Chapter 232: Christmas Is Coming
Problematic designs, of course, were best left for the competition.
Stede had a straightforward approach in mind. In his factory, there were always a few designers who, relying on their knowledge of secrets from the Saint-Étienne Armory, assumed Stede wouldn't dare to fire them. In some cases, he had even looked the other way at their carelessness and lack of discipline. Now, Stede saw an opportunity to handle them once and for all.
But before letting them go, Stede planned to have them sign a "confidentiality agreement" that included sizable penalty fees if breached. This way, these designers would be convinced that the information they held was valuable.
Soon enough, the design for the Chauchat machine gun would find its way to the Puteaux Armory—of that, Stede was certain. And that was precisely what he wanted.
Stede could imagine the enthusiasm Puteaux would feel when seeing the plans for this machine gun. Without skilled designers of their own, they were likely disassembling foreign machine guns for reverse-engineering. So, if a fully formed design landed in front of them, they'd see it as a golden opportunity. They'd race to patent it, buy production equipment, and begin large-scale manufacturing, thinking they'd outpace Saint-Étienne.
But they'd be in for a shock. Saint-Étienne operated on an entirely different level. Puteaux's machine guns would exist only to be outclassed, left as a footnote in Saint-Étienne's success.
Stede took immense satisfaction in the thought and felt even more confident in his decision to align with Charles. Charles, he realized, was unmatched—whether in combat or design—because he truly understood warfare and possessed an innate talent for invention.
As Charles prepared to leave, he gave Stede one final suggestion. "It's time to develop a new type of bullet, Stede. That's the only way you'll regain control of the rifle market."
Stede's eyes lit up with realization.
Charles was right; everything came back to the bullet itself. The Lebel's tubular magazine, the Berthier's limited three-round capacity, even the Chauchat's crescent-shaped magazine—they were all issues rooted in the bullet's steep taper.
All these flaws originated from the design of the ammunition itself. So why not address the root of the problem?
Stede clasped Charles's hand, his gratitude evident. "Thank you, Colonel! I know exactly what to do now."
He did know: they would simply model the new bullet after the German Mauser round. It was wartime, and Mauser wouldn't be able to object. After all, the Germans were busy copying French grenades and mortars!
Stede resisted the urge to voice his admiration, to say something like, "Colonel, you are our guiding light!" or "With you, we are invincible!" Instead, he settled for a warm and appreciative gaze.
Charles was granted a three-day leave—the first he'd had since joining the military.
The leave had come with a smile and a "Merry Christmas" from Gallieni, who seemed genuinely pleased to give Charles the holiday off.
"Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas," Charles replied, realizing only then that Christmas was around the corner.
For Charles, Christmas carried a different feel; he had grown up celebrating the Lunar New Year instead, and this Western holiday had always felt foreign.
As Charles's car drove through the snowy streets of Paris, he marveled at the falling snowflakes outside the window.
Up until now, Charles had thought six-pointed snowflakes were a fairytale embellishment. Yet here they were, glistening as they drifted down in real life.
"Charles!"
Lost in thought, Charles heard his name called from a distance. He turned to see a group of boys playing under the plane trees, flinging snowballs at each other.
Noticing Charles's car, they paused and waved, calling for him to join them. Charles recognized some of his former classmates among them, including Teddy, and he returned their wave with a friendly, "Hello!"
"Shall we stop, Colonel?" Laurent, the driver, asked quietly.
Charles hesitated, then replied, "No, Major. I have other matters to attend to."
In truth, Charles had the time, and he felt a nostalgic desire to join them. But he also knew he no longer fit in with this carefree crowd, even though they were close in age.
Charles could already envision the awkwardness if he joined: snowballs magically missing him, his classmates cautious and glancing nervously at the revolver on his hip, while Laurent watched over the whole scene like a sentinel.
It was better this way, he thought, keeping a polite distance.
When the car pulled up in front of Deyoka's modest house, Charles saw Deyoka and Camille decorating a Christmas tree inside. They came out to greet him as he stepped out of the car.
"Merry Christmas!" Camille said warmly, hugging Charles with a proud, happy smile.
Deyoka waved to Laurent. "How about a glass of wine, Major? Come inside and warm up a bit."
"No, thank you, Mr. Deyoka!" Laurent declined politely. "I should check on things at the factory. Those rascals don't make it easy for me to relax!"
Deyoka chuckled and didn't press further. "Merry Christmas!" he called as Laurent prepared to leave.
"Merry Christmas!" Laurent replied, waving as he got back in the car.
"Oh, and tell the boys at the factory there's a Christmas gift waiting in the guardhouse for each of them!" Deyoka added.
Laurent nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Deyoka!"
As Laurent drove off, he couldn't help but admire Deyoka's thoughtfulness. In his view, all French capitalists should take a lesson from him.
This kindness was Deyoka's gift—he had a way of treating those around him with warmth and generosity, from his guards to his neighbors and his employees.
Such a quality might have spelled ruin for a small businessman, who'd likely go bankrupt from trying to please everyone. But Charles was no longer a small businessman; in just three months, his fortune had swelled to over 20 million francs.
Motorcycles, tractors, tanks, grenades, airplanes…
And that didn't even include the deposit on the "Charles A1" tank order or the 4.38 million franc licensing fee from the U.S. military.
The former was pending because the French army couldn't pay upfront, hoping Charles's tractor company would accept deferred payments.
The latter was tied up in government red tape, but it should clear in the next few days.
Selling arms, especially effective ones, meant amassing wealth at an unimaginable pace. And as the pace increased, Charles would need someone like Deyoka as his steward—a little spent here and there on gestures of goodwill would buy him a sterling reputation.
Why not?
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