The clock inside the Ministry's central building ticked faintly.
As there was a rush of people walking around in panic.
Everyone was busy, a scandal or rather a disaster has happened with people now scrambling to mitigate it.
A sharp wind rattled the iron-framed glass as Moreau stepped into General Beauchamp's office the next morning.
The smell of burnt tobacco and stale coffee lingered in the air.
Beauchamp sat behind his desk, the usual neatness of his space replaced by scattered folders, open telegrams, and at least three cigarette butts crushed into a chipped ashtray.
The general looked up slowly.
His eyes were rimmed red, the deep bags under them painting a portrait of a man who hadn't slept properly in days.
It's very obvious whatever has happened was beyond anyone sane understanding.
A King dead and a French minister along with him.
One died by enemy bullet, other by his own people.
"You look like shit, sir," Moreau said, shutting the door behind him.
