Inside the Palais Bourbon, the war chamber had been stripped bare of its maps and rifles.
Instead, a long oak table had been brought to the center of the room.
Around it sat twenty figures military officers, civil servants.
Moreau sat at the head, not in full uniform, but in a simple coat.
He didn't need medals today.
He needed agreement.
Albert Lebrun sat to his right, the official President of France, though the title now meant something far different.
His eyes were red from exhaustion, but he held himself upright.
Moreau began.
"France has been retaken. Not by kings. Not by generals. By its own citizens. The next war will not be against bullets, but corruption, decay, and betrayal."
Lebrun interjected softly, "And it must be done without repeating the crimes we accused others of."
Moreau nodded. "This government we are about to form it cannot be vengeful. It must be surgical. Swift. Lawful."
He turned to Vincent Auriol and pushed forward a leather-bound folder.
