Later that night. A room in French army headquarters. It is an elegant room with large windows, rich hangings, soft lamplight. A large painting of Petain hangs on the wall.
In the distance we hear the intermittent rumble of artillery.
Seated in a deep armchair, smoking a large cigar, looking pensively at the ceiling, is an elderly soldier, GENERAL KLEY. He is medium-sized, with a tendency to a comfortable stoutness. His face is unmilitary, despite a rather bristling white mustache.
At a window, peering out, is another General, GENERAL, ROUCHEAU, a harsh-looking, rugged man of about sixty. He seems nervous. His movements are Jerky, he flicks a cigarette away abruptly.
Standing with his back to the audience, his hands clasped comfortably behind his back, is GENERAL MOUSSET. He is a tall, handsome, younger man than the others, aged only about fifty, and looking younger than that. He is at ease, seems half-bored, half-amused at all times, completely urbane.
Damned hour for the Admiral to call a conference! 4:30 in the morning.
The Americans are very inconsiderate about their invasions, Roucheau. They invade at unfashionable hours. What do you expect? It's a young country.