”
His voice was low, carrying an ancient arrogance.
“She thinks those southern peasants really dare to resist us?
For hundreds of years, they have been our tenants, our servants.
As long as we unite, those lowly people won’t dare to act rashly.
Deep down, they fear the nobility, fear lineage, fear authority!”
Saint-Germain smiled slightly, there was no warmth in that smile, only precise calculation.
“She is too naive.
She thinks nationalization can solve the problem?
She thinks giving land to farmers can win support?
She thinks nationalizing factories can satisfy workers?”
He stood up, walked to the window, and opened a crack in the curtains.
“Let us teach her a lesson. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Let her understand that the economy is not a politician’s toy, that capital has its own will.
Let her understand that those farmers, without our seeds, without our farm tools, without the planting techniques we have accumulated for hundreds of years, even if they have the land, they will only starve to death!”
He turned around, looking at everyone present.
“I propose forming the ‘Lockout Alliance’.
Starting tomorrow, we shut down all factories.
Not a strike, but a lockout.
Let the workers go home, let the machines stop, let the railways stop operating.
Let her see how many days this country can run without us.
Three days?
A week?
Or a month?”
“As for the land,”
The Marquis de Luynes took over, a cruel light flashing in his eyes.
“We will organize the ‘Land Defense Alliance’.
Refuse to hand over land deeds, armed defense of the manors.
If those farmers dare to come, let them see what true power is.
We have hunting rifles, mercenaries, and castle walls.
What do they have?
Hoes?
Pitchforks?”
“This…”
Someone hesitated.
“Wouldn’t that be too radical?
If the people are angry…”
“The people will be angry,”
Saint-Germain said calmly, that calm was more terrifying than a roar.
“But who will they vent their anger on?
Us, or the Madam President who promised them everything but left them unemployed?
When the bakeries in Paris are empty, when the wheat fields in the south are barren, when workers have no wages, when farmers have no seeds, who do you think they will hate, us or her?”
He scanned the room, his voice like ice cubes falling into a glass.
“Gentlemen, this is a war.
Not with guns and cannons, but with money and land.
Either we win, or she wins.
There is no middle ground.
If we lose, we will lose everything.
Our wealth, our status, our privileges, even our lives.
That bitch, she won’t let us go.
Just look at her attitude towards us, she wants to finish us all off.”
The silence lasted for a long time.
The fire in the fireplace crackled, like some ominous omen.
Then, one by one, they raised their hands.
de La Rochefoucauld, Saint-Germain’s deputy, the railway magnate, the mine owner, one by one signed their names on the invisible contract.