It began as a whisper.
The news rippled across the arrondissements like a tide breaking through stone.
"Chautemps is out."
"And Tardieu?"
"Him too. Gone."
"And Moreau he's speaking. From the Élysée."
It wasn't printed on official broadsheets at first.
It spread from mouth to mouth.
From soldier to student.
Seamstress to shopkeeper.
In alleyways and courtyards, across bridges and bakeries.
The city paused to listen and then surged forward like a spring uncoiled.
By noon, thousands had gathered at Place de la Concorde.
By two, they were tens of thousands.
People stood shoulder to shoulder, worn out boots next to polished shoes, calloused hands beside gloved fingers.
Parisians climbed lamp posts and stood atop benches and wagons to glimpse the Élysée's high balcony.
Veterans in worn trench coats pinned with Croix de Guerre leaned against canes.
Young boys waved faded tricolors.
Women clutched radios, straining to hear any crackle of confirmation.
