Spring was as lovely as ever in Paris. Pale candle flames blossomed on the chestnut trees in the Champs Elysées, and the terrace cafés spread their chairs and tables out across the sidewalks again. Lovers exchanged lilies of the valley, and concierges, in good humor after the winter hibernation, restored their bird cages to outside window ledges. But beneath the soft blue sky, Paris was in torment; the war in Algeria was now like the Indo-China war at its worst. But unlike Indo-China in the days of Dienbienphu, no end, whether in defeat or victory, was...
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