On that morning in late September, holy calendar 890, Furina stood before the mirror in her apartment, tidying her attire for the final time.
A blue slim-fit suit jacket outlined her slender waistline, a deep blue ribbon was tied at the collar of her white shirt, and her signature small top hat was perched askew on her head, with her gradient blue-and-white long hair cascading down one side.
She looked at herself in the mirror, and reflected in those heterochromatic eyes was the twenty-year-old Furina de Fontaine, France’s most famous actress, and, starting today, a presidential candidate.
She took a deep breath.
In the living room, Clemenceau had been waiting for some time.
He had changed into a dark gray suit today; though the fabric was old, it was pressed crisp and straight, and his tie was knotted meticulously.
Seeing Furina walk out, his eyes brightened.
“This outfit suits you very well,” he said.
“This is my costume from when I acted,” Furina smiled slightly.
“I used to wear it on stage to play others, but from now on, I will wear it off-stage to play myself.”
Clemenceau looked at her, his gaze holding something indescribable.
“You don’t need to act,” he said.
“You only need to be yourself.”
Furina did not answer.
She walked to the window and took one last look at Paris outside.
The sycamore leaves were beginning to turn yellow, and the morning breeze made them rustle.
From the distant streets, the cries of newsboys could be heard faintly.
“Let’s go,” she turned around.
Lord Uther had already prepared the carriage.
Madame Havima and Miss Sebeleida stood at the door to see her off, both of them wearing expressions of mixed pride and worry.
“Mistress,” Madame Havima stepped forward and helped her adjust the ribbon at her collar once more.
“You must be careful.”
“I will.”
Miss Sebeleida said nothing, simply and silently pressing a small box into her hand.
Furina opened it to take a look; it was a handkerchief, with a small Fontainebleau rose embroidered in the corner.
“Thank you,” she said, putting the box away and turning to board the carriage.
The carriage traveled through the streets of Paris, heading toward the Radical Party headquarters.
Clemenceau sat opposite her, opened a notebook, and began his final briefing.
“This morning is mainly for meeting the people within the party.
Not many, just a dozen or so core members.
But they are all old comrades who have been with me for many years, and they can be trusted.”
“What is their attitude toward me?” Furina asked.
“Attitude?” Clemenceau thought for a moment.
“It’s neither good nor bad.
Some people think you are too young, some think you don’t understand politics, and some are simply curious.
But they all know that for the Radical Party to have reached this point, it must either change or wait for death.”
“And what about you?” Furina looked at him.
“Do you think I am change or waiting for death?”
Clemenceau was silent for a moment.
“I think you are a dose of medicine,” he said.
“As for whether it can cure the illness, we won’t know until we take it.”
Furina laughed.
The carriage stopped in front of an old building.
This building was located on a quiet street in the 7th Arrondissement of Paris; the plaster on the exterior walls was mottled, and the paint on the windows was peeling.
A small brass plaque hung at the entrance, with the words “Radical Party Headquarters” engraved upon it.
Furina got out of the carriage and looked up at the building.
“It’s quite shabby,” she said.
“It’s good enough to have a place at all,” Clemenceau smiled bitterly.
“Our party’s funds are, most of the time, only enough to pay the rent and utilities.”
They pushed the door open and went in.
The hallway was dark, with only a few gas lamps on the walls emitting a dim, yellow light.
Clemenceau walked in front and pushed open a door at the end of the second floor.
Behind the door was a small conference room, where a long table occupied most of the space, surrounded by a dozen chairs.
Some people had already arrived and were chatting in twos and threes.
Seeing the door pushed open, everyone fell silent, their gazes landing squarely on Furina.
Furina walked into the room.
She stood there, her heterochromatic eyes sweeping calmly over everyone present.
The room was very quiet, so quiet that one could hear the sound of carriages driving by on the street outside.
“Gentlemen,” Clemenceau broke the silence.
“This is Ms.
Furina de Fontaine.”
He paused, then introduced them one by one.
“This is Zola, our elder and one of the earliest founders of the Radical Party.”
Zola was an old man in his sixties with graying hair, wearing a pair of reading glasses and holding a thick stack of documents in his hands.
He stood up and nodded to Furina, his gaze containing scrutiny, but no hostility.
