Hôtel Matignon
Late Friday afternoon, Left Bank, Hôtel Matignon, offices of the permanent secretariat to the Président du Conseil, the formal name of the office of the premier. The swarthy, dark-haired man with the black brush mustache and the white silk tie walked down the high-ceilinged hallway, his shoes making a light tapping sound as the soles hit the highly polished parquet floors. Coming to the open door of a spacious office overlooking the rear park with its long lawns and columns of trimmed trees, the man knocked lightly and stepped inside. The dark-suited man sitting behind the desk sprang to his feet and walked around the desk to greet his visitor.
“Monsieur le Premier, may I be at your service?”
The swarthy man politely replied, “Monsieur le Secrétaire Général, I wanted to meet your staff since we will all be working together on the most arduous tasks in the coming weeks. Paring down the public spending to balance the budget will be a severe test.”
The secrétaire général responded, “Of course, the service administratif stands ready to assure the smooth functioning of the government.” The secrétaire général smiled at the premier with an appraising glance; the premier was now a wealthy Paris lawyer, but he had started as a bumpkin from the provinces. He was admiringly referred to as the shrewdest peasant in France.
Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads Page 4