Surveillance

In the afternoon, at the Sorbonne University Library

Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, casting dappled patterns of light on the long table in the reading room.

Charlotte sat by the window, with not a textbook on literary theory spread out in front of her, but a thick book, "General Treatise on European Military Geography".

The pen twirled gently between my fingers, and the notebook next to the ink bottle was already filled with dense annotations.

"Are you still studying those mountains and rivers?"

The chair opposite Charlotte was pulled out, and Charlotte looked up to see her classmate Emily sitting down, her face beaming with a smile beneath her short chestnut hair.

"It's required for the thesis." Charlotte closed the book, trying to keep her tone casual.

"Come on," Emily said in a low voice, her eyes sweeping over the students buried in their books. "The entire Faculty of Arts knows your boyfriend did something big at the General Staff. Yesterday at the Versailles training grounds, didn't he?"

Charlotte paused slightly. The news had spread so quickly?

"My father told me." Emily's father worked in the logistics department of the Ministry of Defense. Although it was not a core department, he was well-informed. "He said that the General Staff was in an uproar yesterday. A group of veterans drove their homemade German tanks into the exercise, which infuriated the generals. Some people wanted to award them medals, while others wanted to send them to a military court."

"Lorraine only did the analysis," Charlotte said cautiously.

"Analysis?" Emily raised an eyebrow. "My father said the tank's blueprints were far more precise than ordinary models, the data so detailed it looked like it was stolen from a German factory. Now, the intelligence officers are asking privately: 'Where did a history teaching assistant get this kind of knowledge?'"

"He just did a very thorough study," she said, her voice calmer than expected.

Emily stared at her for a few seconds, then sighed. "Charlotte, I'm only saying this because we're friends. The situation is very delicate right now. There's a fierce power struggle between two factions within the General Staff, and your boyfriend's side isn't looking good."

"What do you mean?"

"The reformists, like General Bouchard and his ilk, want to adjust the defense deployment. The conservatives, led by Major General Gaston, believe it undermines morale and is defeatism." Emily leaned closer. "My father said that Gaston submitted a report yesterday afternoon requesting an investigation into the background and motives of all those involved in the viewing platform incident."

"Including Lorraine?"

"The key point is Lorraine." Emily nodded. "A twenty-six-year-old lieutenant, with no combat experience, questioning the strategic judgment of the entire General Staff based solely on theoretical analysis? They think this is abnormal, that someone is definitely instigating it, or rather..."

She didn't finish speaking, but Charlotte understood. Or perhaps, Lorraine had a problem.

"Thanks for reminding me, Emily."

"Be careful." Emily stood up. "Try to avoid the General Staff area lately. Also, if your boyfriend needs to keep a low profile for a while, I know a quiet town in the south where my aunt has an empty house."

Charlotte nodded, and Emily picked up her book and left, leaving her alone in the sunlight.

Outside the window, in the courtyard of the Sorbonne, students strolled by in twos and threes, discussing their spring break plans, exam results, and weekend dances. To them, war was still just a vague threat on the front page of the newspaper, a heavy topic discussed at their parents' dinner table.

Charlotte put away her book and decided to go home early today.

Four o'clock in the afternoon, in the Durand family's living room

Henry Durand put down the phone and rubbed his temples with his fingers. The call was from a colleague at the Department of Education, subtly reminding him to avoid getting too close to people in the military lately, especially the younger, more radical ones.

Radical, Henry smiled wryly. If pointing out danger is considered radical, then weren't those officers who warned Germany of an attack from Belgium in 1914 also radical?

He knew what his daughter was doing. Not all the details, though Charlotte wouldn't tell him, and he wouldn't ask, but he knew she was supporting Lorraine, that she was quietly compiling information, weaving a warning network in her own way.

As a father, he should have stopped it. As an education official, he should have stopped it even more; disseminating unverified information is a serious crime in any era.

But as someone who lived through 1918, he couldn't do it.

Every citizen has the right to defend their country.

The study door was gently pushed open, and Charlotte stood in the doorway, holding several books in her hands.

"Father."

"Come in, and close the door."

Charlotte did as she was told. The father and daughter sat facing each other, the afternoon sun slanting across the oak desk, the air filled with the scent of old books and cigars.

"I've heard something," Henry began, "about Lorraine, about yesterday."

Charlotte did not deny it: "Yes."

"How is he now?"

"The pressure is immense, but I'm still persevering."

Henry was silent for a moment, then took an envelope from the drawer and pushed it in front of his daughter: "Open it and take a look."

Charlotte opened the envelope; inside was a copy of a map, a map of the French railway network, with more than a dozen lines marked in red, and handwritten notes next to them: capacity, dispatching stations, and backup routes.

"This is?"

"The Ministry of Education is developing school evacuation plans, and that's part of my responsibility." Henry's voice was calm. "Theoretically, these routes are to deal with a possible air strike threat, but in reality..."

