The Versailles Palace was silent.
Not the solemn quiet of ceremony or contemplation.
But the oppressive stillness of a mausoleum, where even the walls seemed to mourn what had just been lost.
General Charles de Gaulle stood alone in his private study, arms crossed behind his back, his reflection long and distorted in the rain-flecked window before him.
Outside, Paris wept.
A steady downpour streaked the glass, as if the heavens themselves wished to wash away the shame.
Spain had fallen.
And with it, the last bulwark against the inevitable.
Reports had arrived in the early morning hours. Not filtered through diplomats or softened by press secretaries.
No, these were raw, brutal dispatches, delivered straight from the front, compiled by France's remaining agents in the field.
Barcelona had fallen without a protracted siege.
The Republican command had crumbled.
French volunteers had either fled or surrendered.
