October 1st, holy calendar year 890.
Furina and Clemenceau took the early train, leaving Paris.
The train was an old-fashioned steam locomotive, the engine spewing black smoke, the wheels making a heavy clanking sound on the tracks.
Furina sat by the window, watching the scenery outside change from the gray of the city to the green of the countryside.
Clemenceau sat opposite her, holding a list with the names and addresses of the leaders of the Agrarian Party in the southern provinces.
“After Toulouse, we go to Montpellier, then to Marseille, and then to Nice.”
He said as he looked at it.
“This trip will take at least a week.”
“Is a week enough?”
“It has to be enough, whether it is or not.”
Clemenceau gave a wry smile.
“We don’t have much time.
The election is in December; there are less than three months left.”
Furina nodded and turned her gaze outside the window.
Fields unfolded slowly outside the window.
Golden Wheat fields, vast stretches of wasteland in the distance, green vineyards, and white farmhouses scattered across the rolling hills in the distance.
The scenery was beautiful, but Furina knew that behind this beauty lay poverty and despair.
The train stopped at a small station to refill water.
Furina stepped off the carriage and stood on the platform to breathe the fresh air.
Across from the platform was a cornfield, where a few farmers were working.
Their clothes were tattered, their skin tanned dark by the sun, their backs bent, and their movements slow and mechanical.
Furina watched them, recalling the data Zola had shown her.
The south provided sixty percent of France’s Wheat, forty percent of its coal mines, and seventy percent of its cotton.
But what about the southerners themselves?
They lived in farmhouses without running water, ate the coarsest bread, and wore patched clothes.
“Let’s go.”
Clemenceau’s voice came from behind.
“The train is leaving.”
Furina turned and returned to the carriage.
The train restarted, clanking as it headed south.
…
Toulouse.
This largest city in the south was once an industrial powerhouse of France.
But that was decades ago.
Now, the streets of Toulouse were filled with closed factories and bankrupt shops; unemployed people sat by the roadside, staring at passersby with empty eyes.
Furina’s carriage stopped in front of an unremarkable building.
This was the headquarters of the Agrarian Party alliance; calling it a headquarters was a stretch, as it was really just a slightly larger conference room.
Clemenceau walked in front and pushed open the door.
There were a dozen people sitting in the conference room, all middle-aged or older men, wearing simple clothes, their faces bearing the rustic stubbornness typical of southerners.
Seeing Furina walk in, they stood up, their eyes filled with scrutiny and curiosity.
“Gentlemen.”
Clemenceau began.
“This is Ms.
Furina de Fontaine.”
Furina stood at the doorway and bowed slightly to everyone.
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
She said.
“I am Furina.
Thank you for being willing to see me.”
There was a silence of a few seconds in the conference room.
Then, an old man sitting in the middle of the long table spoke.
He was about sixty years old, with gray hair and a face full of wrinkles, but his eyes were bright, like two polished obsidians.
“Ms.
Furina.”
His voice was low and slow.
“I am Grandpa Pierre Valde, the representative of the Provence Agrarian Party.
To be honest, we were all very surprised when we heard you were coming.”
“Surprised by what?”
“Surprised that an actor from Paris would be willing to run to such a backwater as ours.”
Valde’s gaze locked directly onto her.
“Do you know?
In the past twenty years, the number of Parisian politicians who have come to the south can be counted on one hand.”
Furina did not avoid his gaze.
“I know.
That is why I came today.”
Valde narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Please sit, Ms.”
Furina sat at one end of the long table.
Clemenceau sat next to her but gestured for her to speak first. New chapters come out on g.com first.
She took a deep breath and then stood up.
“Everyone.”
She said.
“Before coming here, I did a lot of homework.
I looked at the data on the south, read reports on the south, and understood the plight of the south.
But standing here today, I don’t want to talk to you about data.”
She paused, her gaze sweeping over every face.
“I want to talk to you about what I saw on my train ride south.”
The conference room quieted down.
“I saw abandoned farmland.
The land that was once filled with Wheat and corn is now overgrown with weeds.
I saw closed mills, the windmills no longer turning, the millstones covered in dust.
I saw closed schools, the windows broken, the blackboards toppled, children running around in the streets with no one to teach them to read or write.
I saw dilapidated churches, the bell towers crooked, the crosses rusted, the priests gone, with no one left to hold mass.”
Her voice was calm, but every word seemed to be squeezed from her chest.
“I saw old people sitting at their doorsteps, eyes looking into the distance.
What are they waiting for?
Waiting for their children working away from home to return.
I saw women with babies on their backs, working in the fields from dawn till dusk.
Where are their husbands?
In Paris, in Lyon, in Marseille, in the factories of those northern cities, returning once a year, sometimes every two years.
