The narrow corridor outside the Quai d'Orsay office still held the prestige of a great empire.
Cold air crept in from the Seine, cutting through the high windows, and whispers drifted through the ministry like smoke from an untended fire.
Major Étienne Moreau stood alone at the end of the hallway, coat in hand, gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against a manila folder.
It contained nothing dramatic notes, press clippings, and reports he had already memorized but holding it gave his mind something to do while he waited.
A secretary stepped out from behind the heavy walnut doors and gave him a brief, polite nod.
"Minister Laval will see you now, Major."
Moreau nodded and stepped inside.
The Foreign Minister's office was a full of grandeur.
Maps of Europe framed in dark oak, a fire crackling in a hearth beneath a painting of Richelieu, and a desk so wide it seemed designed for negotiation rather than paperwork.
