Autumn winds blew coldly, scattering leaves along the road from Lagny to Paris. Three military vehicles sped swiftly down the highway, maintaining tight formation. Soldiers seated in the back gripped their rifles firmly, their wary eyes scanning the roadside.
Sitting in the front passenger seat of the middle vehicle, Joffre stared blankly out of the window, lost in thought. Sothing didn't feel right. Every developnt seed carefully orchestrated. Particularly suspicious was the sudden appearance of Shire's directional mines at Verdun. Despite their simple design, producing ten thousand of them certainly wasn't sothing achievable overnight.
In other words, this entire affair had been a carefully planned trap set by Shire himself.
But why would he do such a thing?
As he pondered further, Joffre suddenly understood—Shire had done this to destroy him, utterly and completely.
Without the "one-day bet," Joffre might have simply lost his command quietly. But now, after this sharp contrast—thousands of French casualties under Joffre's direction compared to a swift and brilliant victory under Shire—the public would inevitably bla all prior failures on Joffre alone.
That cunning bastard!
Joffre gritted his teeth in fury. Shire had intentionally isolated Verdun from headquarters, ensuring he could control the narrative, quickly sending details of his victory to the newspapers. Now, everyone considered Joffre not only an incompetent commander but a butcher responsible for needless French deaths.
He never imagined Shire capable of such cunning manipulation, regretting only that he'd realized it too late. But should he just admit defeat now?
Never!
Joffre clenched his fist tightly. He formulated his response quickly: yesterday's victory at Verdun wasn't Shire's brilliance but the cumulative result of prolonged counterattacks. Shire had deliberately arrived just in ti to claim credit for a victory that would have occurred regardless.
That must be it!
Furthermore, the directional mines were Shire's invention—so of course they'd granted him an easy victory. Had Joffre possessed such weaponry, he too would have succeeded easily.
Confidence restored, Joffre ordered his driver sharply, "Speed up. I must attend this afternoon's session."
"Yes, General!" The driver honked twice to signal the lead car, then gently pressed the accelerator, speeding ahead.
Inside the Chamber of Deputies at Palais Bourbon, mbers convened precisely at two o'clock after a short midday break.
Shire, still exhausted from his overnight trip, had managed a brief nap at the hotel. Awakened by Major Jules, he rubbed his eyes wearily.
"I've heard Joffre intends to personally address the deputies this afternoon, General," explained Jules apologetically. "I thought it best you be there."
Shire nodded, struggling upright. Indeed, he intended to et Joffre—not to hear what the disgraced general had to say, but to deliver the final blow personally.
As fate would have it, upon arriving at the palace steps, Shire spotted Joffre himself, erging laboriously from his car. He watched as Joffre lowered his head and hurried toward the entrance.
Major Jules regarded Joffre contemptuously, refusing even to salute. Surprisingly, Shire walked forward, blocking Joffre's path, greeting him with unexpected politeness.
"Good afternoon, General Joffre. We finally et."
Joffre stopped, montarily confused by this young officer he didn't recognize. Noticing the two stars on Shire's uniform collar, comprehension dawned:
"So you're Shire?"
"Indeed," Shire responded with a polite nod.
"Co to gloat, have you?" Joffre hissed bitterly. "But you'll be disappointed. I won't fall so easily."
"No, General." Shire shook his head calmly. "Actually, I'm here to remind you of sothing."
"Remind ?" Joffre narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
Shire leaned in slightly, maintaining his pleasant smile, and spoke softly:
"The intelligence from the British, regarding Belfort—that was planted by ."
Without further explanation, Shire nodded courteously, then turned and strode confidently into the building.
Joffre stood frozen, montarily confused. British intelligence...Belfort...then he suddenly recalled the critical report he'd received from British intelligence services, warning that Germany's real target was Belfort, with the actions at Verdun likely a feint.
"Oh God," he muttered, realization hitting him like lightning. It had been Shire all along, misleading him, causing him to divert troops away from Verdun toward Belfort, precipitating disaster at Verdun.
That treacherous snake!
Blood pounding angrily in his head, Joffre charged furiously into the assembly hall, roughly pushing aside the embarrassed General Canis on the podium.
"Gentlen!" he roared, fists clenched, waving aggressively. "Let tell you the truth. What you've seen is a lie! Everything was orchestrated by Shire himself! He deceived the British to mislead —we've all been manipulated!"
One deputy asked cautiously, "What exactly do you an, General?"
Joffre pointed angrily toward Shire, his voice trembling with rage:
"The intelligence about Belfort—provided by the British, claiming Verdun was a re diversion—was deliberately fed to them by Shire. He's deceived all of us. He's the culprit behind the disaster at Verdun, plotting treacherously against his superior officer—against his commander-in-chief! He's responsible for every death there. He ignored national security, violated military regulations—he deserves a court martial, the guillotine!"
All eyes now fell on Shire.
Shire casually spread his hands and replied nonchalantly, "It's true, gentlen. I confess—every single word the general said is absolutely correct."
The deputies burst into laughter:
"Can you believe this? Joffre's lost his mind!"
"Indeed, he blad Foch previously—now he's blaming Shire? Pathetic!"
"He must be mad. Shire doesn't need such plots. Joffre has never won a battle, while Shire is undefeated!"
"No!" Joffre sputtered desperately, "I speak the truth! Shire himself confessed just monts ago—this is the reality!"
But no one took Joffre seriously. They shook their heads sadly, believing they were witnessing a once-proud general descending into madness, desperately blaming everyone but himself.
Confused and humiliated, Joffre looked toward Shire, seeing only an expression of utter contempt. Suddenly, Joffre understood—this humiliation was precisely what Shire intended. He'd fallen once again into the cunning trap.
This was exactly what Shire really wanted.
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