He didn't finish speaking, but Charlotte understood. These routes were preparation for an even worse situation.

"Father, you knew all along?"

"I know the Germans won't stay put in the east." Henry took off his glasses and slowly wiped them. "I know the Maginot Line isn't a myth. I know the mistakes our generation made are being repeated by the next generation. I just hope I'm wrong."

He looked at his daughter: "Just like in August 1914, my father, your grandfather, said at the dinner table that the Germans would attack from Belgium. We all said he was getting senile; the newspapers clearly stated that the French would win, and what happened?"

Charlotte remembered her grandfather, a silent old man with a crippled right leg, who always sat by the window watching the street. He rarely spoke, but whenever he talked about 1914, there was a deep sorrow in his eyes.

“Lorraine is doing what your grandfather did,” Henry said. “And I’m doing what my father did, keeping silent and pretending everything will be alright, because the cost of telling the truth is too high.”

"You're no longer silent."

"Because I saw your mother unable to sleep at night, heard you secretly making phone calls in the study, and thought of the grease on Lorraine's hands and the bloodshot in her eyes." Henry's voice trembled. "I can't let my child bear all this alone."

He stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to his daughter: "I can't publicly support you; my position doesn't allow it. But I can accidentally leave some documents at home, forget to lock the study door, and if some education system contact lists or local school contact lists go missing, it must be because I have a bad memory."

Charlotte felt her eyes welling up with tears. She stood up, walked behind her father, and gently hugged his increasingly hunched back.

"Thank you, Dad."

Henry patted her hand: "Go do what you have to do. But be careful, very careful. Gaston's men have their eyes on Lorraine, and they might have their eyes on you too."

"I know."

"And one more thing," Henry turned to look at his daughter, "if things don't go well, I need you to promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Take your mother and leave Paris immediately. Don't wait for me, don't hesitate, go." His eyes were terrifyingly serious. "I experienced an escape once, in 1914, when all of Paris was running south. I was young then, but I remember the panic, the people crammed together at the train station, and the children crying because they couldn't find their parents."

He gripped his daughter's shoulders: "If anything holds me back, I need your promise that you will leave."

Charlotte wanted to refuse, but seeing the pleading in her father's eyes, she nodded: "I agree."

"Alright." Henry released his grip, regaining his usual composed demeanor as an education official. "Now, go help your mother prepare dinner. We'll have something nice tonight; I managed to get some good cheese."

6:30 pm, a café near Paris 8 University

Loran sat in his usual spot, a cup of cold coffee in front of him. He had just come from the General Staff, having spent the entire day writing reports—not about the Ardennes exercises, but routine case studies. His superiors had explicitly instructed him to focus on groundwork recently.

Lieutenant Marchand did not show up today; his secretary said he went to Verdun on a business trip.

Everyone received the signal: the viewing platform incident should be handled with a cold shoulder, and those involved should be marginalized.

Lorraine was not surprised; if a single demonstration could change decades-old mindsets, then history would not repeat itself.

The bell on the coffee shop door rang once.

Lorraine looked up and saw Charlotte walk in. She was wearing a light blue spring coat, a scarf loosely draped over her shoulders, and carrying a small basket.

"Have you been waiting long?" She sat down opposite him.

"Just arrived." Loran put away the documents on the table. "How was today?"

"Emily said the whole Faculty of Arts is talking about you." Charlotte smiled, but the smile was somewhat forced. "You're a celebrity now, though it might not be a good one."

Lorraine gave a wry smile: "As expected."

Charlotte pushed the basket towards her: "Mom made stew and bread. She said you haven't been eating properly lately."

Loran took the basket and felt its warmth. This simple act of kindness made his throat tighten.

"Your father?" he asked hesitantly.

“He knew, and he was helping in his own way.” Charlotte lowered her voice. “He gave me some documents, evacuation routes for the education system, and contact lists for high schools in each province. He said these channels could be used if we needed to send some geography teaching materials.”

Lorraine looked up in surprise. Henri Durand had always been a cautious man, a typical French bureaucrat who valued order and propriety.

Such support means that he has taken on a huge risk.

Why did he do that?

"Because he was a child in 1914 and saw the fleeing crowds," Charlotte said softly. "Because he didn't want us to go through the same thing."

Outside the window, the city lights are just coming on. The café is gradually filling up; students are debating existentialism, elderly people are reading the evening paper, and couples are whispering and laughing in a corner—a typical Parisian night.

"I might be transferred," Loran suddenly said.

This was not unfounded; Loran could clearly sense that all the officials he could see were deliberately keeping their distance from him.

As a result of being marginalized, he is very likely to be transferred to the front lines.

Charlotte's hand paused on her coffee cup: "Where to?"

"Not sure. It could be the staff office of a frontline unit, or it could be the archives department at the rear." Loran looked at the black liquid in his glass. "Gaston's people want me to stay away from the General Staff, and General Bouchard probably thinks that's for my protection."

