Departure

7:05 a.m., Gare du Nord (Paris Station).

The steam locomotive's whistle echoed through the platform like a long sigh.

Loran stood at the door of the third-class carriage, his hand resting on the cold metal handrail.

The fog had not yet dissipated, casting a blurry outline over everything on the platform.

Marchand stood below the carriage, wearing a dark coat and holding an unlit cigarette in his hand.

“It takes five hours to get to Sedan,” Marchand said. “Colonel Delattel has already spoken to you; he knows who you are and why you’re going.”

Lorraine nodded. His luggage was simple: a suitcase containing his military uniform, a few books, a copy of the completed report, and an old photograph given to him by his father; the rest he had left in Paris.

"Where's Felix?" Lorraine asked. "He should be on duty at the military police station today."

"He had a mission in the early morning, escorting a batch of documents to the outskirts." Marchand glanced at the clock hanging on the platform. "He should be back by now. I'll go see him at noon."

Loran remained silent for a moment, and the train conductor began urging the last group of passengers to board.

"If..." Loran began, then paused, "If the situation changes, you know what to do."

Marchand understood what he meant. He nodded, took a small tin box from his coat pocket, and handed it to Lorraine: "Leblanc asked me to give this to you. He said the cellars in the southern monastery are large enough to hold a lot of things. They're waiting for you there."

Loran took the metal box but didn't open it. He knew what was inside: a spare key and a hand-drawn map.

"Thank them for me," Lorraine said.

The whistle sounded again, this time more urgently. Steam gushed from beside the wheels, engulfing a corner of the platform.

Marchand extended his hand: "Take care, Lorraine."

The two hands were clasped together, very tightly, but for a very short time.

"You are my brother."

"Take care of yourself too," Lorraine said calmly. "Be careful in Paris."

Marchand nodded, took a step back, and made room for him to get in the car.

Lorraine turned and boarded the carriage, the door closing behind him.

The train slowly started moving, and through the window, Loren saw Marchand's figure gradually disappear into the morning mist, eventually becoming a blurry black dot on the platform.

Then Paris began to recede, the station's vaulted ceiling, the warehouse's red brick walls, and the white dome of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica in the distance slowly merging into the April morning mist.

Lorraine sat down by the window.

The carriage was filled with the smell of tobacco and cheap perfume. Several passengers who looked like workers were playing cards, and a woman was holding a child and humming softly.

Outside the window, houses in the Paris suburbs flashed by, followed by fields, the freshly tilled earth a deep brown in the morning light.

The train accelerated, and Paris completely disappeared from sight.

......

At the same time, at 7:20 a.m., in Durand's apartment in the 7th arrondissement of Paris.

Charlotte sat at the dining table with a cup of cold coffee in front of her. She was wearing loungewear, her hair was casually pulled back, and there were faint shadows under her eyes.

Mother Yvonne came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of freshly baked bread: "Darling, have something to eat. You barely slept last night."

"I'm not hungry," Charlotte said, but still took a slice of bread and mechanically spread butter on it.

Henry Durand came out of his study with today's newspaper in his hand. He glanced at his daughter, said nothing, and simply sat down opposite her, opening the newspaper.

The front page headlines were the same old stuff: photos of exercises along the Maginot Line, the generals' confident smiles, and the official statement about "peace on the western front."

"He's gone?" Henry asked suddenly, still looking at the newspaper.

"The train leaves at seven," Charlotte said calmly. "It should be out of Paris by now."

Yvonne sat down beside her daughter and took her hand: "He will be alright."

"I know," Charlotte said, but her fingers were trembling slightly.

Henry put down his newspaper and took off his glasses: "Sedan is an important defense zone, and the 55th Division is an elite force. Moreover, I've heard of Colonel Delater; he's a real soldier, not one of those bureaucrats sitting in their offices."

Henry's tone was tinged with helplessness.

