The people of France erupted in fury.
"How can this be true? How can it be true!"
The French, enraged by the arrogance of the German Army, shouted for vengeance. Some were so consumed with anger that they clamored to march eastward at once and flatten the Reich before it could rise again.
"Marshal Joffre, what do you think should be done?"
Marshal Joseph Joffre, broad-bellied and outwardly genial, fixed his eyes on his successor with a fiery stare. Across from him stood Marshal Ferdinand Foch, the most powerful figure in the French Army, his face unreadable.
Marshal Philippe Pétain, seated nearby, leaned forward at the mention of Joffre's words. He too wanted to hear how Foch would respond.
"What do you think should be done?"
Foch was no fool. He knew well that Joffre and Pétain were not speaking without design. Their sudden presence in his office was no coincidence—it was the product of pressure, manipulation, perhaps even intrigue from unseen hands.
The victory of 1918 had lifted French pride to unprecedented heights. Having humbled their ancient rival, many in the officer corps had grown restless and ambitious. Hawks filled the chambers of the General Staff, and even Foch himself could not deny that Germany remained the one existential threat to the Republic.
And yet, he held his tongue. Foch knew his words could be twisted, his reputation weaponized by opportunists. A single careless phrase might drag him into endless quarrels, or worse—into political ruin.
Joffre, less cautious, had no such hesitation. Having recently been restored to the Supreme Military Council, he relished the chance to thrust himself back into influence. He seized upon the question with gusto.
"I believe," Joffre declared, "that since the German Army has given us the pretext to act, we must not hesitate! We should strike decisively and rid ourselves of this menace once and for all!"
Perhaps fearing his tone lacked fire, he added, his voice swelling:
"Only then will the Republic secure a hundred years of peace!"
Both Pétain and Foch grasped his meaning at once. Ever since the rise of Prussia, France had lived under the shadow of German power. The Holy Roman Empire had long since vanished, but out of its ashes had risen Prussia, which after 1871 had transformed into the German Empire—a state more formidable than any before it.
The Franco-Prussian War had scarred France, reshaping her destiny. The defeat had haunted generations. Even after the triumph of the Great War, many feared it was only a reprieve. Unless the German threat was uprooted completely, who could say how long the peace would last? Ten years? Twenty?
Foch inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Joffre's argument. Then he turned to Pétain.
Among the three, Pétain was the youngest, his reputation smaller than that of Joffre, the "Savior of the Marne," or Foch, the man hailed as the architect of victory. Cautious by temperament, he usually deferred to his seniors.
But when Foch's eyes met his, Pétain spoke without delay.
"I support Marshal Joffre's view."
He knew his career depended on war. If France fought again, there would be glory to be won, and with glory came power. And what greater prize could there be than to lead France in the destruction of Germany itself? The very thought quickened his pulse.
"In that case," Foch said evenly, "I shall take this matter to the President."
He had never voiced his own position, instead choosing to carry the weight of his colleagues' opinions to the Élysée.
President Raymond Poincaré, long an advocate of a hard line against Germany, was elated when the proposal reached him. He pledged his full support at once.
Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau, however, was far more cautious. He folded his arms and asked one question, sharp and simple:
"Will Britain and America consent to such an action?"
The room fell silent.
Yes… that was the heart of it. The stance of France's allies remained uncertain. Even if told, London and Washington might not approve. After all, in the Paris Peace Conference the Americans had already rejected any plan to dismember Germany. Could they now be expected to support a French scheme to invade?
"Hmph! Even without them, we can act alone!" Poincaré snapped, his voice rising.
But such words drew only disdain. Clemenceau scowled. Even Foch, who rarely betrayed emotion, could not hide his disapproval. France alone could not hope to dictate the future of Europe without grave peril.
Foch's eyes darted between President and Prime Minister. Clemenceau's furrowed brow betrayed unease; he was clearly not eager to gamble France's fate on another reckless war.
At last Clemenceau turned his gaze upon the Marshal.
"And you, Marshal—what is your true opinion?"
The question caught Foch in mid-thought. Clemenceau, shrewd as ever, had seen through him. Foch had carried others' words, not his own. As the former commander of the Western Front, his judgment mattered more than anyone's.
Foch exhaled slowly, then spoke, his voice low but cold:
"If I could choose, I would prefer a world without Germany at all."
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