The Palais Bourbon reeked of cigar smoke and overconfidence.
At the head of the long table, Charles de Gaulle flicked through the German demands with thinly veiled contempt.
"Reparations," he read aloud, the word dripping with disdain. "For what? For accidents? For training shells that fall astray in the fog?"
His ministers chuckled, one of them muttering, "Let the Boches cry to their widows. We owe them nothing."
Another waved the document dismissively. "Apologies? Shall France bow her head to Berlin every time a sentry misfires? They want to shame us, not sue for peace."
De Gaulle leaned back in his chair, long fingers steepled. His voice, calm but edged, cut through the chatter.
"No. We will not apologize. We will not pay. If the Reich wants to posture, let them posture. France will not be humiliated again."
The ministers murmured assent, blind to the shadow their pride was casting across Europe.
