The corridors of the École Militaire, once filled with the easy swagger of officers, had grown tense, hushed.
The marble floors echoed with clipped footsteps, voices lowered to whispers.
Each week seemed to bring new tragedy, and the mood within France's high command soured into unease.
In the war room, maps of the frontier lay unfurled across a vast table, dotted with pins and scrawled notes.
Yet none of the generals spoke of maneuvers or plans. Their conversation circled instead around the dead.
"General Dupont," one muttered, adjusting his spectacles. "A heart attack, they said. But he was barely sixty."
"Barely sixty and drank like a fish," another replied, but his voice lacked conviction. "These things happen."
"And Marchand," the first officer pressed. "Killed in that car crash. Tires don't just burst like that."
Silence followed. Every man present had thought the same, but none dared say it openly.
