Beyond Revanche, page 12
“Yes? Can I help?” She was the stout gate-keeper, and reveled in her power to control.
I froze. I must admit I always had difficulty in dealing with assertive women. Always.
“Can I help?” Her tone was more like a final demand.
“Ehm, Monsieur Jaurès?”
“Yes?”
“Can I speak with him please?”
“Not here, Monsieur,”
“Pardon?”
“He’s gone for dinner. Don’t know when he will be back.”
She had dealt with hundreds of interlopers over the years. It was no contest. Brush in hand, chins bulging, bosom raised in defiance, she glared at me with a look that said, Thou shall not pass.
I backed into the street and turned towards the Rue Croissant. Such a tourist-trap name, Rue Croissant. I glanced at the café-restaurant next door and stopped breathing. Jaurès was sitting there, at the open window, his back turned away from the crowd outside. Head bowed, I walked on for fifty meters, hands in pocket, disinterest personified. How had I managed to miss the devil-incarnate sitting in the window like a prize exhibit. I knew that this was it. This was the moment. Now. Now or never. A flood of adrenalin surged through me, defying resistance. I felt the gun in my left hand warm to the touch. It was ready, too. Go. Five steps, draw gun and…
The noise ricocheted from every angle of Rue Montmartre and Rue Croissant like a cannonade in an echo chamber. I ran.
10
July 31st-August 1, 1914 – The Death of Reason
Mathieu was on his feet faster than the first fluttering pigeon. His iron-backed chair bounced on the pavement, shocked to find itself abandoned to such violence. The crowd’s collective attention began to turn down Montmartre in slow-motion surprise, but the only words he heard were his own.
“Non. Non. Non.”
He and Pascal had been sitting at a café-bar on the corner of Rues Saint-Marc and Feydeau, still taking turns to amble down Montmartre every ten minutes to ensure that no known undesirables were hanging around. It was a hopeless task. The narrow old streets were thronged with weekend tourists, holidaymakers, city-dwellers, and rural visitors. It was a time of youth and pleasure. Bars and cafés jostled to accommodate the crowds who had come to eat and drink-in the atmosphere. Paris glowed with the health of nations. Alive. Exuberant. Noisy. Full of its own importance. To be in Paris was to be at the center of culture, style, and all that was new. Unless, of course, you survived in the thankless shadows of society’s underclass. But who cared about them?
In the midst of this tumult they were more on duty than on guard, lulled into the boredom of resignation that assumed they had wasted their day and their time; that nothing would happen. Jean Jaurès had been seated in Café Croissant for more than an hour and not one person had noticed him. Over the years he had grown to be part of Montmartre, one of her sons. There he sat in the bosom of his adopted mother, enjoying her patronage, nurtured by her many blessings, until…
Both shots shattered the back of Jean Jaurès’ head and blew the world asunder. He was thrown violently forward onto the table as the window space exploded behind him. No last farewell. No longer L’Humanitè. His disciples were aghast. The shock of disbelief was followed by confusion, screams of horror, and gasps of piercing pain. Panic filled the café and spilled into Montmartre. Inside and out, the moment made no sense. Jaurès’ defiled body had been thrown onto the marble tabletop, untidily set, bathed in lingering stench of cordite. Incredulous, his colleagues tried desperately to make good the irreparable damage. A sub-editor grabbed a handful of serviettes to soak up the blood as if it could be poured back into his friend. Droplets of grey matter began to slip down the table leg to the floor. A doctor rushed to Jean’s side, his hands trembling, the savagery marking him for life. He hesitated to touch the statesman’s neck in search of a lost pulse but found none. He shook his head in sorrow.
“Gentlemen, Monsieur Jaurès is dead.”
All hope evaporated, though in truth there was never hope. The great man had been murdered in cold blood before their very eyes. Transfixed in misery, someone began to sob, so deeply, so passionately, so honestly, that the table shook. Within seconds the sobs reached biblical proportions. The enormity was utterly incomprehensible.
Though those around the table had frozen in horror, one of the company’s print workers, Robert Tissier, was standing by the door. Nicknamed “the greyhound,” Tissier had been a member of one of the Paris gymnastic clubs in the 1880s where his prowess as a sprinter meant that the mainly bourgeois members tolerated his inclusion in their well-heeled ranks. He looked like a greyhound, grey of head and still sleek of body. His fellow workers were frequently annoyed by the rate at which he constructed a flawless print plate. Speed pumped though his veins. Even at work he needed to run between machines as if the hand of time was eternally set against him. When the gunshots rocked Café Croissant, he reacted like it had been a staring pistol and was first into the street, walking-stick in hand. Mathieu charged towards the screams from the direction of Saint-Marc, but the assassin was already on the run. Others joined the pursuit and the gunman fired a third bullet in their general direction. No one flinched. The runner had memorized the escape route dictated to him by his guardian angels, and dropping the revolver from his right hand, he charged towards the metro station on Bourse, down Rue Reaumur and across the side street at Rue Leon-Cladel. The killer tried to increase his stride but his new shoes caught on the uneven cobbles. He slipped as he reached the corner and Tissier was upon him. One swipe of the walking stick disabled the assassin’s left knee and he collapsed.
“Bâtard lâche, you cowardly bastard.” Howls of anguish rocked the wary cobbles.
Mathieu, barely a second behind, pushed Tissier away and stood over the prostrate body, arms outstretched trying to reason with a wolf pack set to rip out the murderer’s throat.
“Stand back. Police. We’ve got him, we’ve got him. Back, I said.” A flurry of kicks were directed towards the gunman, but with Mathieu obstructing the prone body, few hit their target.
