The Gare de l'Est was shrouded in February fog.
Steam hissed from the brakes of a waiting military transport train, and porters in navy-blue uniforms ran between cars, loading crates, duffels, and ammunition cases.
Paris, behind the train station was silent as always except for the native big rats who were having their own adventure in the smell which is supposed to be hidden by the word romantic.
Moreau thought to himself.
Who came here in this rat infested, smelly city and thought yes..this is the smell of romance.
But at the same time the city was so asleep as if reluctant to wake from its centuries-long dreams.
Major Moreau adjusted the collar of his greatcoat
Beside him, Captain Renaud carried a half-burnt cigarette and a brown leather satchel, his expression halfway between admiration and boredom.
"Say what you want about Paris," Renaud muttered, "but she still knows how to look dramatic."
