The morning after the final verdicts.
Paris awoke in an unexpected silence
On the narrow streets of Saint‑Germain‑des‑Prés.
Henri, a poet scarred by the decade's turbulence, sat at a corner table with three friends Louise, a former schoolteacher, Marcel, a middle‑aged journalist and Colette, his junior intern.
"Listen," Henri whispered, stirring his café au lait slowly.
"We judged a man once called France's savior and we listened carefully instead of tearing him apart."
Louise's eyes glistened. "And justice was calm," she said. "Measured. Not vengeful."
Marcel leaned in, tapping his notebook.
"My editor insists this is more than drama it's a rebirth. France didn't fracture. We stayed standing."
Colette, exhausted after weeks of midnight press desks, added quietly.
"Even in the shadows, I felt something shift like history shifted too."
Outside, 1 in the 11th arrondissement.
Emma, a miner's wife, adjusted the radio knob as her husband Pierre entered.
