It was just past six when Moreau stepped off the train at Gare des Invalides, his coat still dusted from Reims.
Not very clean and worned out.
He carried no suitcase, only a brown leather folder under his arm, weathered but clean, sealed with a brass clasp.
Inside were nine pages, six sketches, two data sheets, and one short proposal that he'd rewritten four times before sending a wire to General Beauchamp the night before.
The general had responded with a single word.
Come.
Two hours later, Moreau stood inside Beauchamp's office at the Ministry of War, watching the general flip slowly through the sketches.
The old man's reading glasses sat low on his nose.
His thick eyebrows furrowed more with each page.
For five full minutes, he didn't speak.
Then he looked up.
"What is this supposed to be?"
"A sub-caliber automatic weapon," Moreau said evenly. "For close-quarters. Squad-level support."
Beauchamp set the page down. "We already have the Chauchat for that."
