I Became a Tycoon During World War I: Saving France from the Start

Chapter 134: The Saint-Étienne Armory

In the 16th arrondissement of Paris, Steed and Le Petit Journal owner Bonnet strolled along a golf course, each accompanied by a caddy carrying their clubs a few paces behind. Both men belonged to the Republican Party—or rather, the "Republican" wing within the broader Republican coalition. The Republican Party, in general, referred to all left-leaning parties who supported the Third Republic, whereas Steed's smaller "Republican" faction represented a narrower ideology within that umbrella.

As leader of his faction, Steed had deliberately chosen a name to create a perception of broad support. People hearing "Republican Party" might mistakenly assume it referred to the powerful left coalition. However, despite the careful branding, his faction was increasingly sidelined within the coalition.

"We need ideas, Bonnet—something fresh!" said Steed, unable to find the calm usually associated with golf. Approaching sixty, he was more frustrated than relaxed. "They've already pushed our machine guns out of the army, and now they're going after our rifles. At this rate, we'll be left with nothing!"

Bonnet nodded meekly, knowing Steed was referring to the government's plans to replace the Lebel rifle with the new Berthier rifle. Originally designed as a shorter cavalry version of the Lebel rifle, the Berthier had its tubular magazine replaced with a three-round clip, making it more practical for cavalry. Despite this intention, it quickly gained popularity among soldiers, who found it easier to use, faster to load, and cheaper to manufacture.

In response, the French military had decided to phase out the Lebel in favor of the more efficient Berthier, with plans to improve it for infantry use. Crucially, the task of upgrading this rifle was assigned to the American Remington Company, not to Saint-Étienne, the state-owned arms manufacturer. Losing out on machine guns had been a blow; if they also lost rifles, Saint-Étienne might be reduced to producing little more than decorative revolvers.

Steed spotted his golf ball on the green and took his stance, swinging with an elegance he had long practiced. The ball rolled cleanly into the hole a few yards away, but his face remained grim as he watched it drop.

In this age of machinery, Steed thought, all it would take was one good idea to revive his company. Just one! But nothing came to mind. His head felt like a dry, empty well, as though his creativity had long since run dry. All he could do was watch helplessly as the business he'd built began to wither away, like the leafless branches of a plane tree in winter.

Steed's gaze drifted toward the lake beside the green. He couldn't help but think of the man who filled him with both jealousy and fury—Charles, who, as rumor had it, had just secured another victory, this time by mounting machine guns on airplanes. "Lucky fool," Steed muttered. "God has given him every advantage."

Bonnet, walking silently alongside, wasn't sure what to say. He knew that when Steed played golf, he needed only an ear, not advice.

Just then, one of their aides came sprinting toward them. Bonnet immediately sensed the urgency—it was breaking news.

"Sir," the aide said, breathless as he approached. "Charles has another invention. His father is registering it now as industrial property."

Steed's head snapped around, his previously dull eyes now gleaming with a strange intensity. "What is it? What's his new invention?"

"It's something called a 'hand grenade,'" the aide explained. "We don't know all the details yet, but from what I've heard, it's a lightweight weapon thrown by hand, meant to replace the explosives currently used by grenadiers."

Steed's breathing quickened, his eyes gleaming with greed. He abruptly threw down his club and started briskly toward the exit, his pace quickening into a run. "Bring the car around," he shouted. "We're going to City Hall immediately!"

Bonnet hurried after him. "Steed, we don't need to rush. I'll have someone hold him off for you…"

With his heart condition, Steed wasn't supposed to exert himself or get overly excited, and Bonnet was worried something might happen. But Steed paid no attention, his voice tinged with desperation as he replied, "We can't let this one slip through our fingers! This might be our only chance!"

When they'd missed out on acquiring the patent for Charles's tank design, it had felt questionable, given the technical complexities of engines and heavy machinery. But this "hand grenade" was different—it was a straightforward, simple device. Perfect for Saint-Étienne Armory, and potentially its saving grace.

...

In the VIP lounge of City Hall, Deyoka was filling out forms to register the patent, unsure of Charles's intentions with this strange little invention.

To make money? That seemed unlikely. Compared to the tractor, motorcycle, or aircraft factories, a hand grenade was nothing. It was even classified as an explosive, meaning they'd need to establish a separate facility in an isolated area to avoid potential hazards, which required significant upfront costs with no guarantee of profit.

As Deyoka pondered the decision, a line of cars pulled up outside City Hall. Moments later, a man appeared at the lounge entrance, leaning heavily on a cane, breathing hard. He shot a questioning look at the government clerk, Manuel, who gave a slight nod, indicating the patent hadn't yet been sold. Manuel seemed slightly confused, as if wondering why anyone would hurry over for such a minor invention.

Deyoka glanced up at the visitor and gasped in surprise, rising to his feet. "Mr. Steed!"

Steed was the owner of Saint-Étienne Armory, one of France's main suppliers of light weaponry—a man with few equals in influence when it came to France's military industry. There were few in France who didn't recognize his face.

Relieved, Steed steadied himself and approached Deyoka, casting aside his cane to shake hands with him. "Mr. Deyoka, let's discuss acquiring the hand grenade patent. If we can secure a partnership with you, all the better."

Deyoka could hardly believe what he was hearing. In that instant, he understood what Charles had meant when he'd said, "I'll have allies come to me."

He also understood why Charles had designed this "small thing" now: it was a simple yet strategic move to draw exactly the right kind of partner.

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