Monday, January 8th.
Furina was in the presidential office reviewing the preparatory plan for the Public Works Revitalization Agency; sporadic noises drifted in from outside the window.
Clemenceau burst in hurriedly without even knocking, clutching a stack of telegrams in his hand, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.
“Madam President, something has happened.”
The old man’s face was pale, and his breathing was rapid.
“The textile mills in Lille have all shut down.
The metallurgical plants in Lyon have all shut down.
The shipyards in Marseille have all shut down.
The machine factories in Nantes have all shut down…”
He reeled off a dozen cities in one breath, each one an industrial hub of France, and each name felt like a knife piercing Furina’s heart.
“What about the railways?”
Her voice remained steady, but her fingers were already gripping the edge of the document tightly.
“The boss of the Northern Railway Company has announced ‘technical maintenance,’ and all lines are suspended.
The Eastern Railway Company has followed suit.
The Southern Railway Company is still waiting and watching, but it probably won’t hold out for much longer.
They say the tracks ‘need maintenance’ and that the locomotives are ‘experiencing frequent breakdowns.'”
Furina put down the document in her hand and walked to the window.
The sky over Paris was gray, and sporadic noises drifted in from afar; it was unemployed workers gathering in the streets.
“The Lockout Alliance.”
She said softly, as if pronouncing a curse.
“They have made their move.”
“Faster than expected,”
Clemenceau gritted his teeth, his stubble looking disheveled from staying up all night.
“We estimated they would resist only after the bill was implemented; we didn’t expect them to act now, while we are on shaky ground.”
“Because they are smart,”
Furina turned around, her eyes as sharp as a knife.
“They know that if they wait until the bill is officially implemented, it will be too late.
Acting now, while we are on shaky ground, catches us off guard.
They want to strangle us before we are ready.”
“How serious is the situation?”
“Very serious.”
Clemenceau’s voice was so low it sounded like it came from underground.
“In just one day, more than half a million workers have lost their jobs.
If this situation continues for a week…”
“The national economy will collapse.”
Furina finished the sentence.
“Not only that,”
Clemenceau’s voice dropped even lower, almost like a whisper.
“Grain transportation has also been interrupted.
Paris’s grain reserves are only enough for two weeks.
Two weeks from now, if the railways are not restored…”
Famine.
The word hung between the two of them, unspoken, yet both understood.
That was not just a number; it was the hunger of millions, riots in the streets, and the complete collapse of the new government’s credibility.
It was mothers watching their children starve to death, old people collapsing on the roadside, and the total breakdown of order.
Worse news followed.
“Urgent report from the south,”
A secretary ran in, panicked and deathly pale, even holding the report upside down.
“The Marquis de Luynes has organized the ‘Land Defense Alliance,’ calling on all landlords to take up arms and resist the land reform.
They already have a private army of over three thousand men, gathering in Bordeaux!
And…”
The secretary swallowed hard, his voice trembling.
“And what?”
“And they have raised the banner of ‘Restore the Kingdom, Expel the Usurper.’
They do not recognize the legitimacy of the Republic, claiming they will welcome the exiled Bourbon prince to the throne!
They say…
they say you are a ‘witch impersonating a divine messenger,’ that your magic is ‘heresy,’ and that the Republic is the ‘Kingdom of Satan’!”
Double strangulation.
Suffocation economically, rebellion politically.
This was the most dangerous moment.
The reform had just begun, and the crisis had already erupted fully.
“What about within the party?”
She asked calmly, but there was a hint of tension in her voice, like a tightened violin string.
Clemenceau’s expression grew even graver, as if covered in a layer of dust.
“There is a serious division.
Some assembly members from petit-bourgeois backgrounds are beginning to waver.
Bertrand just publicly proposed negotiating and compromising with the plutocrats.
He said…
he said ‘reform should be gradual and should not trigger a civil war.'”
“Compromise?”
Furina sneered.
“How do we compromise?
Let them continue to suck our blood?
Let the bills we just passed become waste paper?”
Clemenceau sighed, his shoulders slumping.
“But the problem is, if the party splits, we won’t even have the chance to implement our policies.
And…”
He hesitated for a moment and looked out the window.
“And what?”
“And Gallieni has sent word that there are unusual movements of the German Empire’s border troops.
They might be testing the waters; if we fall into civil war…
they might seize the opportunity to invade.
The catastrophe from twenty years ago might repeat itself.”
Furina closed her eyes.
With powerful enemies watching from outside, rebellion brewing within, the economic lifeline severed, and cracks appearing in the political alliance.
