The streets of Belgrade were dressed in mourning, but the silence was mixed not with reverence but with suspicion.
Black banners hung heavy over old stone buildings, fluttering lifelessly in the damp wind.
Posters of King Alexander I were plastered to every public wall his face stoic, eyes full of a stern melancholy that now seemed prophetic.
On street corners, Serbian Royal Guards stood like statues, their rifles polished, their faces hardened.
After replying to Dufort, Moreau stepped out of the embassy car and onto the wet cobblestone of Kneza Miloša Street in front of the French Embassy.
Renaud followed, adjusting his scarf with a muttered curse about Balkan winters.
Behind them, Ambassador Dufort stepped out, greeted not by smiles, but by a stiff nod from the awaiting Yugoslavian official a tall man in an old blue uniform that looked more ceremonial than practical.
