Chapter 42: Terms of Surrender Part 1
The Hôtel de Ville of Paris, once the seat of republican pageantry, had been transformed. The tattered tricolor no longer flew over its roof. In its place, the banner of Aragon hung beneath a cold, gray sky—blue and gold catching little sunlight through the mist that lingered over the Seine.
Inside the main hall, chandeliers flickered with gaslight. The Aragonese had repaired the ruined lines within a day. Long tables lined with velvet were rolled into place. Soldiers stood at every archway, flintlocks fixed and sabers drawn. And in the center of the great hall, two rows of chairs faced each other.
It was the day after Paris surrendered.
And now came the terms.
Regent Lancelot arrived not in royal garb, but in a steel-gray coat, high leather boots, and a starched cravat. His gloves were unbuttoned, but polished. Alicia followed behind him, holding a case of sealed documents. General Montiel came next, dressed in full field uniform, the medals on his chest dulled by soot and ash from the long campaign.
Across the hall, the Francois delegation waited.
There were only four of them. The so-called Minister of Interior, a former mayor named Jules Tremblay, sat at the center, pale and thin. Beside him, a military commander in a tattered blue coat—General Roux—hid a trembling hand beneath the table. A bishop sat silent, fingers interlaced. And the final man, Jean Delorme, the head of what remained of the National Assembly, stared at the Aragonese with hollow eyes.
The silence was long.
Finally, Tremblay stood with difficulty.
"On behalf of the Provisional Republic of France," he began, his voice cracking, "we have come to discuss the cessation of hostilities... and the preservation of civil order."
"You came to surrender," Montiel said coldly.