Do you want to go?

"I don't want to, but I might have to," Lorraine said. "Staying here, I can't do anything; I'll just be a target. If I go to the front lines, at least..."

"At least what?"

"At least I can see with my own eyes what our defenses actually look like," Loran said softly. "At least I can be in the right position and do what I can when the Germans actually attack."

Charlotte remained silent for a long time.

The gramophone in the coffee shop was playing an old song, a languid female voice singing about love and parting.

"And what about me?" she finally asked.

Lorraine looked up. In the dim light, Charlotte's emerald eyes glistened with tears, but she stood ramrod straight, like a soldier ready to receive any order.

"I want you to stay in Paris," Lorraine said firmly. "Stay with your parents, finish your final year of studies, and live a normal life. If the worst happens, you are the only reason your parents leave."

"You want me to abandon you?"

"I want you to live." Lorraine grasped her hand. "If war really comes and Paris falls, I need to know that you are safe."

Loran comforted him, saying that he had been physically and mentally exhausted over the past few months and hadn't had much time to deal with the relationship. He was only able to say these things because of the conscience of a modern person.

"Okay." She nodded. "I promise. But you have to promise me one thing too."

"What?"

"Wherever you go, write at least one letter a week. Don't say much, just tell me you're alive and still fighting." Charlotte's voice choked with emotion. "I need to know my commander is still on the front lines."

"I agree."

The two sat quietly for a while. The music in the café stopped, replaced by a cheerful jazz tune. But their corner felt like a secluded island.

"What are the plans for tonight?" Charlotte asked, trying to keep her tone light.

"I'd like to take a walk along the Seine," Lorraine said. "It's been a long time since I've really seen Paris."

"I'll stay with you."

They left the café and walked along Boulevard Saint-Germain toward the river. The April evening breeze carried the scent of flowers, and streetlights lit up one by one in the deepening twilight. Passing a flower shop, Lorraine stopped and bought a small bunch of lilies of the valley, their fragrance delicate.

"For my mother," Lorraine said.

Charlotte took the bouquet and gently arranged the petals: "I'll go with you to see her."

"Thanks."

They walked to the banks of the Seine.

The river shimmered with a deep blue light in the twilight. Cruise boats glided slowly by, their lights reflected on the water, shattering into golden fragments. Notre Dame Cathedral stood on the opposite bank, having stood there for eight hundred years, witnessing countless wars and peace.

Loran leaned against the railing, gazing at the river: "Sometimes I wonder, if I really changed something, how would history record me?"

"History may not record you," Charlotte said, standing beside him. "History records generals and kings, but rarely ordinary people who speak the truth at crucial moments."

"Then what's the point of all this effort?"

“The significance lies in what you did.” Charlotte looked at his profile. “The significance lies in the fact that when some future historian looks through the archives of 1939-1940, he will find discordant fragments, a rejected analysis report, a suppressed exercise, a group of veterans building their own tank. He will be puzzled, he will ask, what were these people warning about? Why didn’t anyone listen?”

She paused. "Then he will understand that tragedy occurs not because of a lack of warnings, but because people choose not to heed them. And your existence proves that the warnings did exist."

Lorraine turned to look at her. Charlotte's features were softened in the twilight, but her eyes were resolute.

"You always know what to say," Lorraine said.

"I studied literature, remember? Our major was to study how humans find meaning in despair."

In the distance, the bells of Notre Dame tolled, deep and solemn. Across the river, the lights of the Eiffel Tower began to twinkle, like stars in the night sky.

"So beautiful," Charlotte whispered.

"Yes," Loran said, gazing at the city, the city about to face catastrophe. "I hope it stays this beautiful forever."

They walked slowly along the riverbank, hand in hand, like countless ordinary couples. They didn't talk about the war, they didn't talk about danger, they only talked about tomorrow's weather, Charlotte's thesis, and Lorraine's father's chicken stew in red wine.

This was the calm before the storm, and they all knew it. That's why they cherished it all the more.

By the time they reached Charlotte's vicinity, it was completely dark. Warm lights shone from the apartment windows.

"Would you like to come in and sit down?" Charlotte asked. "Mom said you've lost weight recently and wants to help you get some nutrition."

"Maybe next time," Lorraine said. "I want to take a walk alone tonight."

"Okay." Charlotte nodded, tiptoed, and kissed his cheek. "See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow."

Loran watched her walk into the building, watched the lights in her window light up, and watched the shadowy figure behind the curtains. Then he turned and walked towards his own apartment.

As he turned the corner, he noticed a black sedan parked in the shadows. There were people inside, and the red glow of cigarette butts flickered in the darkness.

He felt a pang of sadness, not knowing when the surveillance had started.

Loran didn't quicken his pace or look back. He maintained a steady speed, walked into his apartment building, and closed the door.