Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 922: Exile
Chapter 922: Exile
Snow fell quietly across the city of Ottawa.
It drifted in slow, deliberate flakes beneath the pale glow of streetlamps, settling upon rooftops, sidewalks, and the dark cars that moved through the capital’s quiet avenues.
Winter had come early that year, and the cold had settled firmly over the Canadian capital like an unwelcome guest that had decided it would not soon leave.
For the residents of the city, it was simply another evening. For the men arriving in black government motorcars, it was something else entirely.
The convoy pulled to a halt outside the stone façade of Parliament Hill. Engines idled softly as uniformed Canadian guards opened the doors and the passengers stepped out one by one.
The men wore heavy overcoats against the cold, their breath visible in the frozen air as they climbed the long staircase toward the building’s entrance.
Once, these men had represented the most powerful nations on Earth.
Tonight they gathered as guests.
Inside the great hall, the lights burned warmly against the winter gloom outside. Canadian officials moved quietly through the corridors, guiding their visitors toward the chamber that had been prepared for the meeting.
The room itself was modest by international standards; far smaller than the grand halls of London or Paris, but it had served its purpose for several years now.
This gathering had become something of a tradition. Each winter, the remnants of the old Atlantic order came together in Ottawa.
The French delegation arrived first. Their government, still loyal to the republican institutions that had once ruled France, had been operating in exile since the end of the First Weltkrieg.
The remnants of the Third and Fourth Republics had arrived in Quebec in different decades and under different circumstances. But both had ultimately found themselves in exile as a result of the German Reich.
While the oldest arrivals had been here since as early as 1915, the newest members of this clique arrived only just a few years prior during the fall of the Fourth Republic and de Gaulle’s regime in 1938.
Paris itself remained under the restored monarchy of King Henri, whose government maintained cordial, if cautious, relations with Berlin.
But these men from exile had never accepted that reality. Nor were they welcome in the homeland they had long since fled.
Shortly afterward, the British representatives arrived. They were fewer in number than in previous years.
Britain still existed, of course. The island kingdom remained sovereign, its monarchy restored to a position of authority not seen since the days before Parliament had dominated political life.
Yet the old parliamentary government, the one that had led Britain through the wars, had long since found itself unwelcome at home.
Like their French counterparts, many of them had taken refuge across the Atlantic. Canada had offered them both hospitality. After all, it was a nation of dual culture and language. Ottawa housed the British exiles, and Quebec housed the French.
Despite their generosity, what Canada could not offer these exiles of the old order was relevance.
One by one the delegations entered the chamber and took their seats around the long wooden table. The room grew quiet as the last of the participants arrived and the doors closed behind them.
For a few moments, no one spoke.
Outside, the snow continued to fall over Ottawa, and inside, the defeated architects of the old world prepared to discuss the new one.
Albert Lebrun opened the discussion by reading the words of a letter in his hand. A transcript written directly to them by the King of France. A token gesture of mockery, one that was sent yearly in words that seemed nothing but sincere on the surface.
“My daughter, Marianne, celebrated her birthday this past September. Soon she will be old enough to marry a German prince.”
“The French delegation held their heads low”
While the British scoffed and called out the absurdity.
“Must he really mock you so?”
Lebrun crumpled up the letter and tossed it aside. He was among the oldest members here, and the most senior of them.
After all, he was the French Minister of War when the Third Republic Fell, and had been lucky enough to find his way to Quebec before the civil war took his head like it did many of the other politicians who were foolish enough to stay behind.
He simply sighed, that is until the maid who was serving them all tea and pastries spoke her mind without invitation.
“I didn’t even realize the King of France had a daughter named Marianne….”
Lebrun cast a glance at the woman as if he had just witnessed a peasant speak out of turn. His words cut through his teeth like the wind passing through the blade of a knife.
“He doesn’t… it’s a metaphor….”
The maid instantly realized she had spoken out of place and performed a proper curtsey before running off.
“My apologies… I shouldn’t have spoken just now… Please carry on.”
The men sighed and shook their heads. With one of the British exiles speaking his thoughts on the matter.
“I’m just glad the Tsar hasn’t pushed his forces east of Anchorage. Canada managed to survive the wars… That is something that the United States can’t say the same….”
The United States… A name not whispered in these halls for several years now. What had become of the land of stars and stripes was a sad state of affairs.
And none of them pressed the matter further. Instead, they simply lifted their cups of tea in solemn solidarity.
“To liberty!”
The words resounded throughout the hall, but the rest of the evening without any splendor. They drank, they snacked, they spoke of better times, and a world that no longer resisted. And in the end, they returned to their homes in Ottawa and Quebec, to live the next year in irrelevance.
They would not convene again until next year’s winter. And when they did, there would be fewer among their ranks.