“This is Jean Bart, our chief strategist and the smartest brain in the party.”
Bart was in his early forties, slightly chubby, with a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his round face.
When he stood up, his chair gave an overwhelmed creak.
He smiled at Furina, a very sincere smile.
“This is Combes, our party’s legal advisor and the best lawyer in Paris.”
Combes was tall and thin, wearing a crisp black suit, his expression as serious as a sculpture.
He bowed slightly without speaking.
Clemenceau continued the introductions one by one. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Among these people were worker representatives, intellectuals, small businessmen, and retired officers.
They came from different social classes and had different backgrounds, but at this moment, they were all sitting in this shabby conference room for the same goal.
Furina listened carefully to every name, locking eyes with each person, nodding, and smiling.
She didn’t say much, just stood there, watching them with those eyes.
After the introductions were finished, everyone took their seats.
Clemenceau sat on Furina’s left, and Zola sat on her right.
At the other end of the long table sat a few young party members, holding paper and pens, preparing to record.
“Gentlemen,” Clemenceau began.
“We are gathered here today for an important moment.
Ms.
Furina has decided to join the Radical Party and run in the presidential election as our candidate.”
“I believe everyone present should have agreed to this decision.”
No one objected.
As Clemenceau said, the Radical Party had reached a point where it didn’t have many choices left.
“Then, let us begin today’s main topic,” Clemenceau looked at Zola.
“Old friend, why don’t you explain our election system to Ms.
Furina?”
Zola nodded and opened the thick stack of documents in front of him.
His voice was hoarse but clear, like sandpaper rubbing against wood.
“Ms.
Furina, first, I need to explain the presidential election system of the French Republic to you.
This is completely different from our internal party elections, and you need to understand every detail of it.”
Furina straightened her posture and listened intently.
“The French Republic has a total of 544 electoral votes.
The rules for allocating these votes are as follows: the number of electoral votes for each province is equal to the sum of that province’s seats in the Senate and the House of Representatives in the National Congress.
The Senate has a total of 99 seats, of which the Paris Special District has 3 seats, and the remaining 48 provinces each have 2.
The House of Representatives has a total of 445 seats, allocated according to the population proportion of each province.”
Zola pulled a map out of the documents and spread it on the table.
It was a full map of France, densely marked with numbers and colors.
“The current situation is that the Conservative Party holds 274 electoral seats, which is already over half.
Meanwhile, our Radical Party only has 37 seats.”
Furina looked at the map, her brows furrowing slightly.
“37 seats to 274 seats?” she asked.
“Yes,” Zola nodded.
“Furthermore, our influence is mainly concentrated in the northern industrial provinces around Paris.
Specifically, we have our own electors in these 17 provinces.”
He emphasized his tone.
“However, these 17 provinces are not our ironclad base.
A province has multiple electors from different political parties.
The rule of the election is that voters vote for the provincial electors who support a specific presidential candidate, rather than voting directly for the presidential candidate.
The party that wins more than half of the votes in a province will receive all of that province’s electoral seats.”
Furina pondered for a moment.
“In other words, even if we have electors in these 17 provinces, if we don’t get more than half the votes, these electors are worth zero?”
“Exactly right,” Zola looked at her approvingly.
“You understand very quickly.
This is why we need to consolidate the power of other opposition parties.
Relying only on our own 37 seats, we wouldn’t even make it past the first round.”
“What about the other opposition parties?” Furina asked.
“How many seats do they have?”
Clemenceau took over.
“That is the crux of the problem.
If you add up the power of the entire opposition, it is actually not much less than the Conservative Party.
But the problem is, the opposition is a scattered mess.”
He took the map from Zola and drew a few circles on it with his finger.
“The entire opposition can be roughly divided into three camps.
The first is us, the Radical Party, mainly concentrated in the northern industrial provinces.
The second is the various Agrarian Party groups in the south; these people have no unified organization, and every province or even every county has its own small party.
In total, they have about seventy or eighty seats, but they are extremely scattered.
The third is the Labor Party, which is a hodgepodge containing workers, union leaders, petty bourgeoisie, and the middle class, all with different demands, and it has never formed a unified force.”
