TIME: Evening, early in November, 1942.
The curtain rises on a small room, a modest bar. The bar itself is in a small arc, cutting off one corner of the room, with a meagre array of bottles, mostly wines and vermouth, on two or three shelves behind it. There is a spigot for beer to one side. There is a sword hanging over the bar. Aside from the main entrance there is another door leading to the kitchen.
A round, sturdy old man with a stiff brush of whitish hair stands behind the bar, polishing glasses, drinking from time to time from a water tumbler of red wine. This is GUSTAV BOUBARD, proprietor of the place.
Standing at the bar is a little, clerklike-looking man in an overcoat and muffler which tend to engulf him. He wears a derby hat. He is drinking vermouth, slowly.
There is a radio behind the bar and pictures of Marshal Petain and Napoleon on the walls. The atmosphere of the place is pleasant, run-down, friendly.
Seated at one of the tables is a young couple. The man is dark, pale, aged around 23. This is LUCIEN GERARD. He is not well-dressed, and his overcoat, which he is wearing, is bulging with books. He is good-looking, intense, nervous, a student. The girl is CHRISTINE THEODORE, young and very pretty. She is blonde and just a little plump and her mannerisms are