General Charles Lacheroy, a studious man in appearance with close-cut hair and thick eyebrows, sat behind his desk at the École Militaire in Paris. Outside, Marshal Joffre looked in bronze relief across the Champ de Mars at the Eiffel Tower, his country's most recognizable monument.

It had been a week since General Salan's call, and he spent time mulling over what they had discussed. The socialists were, without a doubt, conspiring with the communists. They voted as an almost unbreakable bloc in the Presidential election, and in the municipal elections before then there was collaboration all over France. The evidence was mounting. Salan had asked a pertinent question: Was France to become like Italy? The Republic held hostage by the PCF while leftists burned away the national identity?

At least, Lacheroy had thought, there was no King for them to throw in prison like the Italian communists. Small recompense.

Lacheroy looked out his office window, down into the courtyard on the interior of the building, looking away from the Eiffel Tower. He stood, leaning against the window frame. What thoughts ran through his mind! The treason they were plotting. They would be heroes... unless things went against them.

There was a knock at the door, and a young lieutenant entered. "General, General Zeller awaits outside."

Lacheroy nodded. "He can enter."

A moment later, General André Zeller stepped through the door, kepi stashed neatly under his arm. He was the commanding officer of the 3rd Military District, in Rennes, a sharp officer who'd served in both World Wars. Lacheroy saluted, Zeller returned it, and the lieutenant shut the door. They waited for his footsteps to fade.

"Salan called," Lacheroy said, gesturing for his guest to take a seat. He moved to his own desk and opened the drawer, withdrawing a polished cigarette case and taking two out. He offered one to Zeller, who accepted it, and lit them both. "The attitude in Algiers is poor."

"I can imagine," Zeller responded, exhaling a cloud of smoke and sighing. "Good cigarettes."

Lacheroy nodded and grinned. "Imports. Don't tell anyone."

Another puff. Zeller chuckled. "Your secret is safe, believe me."

"What of your brother?" Lacheroy asked, leaning back in his chair. "The defense of Paris is essential."

"Henri won't take up arms against his dear brother," Zeller responded. "I shall have to speak with him."

"Do so carefully," Lacheroy warned. "We can't have some gendarme running off to his commissar having heard of something he shouldn't have."

Zeller rolled his eyes. "You take me for a fool, don't you, Lacheroy?"

"No," Lacheroy responded quickly. "I admit... I am worried. Too many people know something is in the air. It is only a matter of time until...."

"Then," Zeller said, standing and picking his kepi up from the desk, "We shall have to act faster. While I am in Paris I will pay dear Henri a visit, I think."

"So be it," Lacheroy replied.

With another puff Zeller stubbed out his half-finished cigarette in an ashtray on the desk. "Thank you for the cigarette, General," Zeller said. "I will act with the utmost caution."

"Merci," Lacheroy said, standing as his guest departed. Zeller closed the door behind him, leaving Lacheroy alone with his thoughts again.