"I'm fine, Dad," Charlotte forced a smile. "I just need time to get used to it."

She stood up and walked towards her room. At the door, she stopped and turned back to her parents: "I'm going to the Sorbonne Library today. I need to look up some information."

"Okay." Henry nodded. "Come back early tonight. Your mother is making chicken stew with red wine."

Charlotte closed the door, leaned against it, and closed her eyes.

The room was quiet, and she sighed softly.

......

At 8:40 a.m., near Les Invalides in Paris, the headquarters of the 3rd Armored Regiment.

Colonel Charles de Gaulle stood by the window of his office, watching the soldiers doing their morning exercises in the courtyard below. He was so tall that he almost blocked out all the light from the window.

A knock came at the door.

"Come in."

The adjutant pushed open the door and saluted: "Colonel, here's the copy of your transfer order."

De Gaulle took the document and quickly glanced at it. It contained Lorraine's name: transferred to the 55th Infantry Division in Sedan, effective today.

"What's General Bouchard's reaction?" de Gaulle asked, his eyes still on the documents.

"The general bought Lieutenant Lorraine a week to complete the technical report," the adjutant said. "But Major General Gaston insists on transferring him before today."

De Gaulle nodded and placed the document on the table. He walked to the huge map of Europe on the wall, traced the Ardennes Forest with his finger, and stopped at Sedan.

"Someone who knew what was going to happen was sent to the place where it was most likely to happen." His voice was low, as if he were talking to himself. "Irony? Maybe, but it's also an opportunity."

The adjutant asked cautiously, "Colonel, what do you think of Lieutenant Lorraine's analysis?"

"That's right." De Gaulle interrupted him, turning around. "I saw the German armored forces with my own eyes in Poland. They were fast, too fast. And we still believed the Maginot Line could stop everything."

He walked to his desk and picked up his copy of "Building a Professional Army." The edges of the pages were worn, and the book was filled with annotations.

"I wrote this book five years ago, telling everyone that we need a professional, mobile armored force, and nobody listened." De Gaulle tapped his fingers on the book cover. "Now a twenty-six-year-old lieutenant is doing the same thing with a pile of scrap metal and charts, and again, not many people are listening."

The adjutant remained silent.

"But at least," de Gaulle continued, looking out the window, "someone tried. While this country slept, someone tried to wake it, and even if they failed, at least they tried. This means that the power of the people has never been extinguished, and we still have a reason to fight."

He closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

"Send a routine liaison letter to the 55th Division," de Gaulle told his adjutant. "Under the guise of an exchange between armored units, mention Lieutenant Lorrain that he has 'novel insights' on armored tactics and suggest that Colonel Delattel 'pay due attention' to him."

"Yes, Colonel."

After his adjutant left, de Gaulle returned to the map. His finger moved westward from Sedan, across the plains of northern France, and finally stopped at the shore of the English Channel.

He mentally calculated the time, distance, and possible routes to break through.

Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a heavy, almost sorrowful expression in his deep-set eyes.

"It's too late," he said softly. "We're already too late."

......

At 9:30 a.m., in the General Staff building, in General Bouchard's office.

The office was spacious, but it was crowded with documents and maps. On the wall hung photos from the Battle of Verdun, showing a young Bouchard in an officer's uniform standing in front of a trench.

He is now seventy years old. His hair is completely white, his back is slightly hunched, but his eyes are still sharp.

He sat behind his desk, with the complete report that Lorraine had sent him the previous afternoon spread out in front of him.

Technical Analysis on the Possibility of German Armored Forces Breaking Through the Ardennes Forest and the Risk Assessment of the Sedan Defense Zone.

The report was thick, with dozens of pages proving the effort he had put in.

The data is detailed, the charts are clear, the reasoning is rigorous, and the appendix includes the technical parameters of the tank model, test records, and experience summaries from veterans.

Bouchard had read it twice, and each time he read it, the chill in his heart deepened.

