Chapter 750: Yellow Roses
A steady spring rain fell softly over Paris, like fine silk draping the city in stillness.
In the early morning, the 16th arrondissement was silent.
This wealthy district rarely stirred so early—its residents didn't need to rise with the dawn to work, prepare children for school, or stand in line for rationed goods.
If anything moved at this hour, it was only the servants preparing breakfast in quiet kitchens.
Clemenceau stood by the window in his pajamas, a lit cigar between his fingers, gazing out at the drizzle.
His eyes were distant, as though trying to peer beyond the rows of grand villas blocking his view—toward the unseen horizon.
He had not slept all night.
Tossing and turning, he kept replaying Charles' words.
Charles had forced him to face an uncomfortable truth:
He, Briand, and countless other politicians were just pawns.
The real game was between Charles and the old capitalist class trying to keep him in check.
Clemenceau had known this, once—back when he was still a doctor, before entering politics.
But in the whirlwind of power and prestige, he had lost his way, convincing himself he controlled it all.
Now he wore a bitter smile.
This was the irony of the Republic—it made people believe they controlled their country through their vote.
"If you're unhappy with the government," they were told,
"just vote them out!"
It was a lie manufactured by the capitalists.
People believed it and willingly walked into the trap, running in circles under rules they never created.
They thought effort would change the nation, never realizing they were like hamsters spinning in place.
Clemenceau understood all this—yet even he couldn't escape the wheel.
Now he stood at a crossroads.
Charles or the old capitalists?
Which would win?
The old capitalists had deep roots—embedded in every layer of the state, even in the military.
But Charles was a rising force.
In barely a year, he had seized control of the military and the most crucial arms industries.
Clemenceau hesitated.
The weight of this choice was enormous.
Choosing wrong meant complete ruin.
Everything he had built could be wiped away.
His wife stirred in bed behind him and, upon seeing him by the window, asked in alarm:
"Darling, what's wrong? Has something happened?"
"No, nothing," he replied calmly.
"I just have to go to work. There's a session in Parliament today."
The topic?
A motion by Steed to review the appointment of the Reserve Army Group commander.
Everyone in the chamber would know:
This wasn't Steed's motion.
It was Charles'.
Clemenceau knew it too.
And he knew Charles was now watching him, expecting him to take a stance—
To draw the line between himself and Briand.
If he didn't…
Everything they had discussed at the Ritz would be null.
Was this an opportunity… or a trap?
Clemenceau couldn't say.
If only he could see the future, see whether Charles truly would become the ruler of France.
After washing up and getting dressed, he came downstairs in a crisp suit.
His breakfast had been laid out, but he barely touched it—just a few sips of coffee to stay alert.
As he prepared to leave, his butler handed him his hat, cane… and a single yellow rose.
(Image: A yellow rose, symbolizing friendship, cheerfulness, and protection. It blooms from April to September.)
"Have a pleasant day, monsieur," the butler said with a graceful bow.
"Thank you, Baptiste." Clemenceau accepted the flower.
"You're always so thoughtful. I believe this is a sign of a beautiful day."
"Of course, sir," the butler replied, opening the door.
Just before stepping into his car, Clemenceau tossed the rose into a nearby trash bin.
It was the first time he'd ever done that.
"Strange," he thought.
"Baptiste never gives me flowers."
But he didn't dwell on it.
He assumed it was just a whim.
Thirty minutes later, his car pulled up outside the Chamber of Deputies.
The driver stepped out, walked around, and opened Clemenceau's door.
As Clemenceau emerged, putting on his hat and gripping his cane, the driver approached again—this time holding out another yellow rose.
"Have a pleasant day, monsieur."
"Oh… thank you," Clemenceau said, surprised.
He took the flower with hesitation.
"What day is it today?" he muttered.
"Is this some kind of rose-giving holiday?"
But then he seemed to understand.
It must be that the roses at his estate had started to bloom.
The servants were simply making use of them—sharing the beauty.
Raising his eyebrows, Clemenceau walked toward the entrance of Parliament.
…
The session had already begun.
Clemenceau found a seat in the front row.
Steed was on the podium, delivering a passionate speech about the recent decision to remove Gallieni:
"Gentlemen!
Do you realize what a grave mistake we've made?"
"The Reserve Army Group is not just a source of reinforcements.
It manages our logistics, trains our troops—turning boys who've never held rifles into soldiers."
"It needs a leader—a general who understands war and commands respect…"
Before he could finish, opposition voices cut him off:
"Gamelin is also a military man!
He has intelligence and reputation, just like Gallieni!"
"We're not attacking General Gallieni—
But let's be honest, his health disqualifies him!"
"He simply can't do the job anymore!"
…
Steed raised his arms and called out over the noise:
"Listen to the people's voice, gentlemen!"
"Since we replaced Gallieni, how many protests and marches have erupted?"
"You call that Gamelin's 'authority'? You call that leadership?"
The hecklers fell quiet.
Indeed, the newspapers had set off waves of public outrage.
Protests had broken out everywhere.
Even the Reserve Army Group had started showing signs of insubordination.
Steed's final plea rang through the hall:
"This is wartime, gentlemen."
"Stability at home is just as vital as success on the front."
"Gallieni gave everything to bring the Reserve Army to strength—and we kicked him aside at the crucial moment."
"Do you not worry about what that tells the officers bleeding for France?"
"If we keep doing this—who will still be willing to fight?"
He stepped down from the podium to a chorus of murmurs and curses.
As he passed Clemenceau, Steed reached into his pocket and pulled out…
a yellow rose.
He handed it to Clemenceau with a slight bow.
"Have a pleasant day, Monsieur Clemenceau."
Clemenceau sat frozen, stunned beyond words.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the flower.
And then…
He understood.
It was time.
Time for him to go to the podium—
To make his choice.
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