Furina looked at those dense color blocks on the map and fell into deep thought.
“So, the Conservative Party has been able to dominate for twenty years, not because they are so powerful, but because the opposition can never unite?”
“Spot on,” Clemenceau said.
“The thing the Conservative Party is best at is watching the opposition fight among themselves.
Over the past twenty years, the Radical Party and the Labor Party have argued, the Labor Party and the Agrarian Party have clashed, and the Agrarian Party and the Radical Party have fallen out.”
“In every election, the opposition has fought its own battles, only to be defeated one by one by the Conservative Party.”
“And what about this time?” Furina raised her head and looked at everyone present.
The conference room was silent for a few seconds.
“This time,” Clemenceau said slowly.
“We have something they don’t.”
“What?”
“Someone who can make everyone unite.” His gaze fell upon Furina.
Furina was silent for a moment, then stood up and walked to the window.
Outside was the gray sky of Paris, black smoke rising from distant chimneys, and pedestrians hurrying along the streets.
She remembered the faces she had seen in the slums yesterday, those hollow eyes, those silent cries.
Clemenceau,” she turned around.
“If I want to consolidate the power of all the opposition, where should I start?”
Clemenceau’s eyes lit up.
“The south,” he said.
“Start from the south.
Although the Agrarian Party in the south is scattered, their demands are the simplest and easiest to persuade.
They just want development, investment, and to be treated fairly.
If we can win over the south, we will have enough confidence to negotiate with the Labor Party.”
“And the Labor Party?”
“The Labor Party is more complicated,” Clemenceau said frankly.
“They have too many internal factions and too many complex interests.
My suggestion is to win over the south first, then break through the various factions of the Labor Party one by one.”
Furina nodded.
“Fine.
Then let’s start from the south.”
After the meeting ended, everyone left one after another.
Only Furina and Clemenceau were left in the conference room.
“You performed very well today,” Clemenceau said.
“Better than I expected.”
“I was just standing there listening to you all talk.”
“That is enough,” Clemenceau smiled.
“Do you know?
In politics, the hardest thing is not speaking, but listening.
Most politicians only want others to listen to them speak, and are never willing to listen to what others are saying.
But you are different.
You stood there, looked at them, and listened to them speak, and they felt respected.”
Furina did not answer.
She walked to the table, picked up the map, and looked carefully at the names of the provinces in the south.
“We will set off tomorrow,” she said.
“Good.
I have already booked the train tickets.
The first stop is Toulouse, which is the base of the Southern Farmers Party.”
Furina nodded and folded the map to put it away.
“By the way,” she suddenly remembered something.
“Mr.
Clemenceau, do you think they will accept me?
Those Southern Farmers Party members.
I am a Parisian, an actress, a twenty-year-old woman.
Will they believe in me?”
Clemenceau looked at her and was silent for a long time.
“Ms.
Furina,” he finally spoke.
“Let me tell you a story.”
“Please.”
“Twenty years ago, when the German Empire invaded, I led the people of the 18th District to organize resistance.
We guarded the street corner, waiting for those Titans to come.
At that time, there was a young man named Jaurès, only nineteen years old, who had just been married for three months.
He stood next to me, holding a shotgun in his hand, his hand shaking the whole time.”
Clemenceau’s voice became low.
“I asked him, ‘Are you afraid?’ He said he was.
I asked him again, ‘Then why don’t you run?’ He looked at me and said one sentence that I will never forget in my life.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘District Mayor, it’s not that I’m not afraid of death.
But I am more afraid that if I run away, my child will ask in the future, “Dad, what did you do back then?” and I won’t be able to answer anything.'”
Clemenceau looked at Furina.
“Ms.
Furina, you are not a politician, you are an actress.
But you have a heart.
Those children you saw in the slums yesterday, those children who lost fingers in factories, those people queuing at the door of the relief station.
When you saw them, there was light in your eyes.
That light is more powerful than any political platform.”
He paused.
“So, to answer your question, will they believe in you?
I don’t know.
But I know that you are worthy of their trust.”
Furina was silent for a long time.
“Thank you, Mr.
Clemenceau,” she said softly.
“No need to thank me,” Clemenceau stood up.
“Go get some rest.
Tomorrow morning, we must set off.”
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