If this young man is right—no, from a professional standpoint he is almost certainly right—then France is standing on the edge of a precipice, yet believes itself to be in a fortified stronghold.

A knock came at the door.

"Come in."

Lieutenant Marchand pushed open the door and saluted: "General, you wanted to see me?"

Bouchard looked up at the young officer. He knew about Marchand and Lorraine's relationship, what they were doing, and how much risk they were taking.

"Sit down," Bouchard said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Marchand sat down, his posture upright and his eyes sharp.

"Lieutenant Lorraine left this morning," Bouchard said, not inquiring, but stating.

"Yes, General, the train at seven o'clock."

Bouchard nodded, tapping lightly on the report cover with his fingers. "What do you think of this report?"

Marchand cautiously replied, "I believe the analysis is rigorous and the conclusions are credible. If the General Staff can take it seriously..."

"The General Staff won't," Bouchard interrupted him, his voice heavy with weariness. "I've already submitted the core summary, and the Military Commission's response was: 'Based on too many assumptions, it may affect troop morale; it is recommended that it be archived.'"

He pushed a document across the table; it was the Military Commission's official reply, stamped with the official seal, its wording polite yet cold.

Marchand glanced at it but said nothing.

"Verdun, 1916," Bouchard suddenly said, glancing at an old photograph on the wall. "Before the German attack, we received intelligence that they would use new artillery and poison gas. Command said it was 'alarmism.' As a result, we lost 20,000 men on the first day."

The old man's fingers trembled slightly: "History doesn't repeat itself, but it can be similar. Now, we've heard the warnings again, and we've chosen not to listen."

He looked at Marchand: "Do you know why I insisted on sending Lorraine to Sedan?"

Marchand shook his head.

"Because if his prediction comes true, Sedan will be the first place to engage the enemy." Bouchard's voice was soft. "And if there is someone there who knows what will happen, maybe he can do something, save some people, buy some time, or at least, pass on the truth."

He paused: "Instead of, as in 1916, when everyone died in shock and chaos."

Marchand remained silent because it was too unfair to Lorraine, but it was the best course of action.

The office fell silent.

"Major General Gaston is investigating some matters," Bouchard abruptly changed the subject, his gaze sharpening as he looked at Marchand. "Are you aware of any potential leaks within the military police?"

Marchand felt a tightness in his back, recalling Felix's figure, but kept his face calm: "I don't know the specifics, General."

Bouchard stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded, as if accepting the answer.

"Be careful, Lieutenant," the old man said, his voice carrying a warning tone. "The war hasn't even started yet, but some battles have already begun, and in those battles, rules and ranks don't matter."

"I understand, General."

"Go," Bouchard waved his hand. "Continue your work, but remember, only the living can fight."

Marchand saluted and turned to leave.

After the door closed, Bouchard looked at the report again. His hand traced Lorraine's name on the cover, then he turned to the last page, where there was a handwritten note:

"Even if these analyses are not adopted, even if everything happens according to the worst predictions, I still believe that after the disaster, France will need to know that someone saw the danger and tried to warn them. This is for the sake of future reconstruction, and to prevent the same mistakes from happening again."

Bouchard closed the report, shut his eyes, and two lines of tears streamed down his face involuntarily.

"Colonel de Gaulle, how much this child resembles you."

......

At 10:20 a.m., on a quiet road near Saint-Clue, a western suburb of Paris.

Lieutenant Felix Leclerc stood by the roadside, watching the two black sedans in front of him. The morning mist had dissipated, and the sun was shining brightly, but the forest road remained chilly.

He received orders last night to escort a shipment of diplomatic mail to a private estate in St. Clues.

The mission was routine, at least it appeared to be: four military police officers, two vehicles, and a sealed file box.

The manor was luxurious, with high walls and iron gates. They waited outside the study for forty-five minutes, hearing faint conversations inside—the voices of Major General Gaston and another man, whom Felix recognized as Pierre Laval.

