Two men sat in leather chairs facing one another.
The glasses in their hands held the last of the red wine.
Renaud poured the final drops into his glass.
"You used to be different," Renaud said, watching Moreau, who hadn't moved in minutes. "You remember that? From '35 to '37, you were relentless."
Moreau didn't respond.
His eyes stayed fixed on the fire.
"I mean it," Renaud pressed. "You were on the radio every week. In the papers. At every damn podium. Screaming about fascism, about Hitler, about not repeating the mistakes of '14. You had fire back then."
Moreau swirled his glass slowly. "Maybe I got tired of shouting into a crowd that covers its ears."
"That's bullshit, Étienne. This isn't you." Renaud leaned forward. "You're not the man who backs down from noise. Now Germany's tearing Czechoslovakia apart like it's leftover game meat, and all you do is sit here and sip wine?"
Moreau blinked, then said softly, "I want him to take it."
Renaud stared. "You what?"
