The spring rain is continuous, soft as silk.
The early morning in the 16th district of Paris is silent; the wealthy area usually doesn't wake up this early.
Because those who live here don't need to prepare for work before sunrise like the common people, or busy themselves with their children's school, or line up early to claim rationed supplies.
If there is any movement here, it would certainly be the servants in the kitchen preparing breakfast for their masters.
Clemenceau, dressed in pajamas, holding a lit cigar, stared blankly at the fine rain outside the window, his gaze longing, seemingly trying to leap beyond the series of luxurious villas before him to see the distant horizon.
He had tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep, pondering Charles' words.
Charles had made him realize a harsh reality: he, Briand, and many other politicians were mere pawns.
The true contenders were Charles and the capitalists standing against him.
