Next morning Ambassador Charles Dufort stood with his coat wrapped tight around him, puffing on a thin cigarette as Moreau approached with Renaud a few paces behind.
"You're up early, Capitaine," Dufort said, not looking at him.
"I'm leaving," Moreau said, without ceremony.
Dufort blinked. "Leaving? You an for the museum visit later?"
Moreau shook his head slowly. "No, sir. I'm going back to Paris."
Dufort turned sharply, cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers. "Moreau, you've not been sanctioned. The Foreign Ministry hasn't cleared your departure. Your orders are to stay here until...."
Moreau cut him off, his voice low and bitter. "If I wait for orders, there won't be anyone left in Paris to give them."
A long silence followed.
Dufort sighed, long and heavy. "Damn it, Étienne. You're serious."
"Have you seen the telegrams coming in? The reports? We both know where this ends. And soone has to stop it."
"You think you can?"
"No," Moreau said plainly. "But I'll try. And I won't watch my country burn from another man's balcony."
The ambassador looked away, the tension in his jaw betraying his thoughts.
He finally flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe.
"Go then," Dufort said quietly. "Take the plane. I'll make the excuses later. Whatever happens next… at least you tried. That's more than I can say for most of the cowards in Paris."
Moreau saluted him.
Dufort returned it sharp, clean, no hesitation.
"Good luck, Capitaine."
Renaud clapped the ambassador on the back, flashing a tight grin. "Keep the brandy warm, sir. We'll co back alive."
As the Citroën rolled out of the courtyard and toward the waiting airfield, Dufort stood there for a long ti watching until the car disappeared behind the gates.
------
The noise of the Bloch MB.200's engines was still ringing in Moreau's ears as he stepped down onto the tarmac of Le Bourget Airfield.
The cold Parisian air stung his cheeks like open slaps, but it wasn't the wind that made his chest tighten.
Paris, from the mont he landed, felt wrong.
Not the way a city in mourning feels, but the way a city near collapse does.
Behind him, Renaud climbed down, shaking off sleep and stretching stiff legs. "Paris is quiet," he muttered, rubbing his neck. "Too quiet."
Moreau didn't respond.
He was already scanning the periter.
Two liaison officers in civilian trench coats rushed toward them from a nearby Citroën.
"Capitaine Moreau?" one of them asked breathlessly. "We didn't know you were returning. You weren't due back until next week...was there a change?"
"No ti," Moreau replied sharply. "I need to get to General Beauchamp. Where is he?"
"The Ministry of Defense. But… sir, it's chaos."
"We'll manage. Is there a vehicle ready?"
The other liaison stamred. "We....we were about to send for one."
"No need. Just get us inside the city."
The car jerked forward and pulled into the main boulevard.
From the mont they left the airfield's limits, the streets of northern Paris unfurled before them and it was as if they'd crossed into another world.
Paris was under siege.
Not from a foreign army, but from its own people.
Crowds flooded the sidewalks and avenues.
Veterans in faded trench coats with dals pinned to their lapels marched beside students with tattered scarves.
Protesters carried wooden signs scorched at the corners:
"Assez de corruption!"
"Mort aux voleurs!"
"Rendez la République au peuple!"
As they passed the intersection at Rue de Rivoli, Moreau spotted a group of policen sheltering behind a barricade of overturned trams.
They were pelted with stones, bottles, insults.
A small shop on the corner was burning.
No one stopped to put it out.
"They're not protesting anymore," Moreau said quietly. "This is a prelude to civil war."
Renaud, watching the scene in disbelief, muttered, "I've seen cleaner fronts in Artois."
The Citroën attempted to pass through Place de la Concorde, but the way was blocked.
Protesters had raised a barricade with crates, barbed wire, and chairs stolen from nearby cafés.
A group of n with armbands stood behind it, shouting down the car.
"We'll need to reroute," the driver said, visibly pale.
"Do it. Take Rue Royale," Moreau ordered.
As the car curved around the block, Moreau caught a glimpse of a newspaper pasted onto a shattered newsstand.
"Le Peuple Répond – 200,000 dans les rues"
And beneath it, in smaller ink:
"Calls for Pri Minister's resignation intensify. Interior Ministry under siege."
By the ti they reached the Ministry of Defense, Moreau could feel his heart pounding.
The cobblestone roads behind them rang with shouting, the slam of boots on asphalt, the occasional tear gas shell.
He barely waited for the car to stop before leaping out, Renaud right behind him.
Inside, the guards at the lobby recognized him instantly but didn't question his unannounced return.
Their eyes were fixed on the radio, where a garbled announcer tried to describe the unfolding chaos.
"Crowds now in front of the Chamber of Deputies… so are climbing the gates...police attempting to..no confirmation..one officer..."
Moreau stord up the marble steps, down the hallway, and into Beauchamp's office without knocking.
The General was hunched over a desk littered with reports, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his face gaunt with fatigue.
He looked up, startled.
"Moreau? What the hell are you...."
"Sir," Moreau cut him off, breathing heavily, "I had to return. Yugoslavia is no longer the most urgent crisis. France is.
Beauchamp stood slowly, staring at him. "We were told you were staying until the 25th. What happened?"
Moreau stepped closer, voice lowering. "Sir, I've been tracking this pattern. It's not just random discontent. This is a coordinated disintegration. And if we don't do sothing now, we'll be the ones fleeing our capital."
Beauchamp blinked. "You think this is the end?"
"No," Moreau said. "I think it's the test. If we fail this, the end will follow."
The General nodded slowly and gestured toward the map pinned to the wall.
Red circles had been drawn over key intersections of the city: Bastille, Place de la République, Saint-Lazare, the Chamber.
"We've been watching it unfold. But it's worse than we calculated. Reports of weapons among the Croix-de-Feu. Isolated police mutinies. The Cabinet is… paralyzed."
Moreau stepped closer. "Then give them a reason to act."
Beauchamp crossed his arms. "You have sothing in mind?"
"Give them the Pri Minister. Resign him. And the most corrupt among the ministers. Make it public. Loud. Let the people feel like they have taken sothing back."
The general exhaled. "You want to hand them blood?"
"No. A symbol. Sothing they can claim as victory. Then I will go out. I'll speak. . A decorated officer. No dals from corruption, no ties to the parliant. Let address them. Show them we're not all cowards behind desks."
Beauchamp was stunned into silence.
Finally, he sat. "That's... drastic. Borderline insubordinate."
"So is revolution, sir."
Renaud, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward. "I'm with him, General. If we don't do sothing now, we might be seeing the last winter of this Republic."
Beauchamp stared between them.
"You two are out of your minds."
"Maybe," Moreau said. "But at least we still care."
There was a silence so deep the crackling radio in the corner felt like thunder.
Beauchamp sat down.
"You really believe you can calm them?"
"No," Moreau admitted. "But I can make them listen."
Beauchamp stood again.
"Co," he said at last. "We're going to the Élysée."
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