The warm winter air perforated every street and alleyway of the small coastal village, making the overwhelming, nearly permanent stench of raw seafood a little less intimidating to the infrequent tourist. The bitter sound of foghorns and sailors that populated the dense harbor made it less tolerable, but Crozier did not mind the chatter, as long as it stayed on the topic of him.

Guilloux was certainly being generous when describing the south. There were no particularly captivating beaches or any such abundance of warm sunlight, but the common people were welcoming him with open arms and plenty of fresh fish to take back to Vichy, which he was glad about. The trip to the coast was certainly a worthwhile endeavor; he had been approached by several mayors of various towns as to whether their application for membership to the party was verified, to which he almost always spat out a joyful ‘But of course!’, since there was no point in denying anyone from Southern France eligibility to run for office; they all seemed smart enough to govern themselves, unlike the Northerners.

There were many years to go on French unification, but Crozier knew his voter base was large and enthusiastic for this new era of French history, and he himself was enthusiastic too. Yes, the push to peacefully integrate all of France would be long and arduous, but reaching that goal would be more rewarding than anything in the past 120 years could speak for.

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