IT hardly seemed possible, but Charles de Gaulle was gone. At one moment he had been there, seemingly as durable as the Arc de Triomphe, the most commanding figure ruling any nation, large or small, on the face of the earth. Now, abruptly, he was a retired country gentleman, a recluse in the tiny village of Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises sorting his memoirs, to be glimpsed only through a furtive telephoto lens and, most astonishing, to be heard not at all. Within twelve hours after his resignation in the wake...
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