Jean knew that the inexplicable luck that the North American colonists had enjoyed was bound to run out at some point. The British army was far too experienced and powerful to bow to poorly-funded rebellions forever. It was just his luck to pick that particular point in time, he supposed.
Just because he'd been crushed, his rebels executed and his sympathizers driven out, didn't mean that there weren't reasons to be proud of himself. He'd driven the British back, and managed to get them nervous. Whether that was strictly his doing, or a compounding of a lot of other factors, Jean didn't know or particularly care. It'd been done, and he arrived at the office with his arm in a sling and armed guards at his flanks as if he were to receive an honor.
What he supposed he would loosely call his comrades were already in their seats by the time he'd arrived. Oliver seemed impatient to get the matter over with, Matthew fretted over every story about British rage he'd ever heard. They both, though, looked as if they'd spent most of the night pacing the floor, and most of the morning gulping down tea and coffee to cover that up.
Arthur, on the other hand, just looked annoyed. He tapped what had to be Durham's report against the desk. Jean smirked as he was forced into a chair he'd have taken anyway.
The translator, positioned at Jean's right, began to do his job shortly after Arthur did.
"I've read the reports I've been given," he said. "It seems I was mistaken, thinking that letting you handle your governments in the old style would keep you peaceful.. I suppose it was my fault for assuming you could be trusted."
Other than his translator, they remained silent.
Matthew steadily rang the hem of his suit coat with a sweaty palm. His people raged inside of him, torn between wanting to keep fighting and knowing it was time to fold. His French and English halves ran scared, now, but he had to sit as quietly as they did.
He seemed sick over it in ways that neither Jean nor Oliver could bring themselves to.
Oliver didn't show much of any reaction, besides masked annoyance. Jean had been shocked that this boy, adolescent in every sense of the word, could manage the balls to rebel against the Brits he clung to. That it had been an unspectacular effort paled in comparison to the fact that he'd actually stood up and agreed to join in.
Jean had managed respect for him that he hadn't anticipated. It wasn't much, but a significant amount for someone who represented much of what he was fighting against. Oliver had seemed rightfully shocked by it.
For just a child, though, he certainly knew when to shut his mouth and avoid eye contact. Like, for example, when the report left behind the political unrest to move into scapegoating the local French population.
"Just what in the hell did you tell them about me?" Jean snapped.
Oliver showed his hand that the translation wasn't necessary.
"Jean," Matthew said, his French quieter than normal. "I'm sure it wasn't him, you know the sorts of stories that get told by politicians…"
"Don't cover for him," Jean snapped. "He's just trying to save his skin, now."
When Arthur demanded something from Matthew, the translator didn't bother to convert it. The man was on Jean's payroll, but it was clear where his loyalties lay. Jean had to resign himself to the fact that he'd see a great deal more of that in the coming days.
Jean didn't fight it. He chose, instead, to listen to the racing English and watch Oliver count the minutes in his head. The people he'd shielded with lies were waiting for him, now, and all he needed was a final decision on what he'd saved them from.
As if, Jean was sure, he wasn't already aware. He looked a lot of things, but certainly not surprised as the translator started up again.
"Because of the monetary issues, in addition to the governmental ones," Arthur continued, irritably.
He put more force into his tone, Jean figured, because he couldn't believe he had to take control again in his own meeting. He should have learned better. No colony rolled over forever.
"It's become obvious that we need a complete restructuring."
The other two yes-sir'd like beaten children. Jean said nothing, but nobody seemed to expect him to.
"Since two separated Canada's didn't work, we're going to combine you both into one large province. It should be much easier to keep track of the finances and management if certain issues are taken out of the way. I'll do what I can to boost immigration for that, as well."
That Arthur didn't come right out and say he wanted the French influence in Canada to curl up and die showed remarkable restraint. He wanted this passed immediately; to push it through before any of them could read the fine print. Jean knew exactly what he was doing, of course. But, he reminded himself, he was in no real position to fight it.
There weren't many people left who were both willing and able, anymore.
There was another chorus of 'yes, sir', forced out since they had found themselves in the same boat as Jean.
Oliver still wouldn't look at anyone. He signed the paper when it was passed to him while his thumb, outside of his control, rubbed at the spot which would soon be covered by a wedding band. Jean was the only one who noticed, and strictly because he'd found himself doing the same.
Jean was the last to sign the papers, and just like that it was done. A ceremony date would be set to make this somehow more official than it actually was, but as far as anyone was concerned they were now united.
"We'll meet at the courthouse at 8 AM for the ceremony to announce this publically.
Oliver and Jean were dismissed, to allow Matthew to receive more orders and lectures on how this new province should be run.
Outside of the office, in clear but accented French, Oliver asked, "Do you have time to tell everyone you need to before tomorrow?"
Jean looked over at this boy who obviously on some level still believed that they were partners and equals. That he was destined for even half the punishment Jean was. He'd had his debts put onto Jean's shoulders to pay for a service of assimilating French into extinction, and he had the audacity to look at him like a partner.
It took everything Jean had in him not to throw a punch.
He needed to remain professional and mature about this, or else it'd crumble a second time and Lord knew where they'd end up. Assimilation could be fought, if people's wills were strong enough. More permanent, vicious, methods could not.
"I believe so," Jean said, finally. "If you'll excuse me, I have preparations to make."
His body felt different as he walked off, larger and yet somehow constrained. Oliver's stride was stilted, so he knew it, too.
Jean would dictate a letter to his sympathizers while he packed up the belongings he'd bring into the new home. He had to convince them that hope wasn't lost, even if what they hoped for had to be adjusted.
Quickly, though. There was a great deal to be done before morning.
