Chapter 752: Very Happy to Serve You
As the last rays of the setting sun bathed the 16th arrondissement of Paris, Clemenceau returned to his villa utterly exhausted.
Not just physically—he hadn't slept well—but mentally, weighed down by the inner conflict and the pressure of switching allegiances.
Was he truly now one of Charles' supporters?
He let out a bitter laugh as he slumped into the rocking chair by the window, letting it sway back and forth in an attempt to relax.
The butler rushed over and quickly drew the curtains, his tone sharp, laced with warning:
"Please step away from the window, monsieur."
Clemenceau understood immediately. "Hmm," he nodded, rising and moving toward the sofa—but halfway there, he changed direction and sat at the dining table instead. The sofa was still too exposed, even with the curtains drawn.
Then he heard it—faint clink-clank noises, like metal tapping on pipes.
…
High above, on the rooftop water tower, camouflaged in grey canvas, Lucia lay prone on the hatch cover.
She held a silenced sniper rifle with a scope trained on the window across from the villa.
Through the lens, a man in a flat cap—another assassin—collapsed in a pool of blood, a suppressed rifle still clutched in his hand.
It lacked a scope.
Lucia smirked.
"That's the difference between you and me—I have Charles."
…
"When did it start?" Clemenceau asked as he watched his butler grind fresh coffee beans.
"What do you mean?" the butler replied distractedly, focusing on his task.
"Come on, Baptiste," Clemenceau's tone sharpened. "You know exactly what I'm asking."
The butler hesitated, then finally said,
"Sorry, monsieur. If you mean when I began serving Charles, I honestly can't say.
"Maybe it was about a year ago—when Charles first saved Antwerp.
I believed then he was France's only hope. That's when I decided to support him.
It wasn't until three months ago that I finally got the chance.
I consider myself lucky."
Clemenceau was irritated—he hated betrayal, and more than that, he hated knowing someone else held his life in their hands.
"How much did he pay you?" Clemenceau asked, eyes locked on the butler.
But Baptiste didn't flinch.
He looked up, voice dripping with scorn, yet pride flickered in his eyes:
"Money? Is that all you see, monsieur?
You think my life could be bought with money?
A thousand francs? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand?
No—no amount could buy it.
I serve Charles voluntarily, without pay—not even a single sou."
Clemenceau was stunned.
"That's… impossible," he said.
He couldn't imagine anyone willingly risking their life without compensation.
The butler just smiled lightly. "Believe it or not. I know you can't understand."
Clemenceau stared at him, and slowly, finally, he believed him.
He realized—there really were fools like this.
He remembered a blinded soldier once clutching his hand during a hospital visit:
"Monsieur, please heal my eyes—I need to return to the front. Charles needs me. I want to help him."
Another soldier, leg lost to a shell, trained endlessly with a prosthetic just to march and execute drills like a normal man—just to fight alongside Charles again.
At the time, Clemenceau thought it was theater—denial, pride, fear of being discarded by society.
But now, looking at his butler, he realized it might be real.
A chill crept down his spine.
If Baptiste was like this… how many others were the same?
God—was this how Charles built his intelligence network?
Not with bribes, but with loyalty.
People who saw him as France's savior—willing to serve in every field, without end.
Wait—why was he scared?
Wasn't he one of Charles' men now too?
That thought strangely soothed him.
"Monsieur," the butler said gently, placing a cup of hot coffee before Clemenceau.
"From now on, only food I prepare is safe to eat."
Clemenceau's brief sense of ease vanished in an instant.
…
In the kitchen, a maid stepped out carrying a tray of food.
She was met by the house tutor, Rosa.
"Hey, Chloe. Let me take that. Go prep some fruit."
"Thanks!" the maid smiled, handing over the tray.
But the moment she turned around, Rosa placed the tray down and—
from behind, silently locked her in a chokehold.
…
"You know too many secrets," the butler told Clemenceau.
"Your existence is a threat to them."
"Yes. I know," Clemenceau said quietly.
"I just hope I made the right choice."
"You'll never know," the butler answered calmly.
"…What?"
"I mean," he said, "if you chose wrong, I'll make sure you die painlessly.
That's how I'll repay you."
Clemenceau's jaw hung open.
After a long pause, he finally muttered:
"Is that so? Well… thank you.
You're too kind."
The butler bowed slightly, voice smooth and elegant:
"Not at all, monsieur. I'm very happy to serve you."
He turned to leave—then paused and looked back:
"Ah, one more thing, monsieur.
Please inform me every time you plan to leave the house."
…
Outside, a truck idled by the curb.
Its driver, filthy and haggard, eyes burning with desperation, gnawed on a piece of bread and stared intently at the villa's front gate.
A month ago, he had learned he was terminally ill.
Then someone approached him with a proposition.
A mission.
A final purpose.
A way to help his family.
He accepted.
Yes, this was a fitting end.
Suddenly, someone knocked on his window.
He rolled it down.
A beggar stood there, hand out.
"Got any food, brother?"
"Piss off, you bastard!" the driver snapped.
But as he began to roll the window back up, the beggar pulled a gun from his tattered coat.
A silenced one.
Thup. Thup.
The driver slumped forward in silence, blood pooling at the wheel.
His life ended early.
His body and the truck would be dumped in a lake.
Perhaps never found.
Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.
Read 30 Chapters In Advance: patreon.com/Franklin1