Emil spent the morning elbow-deep in grease, rerouting a boiler valve with scrap pipe. Workers watched, skeptical but curious. "Boss knows his stuff," one muttered, tossing a rag. By noon, the line limped back to life, but the debt loomed like a storm cloud—fifty thousand francs to suppliers, ten thousand for payroll, or the men would walk.
Henriette dragged him to the kitchen for lunch, a cramped room smelling of stew and stale bread. "Eat," she ordered, shoving a bowl his way. "You're no use dead."
"Tell me about Claire," Emil said, sipping weak tea. Flashes came: engaged a year, her family modest but tied to Paris circles through dad, Louis Dufort, retired engineer.
"She's teaching school in town," Henriette said. "Thinks you'll work yourself into an early grave, like mom." Her voice caught. Mom—dead in a factory accident years ago, Emil recalled, the memory sharp but foreign.
"Dad?" he pressed.
"Louis? In Paris, cursing politicians. He built this place, you know, before handing it to you. Still has friends in high places—generals, senators." Henriette smiled faintly. "He's proud, even if he grumbles."
A knock interrupted. The door swung open, revealing a burly man in a suit too sharp for the factory. Jacques Lefevre, old schoolmate, now aide to a war minister. Grinning like he'd just won a bet. "Emil! Heard you were a corpse. Came to steal your whiskey and mourn dramatically."
Emil laughed, the sound surprising him. "Not dead yet, Jacques. What's the visit for?"
"Business, mon ami. And boredom. War's got ministers scrambling, but they need reliable suppliers. Your name came up—well, your dad's, but close enough." Jacques flopped into a chair, stealing bread. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or the Kaiser himself."
Henriette rolled her eyes. "Men. War's on, and you're joking about whiskey."
Jacques bowed mockingly. "Dear Henriette, voice of reason. Or nag. Factory's in deep, I hear. I can whisper to the right ears—get you contracts. But you owe me stories. Like that time Emil bet I couldn't kiss Marie Dubois. Spoiler: I did."
Emil chuckled, warmth spreading. Jacques' humor cut through the gloom. "Help me reach dad's contacts," he said. "Investors, maybe. We're bleeding."
Jacques nodded, serious for once. "Will do. But Paris is a snake pit. Politicians are like bad fuses—blow at the worst time. Watch your back."
They ate, trading stories. Jacques mocked a minister's mustache, calling it "a caterpillar plotting treason." Henriette laughed despite herself. Family felt real, a tether. Emil planned dinner with dad and Claire. For them, he'd keep this place alive.
Debt unchanged: fifty thousand francs. No profit yet, just sweat and a flicker of hope. Jacques left with a wink. "Don't die before I get you those names, Emil. I'd hate to waste a good suit on your funeral."
Emil stared at the factory's smoke. War was coming. So was opportunity.