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

Chapter 16: The Daily Journal

Dinner was white bean stew with beef—a dish Charles used to love, but now he found it fairly ordinary. He thought it could use some peppercorn, chili, soy sauce, and dark soy sauce…

In the kitchen, his mother Camille hummed to herself as she sliced vegetables.

Across from him at the table, Derek chewed on a piece of beef and remarked to Charles, "Your mother has never been this happy."

Camille set a plate of fruit on the table, then sat down with her own bowl of stew between her husband and son, beaming with pride. "And why shouldn't I be? Our Charles is a hero!"

Derek's eyes glimmered with amusement as he looked at Charles. "I'm a little curious—how did you come up with the idea for this thing called a 'tank'?"

"It was simple," Charles replied, poking at his food. "I just wanted something that could shield us from bullets, and since we had tractors, I thought of modifying them."

Derek nodded thoughtfully. It sounded simple enough, yet every invention, before it existed, lay hidden in the darkness of the unknown—so, in truth, it was anything but simple.

Camille reached over and affectionately tousled Charles's hair. "Charles is a genius; only he could come up with something like that."

Right now, she saw only her son. To her, the whole world felt different. The disdain of the Bernard family, the townspeople's cold stares, the pain of being caught between opposing sides—only she knew how much it had cost them.

But now, all of that had disappeared. And it was all because of Charles—her son.

Derek, however, looked thoughtful. He said to Camille, "Tomorrow, we should go see Father…"

"Of course!" Camille nodded enthusiastically. In her view, Charles's achievements demanded recognition; Francis would have to acknowledge not only Charles, but their whole family. Surely, he would feel confident enough to let Charles run the tractor factory.

Yet Derek seemed concerned. He knew his father too well; Francis was a controlling, proud man who thrived on being revered. He disliked anything—or anyone—that might challenge his authority, especially within his own family.

Charles was brilliant, but he was too brilliant—his achievements were now overshadowing Francis himself, which was hardly ideal.

Noticing his father's expression, Charles reassured him. "Don't worry, Father. Before we go see Mr. Francis, I think we should make a quick trip to Paris."

"Paris?" Derek seemed puzzled at first but quickly understood and gave a small nod of approval.

...

The Hôtel de Ville, or Paris City Hall, sat on the banks of the Seine, just north of Notre-Dame Cathedral. The original building had burned down in 1871 during the Paris Commune uprising, but the new structure was completed in 1882, maintaining a Renaissance architectural style with terraced roofs forming a stepped pyramid. The façade bore 136 statues of France's most famous figures throughout history.

By the time Derek and Charles arrived at the office area, it was already 10 in the morning. The bustling main hall was filled with people coming and going, accompanied by the clatter of typewriters and the ringing of telephones. Some seemed to be quarreling over tax issues with clerks.

By contrast, the industrial property counter was rather quiet.

"Industrial property," as it was known at the time, referred to what we would now call a "patent"—inventions stemming from industrial production were filed under "industrial property" to distinguish them from literary and artistic rights, which covered copyrights.

Behind the counter sat a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. Wearing glasses, he leaned back in his chair with his legs crossed, sipping coffee and leafing through The Daily Journal, a faintly amused expression flitting across his face.

Anyone familiar with the paper would know why.

In France, The Daily Journal was known as a "sou newspaper," meaning a "penny newspaper." Aimed at lower- and middle-class readers, its pages were filled with sensationalist stories and risqué romantic tales.

"Hello, sir," Derek said politely, leaning forward to address the clerk at the window. "We're here to apply for industrial property rights."

The man gave him a dismissive glance, grabbed a form, and handed it over before immediately refocusing on his newspaper.

Derek carefully filled out the form, consulting Charles occasionally, while the clerk ignored them entirely, sipping his coffee as he flipped to the next page in search of the day's "highlights."

Charles's attention was soon caught by The Daily Journal's headline: "Tractors Save France."

There was even a cartoon illustration of a tractor modified into a "tank"—the depiction wasn't quite accurate, but it still conveyed the general idea.

This was how The Daily Journal kept its price at a penny; it didn't need reporters at the scene. Imagination and a quick sketch were enough.

Once Derek completed the form, he looked unsure if they'd filled it out correctly, as neither he nor Charles had much experience with this. He handed it back to the clerk, who responded with a distracted "hmm," took the form, and glanced over it while still holding his newspaper.

But Charles had underestimated the man's ability. The clerk's gaze halted on the form, freezing as if he'd been shocked.

"Tank?" he muttered, looking up first at Derek, then at Charles, whose head barely reached over the counter.

"You're…Mr. Charles from Dawatz?"

Charles nodded. "Yes, I am."

The man nearly leapt to his feet, glancing back at the newspaper's headline before hastily setting it aside. Fumbling with his pen and notebook, he stammered, "My apologies, Mr. Charles. And this is…?"

"Derek," his father introduced himself proudly, "I'm his father."

Derek cast Charles a meaningful look as if to say, "It seems your story has already reached Paris."

Charles gave a small shrug. Dawatz was only a few miles from Paris, which was the political, economic, and transportation center. If it hadn't made news here within a day, it would be as if the news had never happened.

"Mr. Derek!" The clerk hurried around from the counter, transforming from his previous indifference into a picture of courteous enthusiasm. He shook hands with both Derek and Charles before gesturing toward the VIP lounge. "Please, gentlemen, this way!"

The lounge featured plush sofas, a coffee table, a safe, and several potted irises symbolizing light and liberty. Charles found it slightly ironic. Did only "VIPs" get to enjoy light and freedom? Otherwise, you were left to deal with the indifference of the clerk at the counter?

After a moment, the clerk reappeared with two cups of coffee, introducing himself. "Thank you for waiting. My name is Manuel, and I'm honored to assist you with your industrial property application."

Manuel set Derek's form on the table with a flourish, saying, "The form looks good, though it would be wise to publish it in the paper. This way, you'll have a timestamped record, an invaluable safeguard should any disputes arise."

"That's all?" Charles asked, surprised. "No search process?"

"Exactly," Manuel replied. "Just a few minor details."

Charles later learned that in France at the time, patents didn't involve a formal search process. If a patent was infringed upon, one could only settle the matter in court. This was why Manuel had recommended publishing it in a paper, which would provide strong, direct evidence that couldn't be falsified.

Manuel and Derek discussed a few details, though Charles sensed the clerk seemed to be stalling.

Charles was correct. About ten minutes later, a man in a bowler hat and a tailored suit strode briskly into the lounge, leaning on a walking stick.

"Allow me to make an introduction," Manuel said with a hint of relief. "This is Mr. Bonnet, the owner of The Daily Journal. He'd like to discuss the purchase of the rights to your 'tank.'"

Derek's face darkened as he realized they'd been intentionally delayed.

Inwardly, Charles gave a silent "hmm." So one of the 200 Families had already tracked him down.

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