I saw children, seven or eight, ten or so, thin as firewood sticks, running barefoot in the mud.
They don’t go to school because the schools are closed.
They don’t know how to read because there is no one to teach them.
What can they do in the future?
Continue farming?
Continue going to the north to work?
Continue repeating their parents’ lives?”
She took a deep breath.
“The south has supported France.
Sixty percent of the Wheat, forty percent of the coal mines, seventy percent of the cotton.
It is the sweat of the southerners that watered this land, and the backbones of the southerners that supported this country.
But what has the south received?”
Her voice raised.
“The children of the south use textbooks discarded by the north.
The Wheat of the south is priced so low that costs cannot even be recovered.
The young people of the south leave their homes to risk their lives in northern factories.
The old people of the south sit at their doorsteps, waiting until they die without ever seeing their children again.”
She looked at Valde, and at those representatives of the Agrarian Party.
“France has always owed the south.”
The conference room was quiet enough to hear the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Valde opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but didn’t.
“So.”
Furina’s voice became softer.
“If I can be elected, I must do something for the south.
It is not charity, not pity, it is repaying a debt.
It is a debt France owes the south, and I have come to repay it.”
Valde’s eyes turned red.
He lowered his head and was silent for a long time.
Then he raised his head, his voice a bit hoarse.
“Ms.
Furina, do you know that for every ten francs invested by the Republic’s government, nine francs stay in the north?”
“We southerners are all hardworking and devout French people.
We also need investment, need jobs, need development, need a future.”
His voice grew louder.
“Can you give the south a future?”
Furina looked at him, her gaze firm.
“You can look forward to it.”
She said, every word seeming to be dug from the bottom of her heart.
“I will go all out for this goal.”
Valde looked at her for a long time.
Then he stood up and reached out his hand to Furina.
“Ms.
Furina.”
He said.
“I promise you, your speeches will be unimpeded in the south.”
Furina shook his hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Valde.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Valde smiled, a smile that held relief, gratification, and a little bit of sadness.
“You are the first Parisian we have met who is willing to listen to us.
The first.”
That afternoon, Furina spent a full six hours in Toulouse.
She talked to the representatives of the Agrarian Party one by one, listening to them tell stories of the south, and writing down their demands.
She filled more than ten pages.
When she was leaving, Valde saw her to the door.
“Ms.
Furina.”
He said.
“I have lived for over sixty years and have seen many politicians.
They come to the south with speeches in hand.
After speaking, they leave.
No one has ever been like you, coming with a notebook.”
Furina looked at him.
“Mr.
Valde, I am not a politician.
I am just an actor.”
“That is even better.”
Valde smiled.
“Politicians will lie, but actors won’t.
When an actor is on stage, at that moment at least, they are real.”
…
Over the next few days, Furina traveled south, passing through Montpellier, Marseille, and Nice.
Every time she arrived in a city, she would meet with the local Agrarian Party representatives.
In Montpellier, she talked with the Languedoc Agrarian Party representatives for a whole day.
They told her that southern wine could not be sold because northern wine merchants monopolized the market, driving the price down to be cheaper than water.
In Marseille, she met with representatives from eastern Provence.
They told her that workers at the Port of Marseille worked fourteen hours a day, and their wages were only enough to buy two meals.
In Nice, she met with representatives of the Côte d’Azur.
They told her that the tourism industry in Nice was controlled by northern tycoons, and locals could only get the most meager salaries.
Furina wrote all of this down in her notebook, not missing a single word.
Wherever she went, she would say the same thing:
“If I am elected, I will do three things for the south.
Build railways so that southern agricultural products can be transported out.
Build factories so that young people in the south have jobs.
Establish schools so that children in the south can get an education.”
Then she would add:
“This is a debt France owes the south.
I have come to repay it.”
Ten days later, Furina returned to Paris.
Clemenceau flipped through her notebook on the train, becoming more surprised the more he read.
“You recorded so much?”
“Every word was spoken by them.”
Furina leaned back in her chair, her voice a bit tired.
“I promised them I would bring these words back.”
Clemenceau was silent for a while.
“The south is basically won over.”
He said.
“Valde sent word saying that over a dozen Agrarian Parties in the south are willing to jointly support you.
They also said they want to form a’Southern Alliance’ specifically to solicit votes for you.”
“It is not enough.”
Furina shook her head.
“The south alone is not enough.
We also need the Labor Party.”
Clemenceau nodded.
“I have already made some preparations regarding the Labor Party.
Their internal factions are very complex.
I have made a list and marked out their main leaders.
Next, we need to talk to them one by one.”
“Talk to them one by one.”
Furina repeated.
“Then we will talk to them one by one.”
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