The Palais Bourbon reeked of cigar smoke and hubris.
At the far end of the table, Charles de Gaulle flicked his long fingers over a map, the corners weighted down by ashtrays and half-empty glasses.
A colonel leaned forward eagerly, pointing with a pencil.
"Successful strike, General. The German outpost at Saarbrücken has been silenced. Reports indicate several dozen casualties."
A ripple of laughter spread around the table. One minister muttered, "Perhaps this time the Boches will think twice before whining for reparations."
Another added, "Berlin will issue another note, no doubt. Demands for apologies, demands for gold. They think to shame France with parchment. Let them try."
De Gaulle leaned back in his chair, exhaling smoke, his eyes glittering.
"A fine day's work, gentlemen. Keep the pressure constant. Every shell reminds Berlin who dictates the frontier."
But then the doors burst open. A pale aide stumbled inside, clutching a telegram. His voice trembled.
