Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 392 Internal Strife!
As soon as Jules Ferry finished speaking, the council chamber erupted in chaos.

Georges Clemenceau jumped up from his seat: "Twenty million!"

He waved his arms like an enraged lion: "Twenty million! Are you sure you know what you're saying?"

Just a few months ago, you swindled four million in taxes with the nonsense of a 'civilizational mission' and threw it into that bottomless pit of Tokyo!

Now, are you going to throw another 20 million francs, and the lives of many more young French men, into the Tunisian desert?

His supporters erupted in enthusiastic applause and cheers.

Edward Wayan also stood up: "We were told that Tunisia had been pacified! Bey had surrendered! And now?"

The retreat of Kairuan, the ambush in the western mountains, the bombardment tragedy in Sfax... Is this the 'order' and 'peace' you promised?
Mr. Ferry, your policies are staining the French flag with the blood of innocent people and bringing our national treasury to the brink of bankruptcy!

While right-wing conservatives welcome the infighting among republicans, they are also uneasy about the ever-increasing military spending and overseas adventures.

A Bonapartist member of parliament spoke sarcastically: "Perhaps the Prime Minister believes that as long as we keep throwing money around, we can make those 'inferior races' willingly accept our 'civilization' to enlighten them?"

Even within the moderate republicans, dissenting voices emerged, with some members of parliament who had originally supported Ferry whispering among themselves, their faces filled with doubt.

A senior member of parliament whispered to his colleague, "Is this endless funding really worth it for Tunisia? We've already invested enough there."

Jules Ferry felt the veins in his temple throbbing.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He knew this was the most crucial moment, and he absolutely could not back down.

Speaker Gan Bida pounded his gavel forcefully: "Quiet! Please be quiet!"

Jules Ferry raised his voice, trying to drown out the noise: "Gentlemen! I understand your concerns! But please look at the map!"

He pointed to the huge map that had been deliberately displayed behind him: "Tunisia is more than just a piece of land! It is our key foothold in the Mediterranean!"
It is our gateway to the heart of Africa! Controlling it means we can curb Italy's ambitions and ensure Algeria's security!
And to firmly bring North Africa under French influence! This is crucial to the fate of the nation for the next century!

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the hesitant faces below the stage: "Yes, we encountered resistance and faced difficulties."

But this precisely demonstrates that the forces attempting to drive us from this land still exist! If we were to back down, then I ask you all—

What will the Treaty of Bardo become? A piece of waste paper! A laughing stock in the international community!

If we do not consolidate our rule now, we will soon lose more than just the inland and mountainous regions!
We will lose control of all areas except Tunis! All our previous investments and the sacrifices of all our soldiers will be in vain!
France's honor and reputation will be utterly disgraced in the eyes of the world!

Jules Ferry practically roared out his last words: "This is not just about twenty million francs; it's about whether France still has the resolve and strength to defend her rightful place and honor!"

The heated debate lasted for several hours.

Clemenceau and others constantly criticized the hypocrisy and costs of colonial policies, demanding that the government stop taking risks and focus on domestic issues;

Jules Ferry and his supporters repeatedly emphasized the strategic necessity and the disastrous consequences of retreat.

The two sides engaged in a heated exchange, neither willing to back down.

Finally, as night fell and the exhausted lawmakers voted, Jules Ferry's side passed the supplementary budget by a narrow margin.

Jules Ferry looked at the vote count, feeling no joy, only immense pressure. He knew clearly that this was his last chance.

The situation in Tunisia must be brought under control in the short term, and no more bad news should be reported.

Otherwise, next time, what awaits him will not just be a rejected budget proposal...

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Meanwhile, the atmosphere was equally oppressive in a luxurious salon in Paris's Saint-Germain district.

This place was once a frequent gathering place for key members of the "French Republican Youth Guard," where they would discuss and reminisce about the glory of France.

Velvet curtains, gilded furniture, and oil paintings depicting Napoleonic wars hanging on the walls—everything exudes grandeur and a strong sense of purpose.

But today, the salon was devoid of its usual hustle and bustle.

Charles de La Rochefoucauld sat in an armchair, his face pale, clutching a document in his hand, which trembled uncontrollably.

It was a conscription notice, which clearly stated—

He, Charles de La Rochefoucauld, was required to report to the Overseas Colonial Department by October 1881, after which he would be assigned to serve in Tonkin, Vietnam, with the rank of second lieutenant.

Around him sat or stood a dozen or so young people from equally distinguished backgrounds; they were all active members of the "Youth Guard."

At this moment, they all held similar letters in their hands, the papers making a slight rustling sound as they were turned, like the whisper of death.

The service locations listed on the conscription notices vary:
Some, like Charles, were in remote northern Vietnam, a place that was humid, hot, and rife with dysentery and sniper fire from the Black Flag Army.
Some are in the western mountainous region of Tunisia, where tribal resistance forces are rising up one after another and are engaged in fierce battles with the defending forces;
Others are desert outposts in southern Algeria, where the climate is arid and scorching, like a living hell.
Some even wanted to serve as prison guards in Guyana's penal colonies, or go to Senegal and Upper Volta, which were considered "white people's graveyards"...

Fear was written without any attempt to conceal it on the faces of these usually arrogant young people.

Most of them had experienced the Franco-Prussian War and the bloody week of suppressing the communes ten years earlier, even though they were just over ten years old at the time.

They may not have been on the front lines, but they all vividly remember the hunger and cold during the siege of Paris, and the sight of the defeated army retreating in disarray.

Many of their relatives died in Sedan, Jeze, and the Marne, and they knew that war was not a romantic fantasy in salons, but a brutal killing, disease, and death.

The deathly silence was suddenly broken.

A young man named Antoine jumped up suddenly; his father was a well-known businessman in Paris.

He rushed up to Charles, his once handsome face contorted with anger and fear, and grabbed Charles by the collar of his velvet coat, almost lifting him off the chair.

"La Rochefoucauld! Look! Look at this!"

Antoine practically shoved the notification into Charles La Rochefoucauld's face, his voice hoarse with excitement: "Northern Qi! They want me to go to Northern Qi!"
That place, swamps and plague everywhere, where the Chinese could slit your throat at any moment!

He roared, spitting in the other person's face: "What did you tell us back then?"
You said that as long as we go and "teach" that arrogant writer Sorel a lesson, and let the higher-ups see our "value" and "loyalty"...

We could have stayed in the country to serve, or at least joined a respectable dragoon regiment! And now? Is this the respectable service you promised?

(End of this chapter)