This was a moment of life and death, a head-on collision between reform and crisis.
She walked to the desk, picked up the plan for the Public Works Revitalization Agency, and ran her fingers across the page, feeling the texture of the paper.
“Work-for-relief,”
She murmured to herself.
“Solving the dilemma ourselves.
This is the only way out.”
She looked up at Clemenceau, her gaze becoming firm once again.
“Where is Jean Bart?”
“He is on his way to Paris.
Expected to arrive tomorrow.”
“Good.
Before he arrives, I need to do three things.”
Furina’s voice became firm, every word sounding as if it were chiseled from steel.
“First, stabilize the party.
Summon all assembly members; I want to address them personally.
Mr.
Clemenceau, I need your experience to tell me what to say and how to say it.”
She looked at Clemenceau; a flash of surprise crossed the old man’s eyes, immediately followed by relief.
“Second, secure the military.
Regarding Gallieni, I need his explicit support.
But we must be cautious; do not show our hand first, and do not let him see how desperate we are.
We want him to believe that we have a plan and confidence, and that his support is merely the icing on the cake.”
Clemenceau’s eyes narrowed.
He saw the beginning of the second lesson.
“Third, contact the worker and farmer representatives.
Duval, Valde, I want to see them.
Have them prepare for the final struggle.
We must organize workers to take over factories and organize farmers to defend their land.
We cannot sit and wait for death.”
Clemenceau nodded, turned to make the arrangements, and looked back at her when he reached the door:
Furina stood alone by the window, looking at Paris outside.
The setting sun bathed the city in a blood-red hue, as if foreshadowing bloodshed.
She knew that the real test had only just begun.
The road of reform is always a journey accompanied by crisis.
And on the streets of Paris at this moment, the storm had begun to reveal its hideous face.
At the Place de la Bastille, over a thousand unemployed workers gathered together.
Most of them had been kicked out of the factories since dawn, without explanation, without compensation, only a single phrase: “Factory closed, notice to follow.”
Grandpa Pierre Dupont, a machinist in his early forties, stood in the center of the crowd; his right hand was missing two fingers—the “tuition” paid on a machine tool five years ago.
His wife had just given birth to their fourth child, and he had an ailing old mother at home.
“We cannot just wait here to starve to death!”
Grandpa Pierre shouted, his voice hoarse and filled with despair.
“They closed the factories to force us to kneel!
To force us to beg those masters for mercy!”
“But what can we do?”
A young worker asked, his face still boyish; he had clearly arrived in the city recently, with only yesterday’s leftovers in his pocket.
“We have no jobs, no money…
I went to the bakery yesterday and found the price had doubled!”
“We have hands!”
Grandpa Pierre raised his mutilated hands, which looked particularly striking in the setting sun.
“With these hands, we can work!
Since they don’t want us, we’ll do it ourselves!
We will occupy the factories, and we will run the machines ourselves!”
The crowd stirred; some cheered, some hesitated, some were afraid.
A middle-aged female worker cried and said:
“But occupying the factories is illegal…
we will be arrested…”
“Illegal?”
A gray-haired old worker sneered.
“Is it not illegal for them to let us starve to death?
I worked for thirty years, and when I was kicked out yesterday, I didn’t even get this month’s wages!
Do they care about the law?”
Meanwhile, on Montmartre, another group of people was gathering.
These were small vendors, clerks, and owners of family workshops—the middle class, neither wealthy nor poor.
They held up signs:
“We want bread!”
“Oppose radical reform!”
“Restore order!”
Margaret Leroux, a bakery owner, stood in front of the crowd; her apron was still stained with Flour, but her shop had already been emptied by panicked citizens.
“What does that actress want to do?”
She shrieked, tears and Flour mixing together, leaving white streaks on her face.
“She wants to turn us all into paupers!
She wants to kill all the rich people, and then who will buy our bread?
Who will hire us to work?
Yesterday, the moment I opened the door, I was cleaned out!
They said they were afraid they wouldn’t be able to buy bread later, afraid that money would become worthless paper!
How are we small business owners supposed to survive?”
Panic spread like a plague.
Signs of riots began to appear on the streets of Paris: shops were looted, carriages were overturned, and police confronted the crowds.
The air was filled with an atmosphere of panic and anger.
A newsboy shouted at the street corner:
“Extra!
Extra!
All factories shut down!
Famine is coming!”
His voice was shrill, like an alarm.
Furina saw the thick smoke in the distance through the window and heard the faint noise.
She knew that time was running out.