The documents were left behind, the mission was accomplished, and the convoy returned.

And then we were stopped here.

"Lieutenant Leclerc," said the man who stepped out of the black sedan. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but his movements were those of a soldier. "Please come with us. There are some things that need to be clarified."

Felix asked to see his identification.

The other party presented a document from the Department of Defense's Special Investigations Section, signed Gaston, but the handwriting was incorrect; it was too neat.

"I need to contact my superiors," Felix said, his hand slowly moving towards the pistol at his waist.

"There's no need," the man said. "This is your superior's order."

At that moment, Felix understood.

This is not a formal investigation; this is a purge.

Gaston has discovered something—perhaps the photos he secretly took, perhaps his meeting with Marchand, or perhaps some other clue. Now he needs to deal with the potential threat.

He quickly assessed the situation: there were six men on the other side and five on his side, but the four military policemen were unlikely to defy Gaston's orders.

There is no chance of winning in a direct confrontation.

"I'll go with you," Felix said, raising his hands, "but my men are none of this; send them back."

The man laughed: "Unfortunately, they will also be questioned; everyone will be."

Felix's heart sank. He glanced at the four military policemen behind him, all young men about his age.

The convoy was escorted in another direction, not the route back to Paris. Felix sat in the back seat, guarded by two men on either side.

His sidearm was confiscated, but there was something in the heel of his left shoe: a miniature roll of film containing three photos he had secretly taken during the mission the previous night.

The car drove for about twenty minutes and stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse. Felix was taken out of the car and taken into the warehouse, while his four men were taken away separately.

The warehouse was empty, and the floor was stained with oil.

He was led to a small room with only a table, two chairs, and a chandelier.

"Sit down," said the leader.

Felix sat down. His wrists were handcuffed to the armrests of the chair.

The man sat opposite him and pulled out a folder: "We know what you've been doing, Lieutenant. Surveilling high-ranking officers, stealing classified documents, secretly contacting suspicious individuals—each one is enough to land you in a military court."

Felix did not speak.

He observed that the room had only one door and no windows, with two guards inside and others outside.

The film was still inside the heel, but if they searched the person carefully, there was a good chance it would be discovered.

"Who ordered you?" the man asked. "Lieutenant Marchand? Or Lieutenant Lorran?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Felix said calmly. "I was on a routine escort mission. If you have any questions, you can contact the military police headquarters."

The person opened the folder and pulled out several blurry photos, which were clearly taken secretly based on the angle.

Felix met Marchand at the tavern Loren, outside the Bayonet and Rose tavern, in an alley near the General Staff Headquarters.

"Are these routine tasks too?" The man pushed the photos over.

Felix looked at the photograph. They had been watching him for a long time, longer than he had imagined.

"I'm investigating cases of illegal manufacturing of military equipment," he said. "Those contacts are part of the investigation."

"So what did you find out?"

"Under investigation."

The man stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled—a cold smile: "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, your investigation ends here."

He stood up and walked to the door: "I'll give you two hours to think it over. Confess your accomplices, reveal the whereabouts of those veterans, and give me everything you know. Otherwise, you know the consequences."

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was clear.

The door closed.

Felix was left alone in the room, handcuffed to a chair, with the chandelier above him humming with electricity.

He looked down at his shoes. The film reel was still inside the heel of his left shoe.

Three photos: Gaston and Laval shaking hands, a picture of a file box, and a license plate number at the gate of the manor.

If he can get the film roll out, then Major General Gaston is doomed.

But how do we deliver it?

He was handcuffed and guarded outside; the location was unknown.

Time ticked by, and Felix's brain raced.

He knew he might not make it out of this warehouse; he would most likely endure a brutal interrogation and then die here.

But at the very least, he couldn't let the evidence be destroyed, nor could he let Gaston and Laval's deal be completely covered up.