2 December 1934, Paris
The iron skies over Paris wept quietly on that cold December morning.
The chaos of November was still rang as a memory across the boulevards, but the city had finally begun to breathe again tentatively, uncertainly, like a man recovering from near drowning.
Moreau stood alone in the reading room of the Ministry, gazing out the window toward the Seine.
He had just received word from one of the senior aides Marshal Hubert Lyautey, the last of the great colonial warriors, had passed away quietly in Thorey-Lyautey.
"God," he whispered. "France didn't even have time to thank him."
Behind him, General Beauchamp entered, holding a folded newspaper under his arm.
He didn't say anything at first he simply walked up beside Moreau and stood still, both men watching the fog thicken over the rooftops.
"Did you know him, sir?" Moreau asked at last.
Beauchamp exhaled slowly. "Not personally. But I followed his work like gospel when I was a young officer."
