Next day, morning of the funeral procession in Belgrade arrived shrouded in cold air and unspoken grief.
The city had been holding its breath for days, and now, as the sun struggled to break through the cloud the people couldn't hold it back anymore.
The tears started falling as door to flood gates were open.
From every corner of the capital, mourners flooded toward the wide boulevards and narrow alleys, dressed in black coats and thick scarves.
Soldiers lined the roads, standing at full attention, rifles in hand.
Étienne Moreau stood with the French delegation near the eastern end of the royal boulevard.
He wore his dress uniform, freshly pressed, his cap tucked under his arm.
To his right stood Ambassador Dufort, his breath fogging the air.
A Yugoslav official approached quietly. "The procession will begin in twenty minutes," he said in heavily-accented French.
"You will follow behind the British and Italian delegations."
Dufort nodded respectfully. "Understood."
