Chapter 734 - 734: The Ploiești Oil Fields

Historians have been careful in their criticism of General Evert. They often describe his actions as "a lack of confidence in victory."

But the truth was far more selfish.

For years, Evert had been in charge of the Eastern Front, and his command had brought nothing but failure. From these defeats, he concluded that "only defense is a viable strategy."

This sounded like a position in line with Pétain's school of thought—but it was really just a reflection of his distrust in the Russian army.

The Russians were notorious for breaking ranks. It was difficult enough to make them hold a defensive line, let alone ask them to carry out a successful offensive.

So when General Brusilov proposed a counteroffensive, Evert fiercely opposed it.

He thought the idea was absurd.

When he heard Brusilov wanted to mount machine guns on wagons, his opposition became even more vehement:

"This will never work. Trust me—it has no future."

"We'll suffer massive casualties, just like the British at the Somme who lost 100,000 men in a single day."

"It's unimaginable—despite clear evidence to the contrary, people still want to launch a blind attack. And using wagons, no less!"

"Have they already forgotten? Even the British used cavalry!"

Evert completely ignored the fundamental differences between Russia and the Somme.

Russia's terrain was vastly more rugged—icy in winter, muddy and swamp-like in spring and summer. There were no deep, fortified trenches like in France.

More importantly, wagon-mounted Maxim guns were not the same as cavalry.

Cavalry had speed, but no firepower. Shooting from a galloping horse was wildly inaccurate. Cavalry relied on sabers and close combat.

But machine guns on wagons could fire from beyond rifle range and maneuver with relative ease.

The outcome?

Everyone knew it—Brusilov achieved a historic victory. One of the most devastating breakthroughs of the entire war.

Evert's job should've been to lead the Russian main force against the Germans, pinning them in place so they couldn't reinforce the Austro-Hungarians.

He should've also sent flanking forces to exploit the breach Brusilov had created—possibly surrounding the German front.

If that had happened, it wouldn't have been just the Austro-Hungarian army collapsing.

The entire Central Powers alliance might have folded.

But Evert delayed deliberately.

He launched only half-hearted feints along the front. No troops were sent to the flanks. And by the time he sent reinforcements—a full month later—the opportunity was gone.

Clearly, Evert had no intention of letting Brusilov steal the spotlight. Helping Brusilov win would've meant exposing Evert's own incompetence.

Charles knew all of this. That's why he understood the current "advantageous" situation was merely a mirage.

The Central Powers were far from finished.

Just then, the phone on Dejouka's desk rang.

He picked it up. It was Camille.

"There's a visitor at the house," she said, her tone uneasy. "A woman. She says she's here to see Charles."

"A woman?" Dejouka looked over at Charles, suspicious.

"She said her name is Marie," Camille continued. "And she seems… close to Charles."

Dejouka narrowed his eyes. "Do you know a woman named Marie?"

"No," Charles said quickly. Then paused.

Wait—that was the Queen's name.

"I mean—yes. Yes, I do. Why?"

Dejouka glared at him. "She came to the house. Go handle this mess."

"No, Father," Charles began to explain, "It's not what you think—"

"I know," Dejouka cut him off. "She's waiting at the house. Just take care of it."

Then, lowering his voice, he added:

"Don't let Lucia find out. Be quick."

Charles: …

…

Since Dejouka still had work to do, Charles went alone, taking Colonel Laurent's car.

When he got home, he found Camille in the living room, hosting Queen Marie.

Camille had a rather awkward look on her face—like she shared Dejouka's suspicions. Meanwhile, Queen Marie was laughing uproariously, as if she'd just heard the best story of her life.

As soon as she saw Charles, Marie leaned forward and asked teasingly:

"Is it true? Did you really shoot at Harri? Nearly killed her, they say?"

Charles stared at Camille, bewildered. Why had she told Marie that?

Marie saved her from the embarrassment. "No, I asked. I just wanted to know more about your romantic adventures—and I heard that gem."

Then she winked.

Charles understood. It had been a setup. Marie had intentionally made Camille misunderstand, so he wouldn't be able to explain his way out.

"I have some things to do," Camille said quickly, grabbing her shopping basket. "I forgot I made plans with the neighbors."

Before leaving, she shot Charles a sharp look, one that seemed to say:

"Think of Lucia, you bastard."

Charles could only return a helpless expression.

"Do you need something, Your Majesty?" he asked after Camille had left.

"I believe I made myself clear in the telegram—I can't help you."

Marie didn't respond directly. She opened her bag, pulled out a folder, and laid it on the table with a confident smile.

"Why don't you take a look at this contract first?"

Then she added with a smirk, "I trust you won't treat me like you treated Harri."

Charles sighed and opened the folder.

Then stared at it in disbelief.

"Fifty percent of the Ploiești oil fields?"

Marie nodded slowly.

The Ploiești oil fields were the largest in Romania.

At the time, Romania produced about 2 million tons of oil per year. Ploiești accounted for more than half of that—over 1 million tons.

And just like that, Marie had offered half of it to Charles.

(Note: Oil demand during WWI was modest. But by WWII, production had surged several-fold.)

"Do you even know what this means?" Charles asked, holding up the document.

He had heard of Ploiești—everyone had. In WWII, the Allies bombed it relentlessly because it provided Germany with half of its oil supply.

Back then it produced just over a million tons. But by WWII, output had reached 10 million tons. It was the lifeline of the German war machine.

Owning half its shares now… it would be worth ten times as much in a few years.

"Of course I do," Queen Marie replied coolly. She sipped her coffee with elegant poise—no trace of the desperation she'd shown days earlier.

She set her cup down and looked Charles in the eye.

Her expression was playful, as if she were toying with him.

"So, if you sign this contract, would you really just sit back and let the Germans march into Romania and take your oil fields?"

It was a brilliant move.

Marie wasn't just offering him money—she was offering to bind his interests to Romania's survival.

Without this, they'd be left with nothing.

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