Word: orsay
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Traffic was thick on Paris' imposing Champs Elysées. A sleek Cadillac bearing U.S. Secretary of State Dean Acheson swung around the Rond-Point, headed for the French Foreign Ministry on the Quai d'Orsay. Round the other side, headed in the opposite direction, sped a Citroën bearing French Foreign Minister Robert Schuman. The Frenchman's chauffeur slammed on his brakes as another Citroën, with Belgium's Paul-Henri Spaak inside, cut across his bow. A stately Rolls-Royce carrying Britain's Ernest Bevin slid in behind Schuman...
...bustled with their comings & goings. Inherited from the War Department in 1947, "New State," as the cab drivers called it, was little used to such pomp & circumstance. Its bare rooms held few memories; its stark corridors suggested no history. Even its name lacked the savor of Quai d'Orsay or Whitehall...
...great day for the impeccable Jacques Dumaine, chief of protocol at the Quai d'Orsay, who is known around press rooms and chancelleries as Jeeves. In magnificent cutaway, his monocle fixed now in his right, now in his left eye, he was the embodiment of conventional diplomacy. With discreet gestures of guidance, he led delegate after delegate to a huge table in the French Foreign Ministry's Galerie de la Paix where the Allies signed their lenient peace treaties with Hitler's former allies, Hungary, Rumania and Bulgaria. After the signing, the treaties were sent to Moscow...
...small grey building on Paris Quai d'Orsay, tucked away between the French National Assembly and the former Foreign Ministry, lives Elder Statesman Edouard Herriot, Assembly president and perennial mayor of Lyon. In his pale green salon, Herriot last week received several diplomatic callers. They settled on red-upholstered, gilt Louis XV chairs, beneath five huge crystal chandeliers, to discuss one of Europe's great hopes: Western Union. They got nowhere. Britain and France were deeply divided...
Panting and wheezing, the concierge climbed to the sixth floor of the grey building at 53 Quai d'Orsay, overlooking the same stretch of the summery Seine as the nearby French Foreign Office. A 64-year-old World War I veteran, Louis-Christophe Gaillard was a vacation substitute for the regular concierge at the Hotel du Tabac (so called because it used to house the French state tobacco monopoly). He shuffled into the main conference room, where a council meeting of the Organization for European Economic Cooperation had just ended. Gaillard moved around the green-clothed table, carefully collecting...