“He’s killed Jean. Killed Jean Jaurès.”
“Shot him in the back. The greatest man in France.”
Mathieu hauled the assailant roughly to his feet. Where were the reinforcements?
“Murderer!” a worker screamed into the assassin’s face, spittle projecting with venomous intent.
“Cowardly fucking murderer.” Other voices threatened instant retribution.
The policeman dragged his quarry towards boulevard Reaumur where the streetlight offered a moment’s respite. Anonymity melted under the bright lamps, but with the crowd incensed, they did not care. Blind anger fueled the fires of an unreasonably hot night.
Captain Pascal Girard was the oldest man in the prefecture. Neither the brightest nor the most convivial, but experienced and streetwise. He had not followed Mathieu towards the gunshots, but turned in the opposite direction. Pascal grabbed two gendarmes who had been watching the crowds from the opposite end of Rue Montmartre, aware that something had happened further down the street. He flashed his identity card and spoke with the authority it carried.
“Find a telephone, call Commander Roux of the Mobile Police unit, and tell him what’s happened.”
“What?”
“Jean Jaurès has been shot.” He swung round to the other and shouted, “Get into the van and drive like France depends on it.”
“Bourse,” he rasped in annoyance when the gendarme looked at him blankly. The streets of Paris were imprinted in Pascal’s brain. He calculated the probabilities of an escape route and followed his instinct. “Get onto Rue Reaumur as fast as you can. Officer in pursuit of possible murderer.” The police wagon swung onto the tree lined boulevard beside the Bourse and Pascal Girard smiled to himself. “Clever boy. Got them under the street light.” The wagon braked to a screeching halt beside the assailant and the policeman, still fending off the screaming mob. From the baying crowd, someone handed Mathieu a gun.
“He threw it away.”
“Thanks, Monsieur. I’ll…” But whoever it was, disappeared.
The crowd continued to gather around them, outraged at the news. Some had seen Jaurès’ lifeless body though the café window and sought instant retribution. The captive was hauled into the van without ceremony and driven from immediate danger. Once inside, his attitude rapidly changed. Was it self-pity? Mathieu held him tight in an arm lock, aware of his own anger, part directed at his prisoner, and partly at himself. If only he had stayed close to Café Croissant. An alternative world can be built on if only.
“You don’t have to hold me so hard. I’m not going to run away,” the murderer complained.
Pascal had an urge to slap him hard. So he did. The prisoner’s response surprised them.
“Would you take the revolver from my left pocket, please. It might go off.”
Startled, the two policemen held him down and Pascal removed a second gun.
Helpless, the disbelieving diners in Café Croissant stared at their lifeless friend in the horror of real time. He was no more. Taken from them in mid-sentence, the violence of his murder so extreme that reality turned to absurdity in a flash. Forlorn hope numbed the room. Then the clamor from the street poured in though the open window and cries of indignation and disgust filled the room. An unforgivable crime had been committed in their presence. There was no way back. No alternative ending to the tragedy. A debilitating paralysis followed the shock. What to do? What would Jean Jaurès have done?
“My friends,” the depute editor’s voice rose above his ever-loyal comrades, “we have a paper to print.” His voice broke, his bravery challenged by a bursting heart. He tried again and found the words. “Clear the front page: we have a tribute like no other to construct. The government ignored him in life. We can still make them listen through his death.” Brave words. They needed to hear brave words but in the hearts and minds of each of his colleagues Jean Jaurès’ legacy became their most treasured possession. A man had been killed, but his ideal could live on. They could make that happen, surely? The details, every moment of the dastardly event filled the pages of the morning edition of L’Humanitè. The front page of for 1st August 1914 read Jaurès Assassiné, and all hell was let loose.
Commander Roux reached the police station before the wagon swung into the courtyard and instantly doubled the guard. He knew that Jaurès’ assassination would already be widely known. Only the plague spread faster than bad news.
“Bring him into the interrogation room immediately, and keep outsiders away.”
Raoul Villain was shoved into the cramped space they called a room. It was as sparse as his own above the tabac. Probably little more than two cells knocked into one. He stood before Bernard Roux and raised his head. Was that defiance or resignation? They would soon find out.
“Sit down on that chair,” Commander Roux ordered, asserting his status. The words really meant I am in charge and you will do as I say.
The assassin cut an unexpected figure. Tall, blond, and elegantly dressed, he looked like a dancer at the Moulin de la Galette. His carefully groomed moustache, short-cut hair, expensive suit, pleated shirt with collar and cuffs, straw hat, and polished shoes placed him in a league of upper-class gentlemen. His possessions included two nickel-plated revolvers. The first he had thrown away during the chase; the second, of course, he had surrendered. Sixty-five francs were found inside his jacket pocket, but no wallet. Nothing in his appearance fitted with the image the Tigres had expected.
“Name?” Roux howled directly into the suspect’s face, causing him to shudder.
He coughed and bowed his head. “Raoul Villain.”
Dubois punched him in the ribs. “Don’t get fresh. What is your proper surname.”
“Villain.”
The commander intervened. “Leave that for now. Tell me what happened tonight?”
A sense of self-assuredness raised itself into his reply. “I killed Jaurès. I slew the enemy of France.” He made it sound like David versus Goliath.
Roux nodded encouragingly. “How did you do this?”
“I saw him in the café at the open window and killed him.”
“Explain how. Precisely how.”
Villain appeared to grow in confidence, as if he was beginning to enjoy the audience. “I saw Jaurès through the open window, moved aside the curtain with my left hand, and fired two shots at him with the revolver in my right hand.” So cold; so precise.
“Why?”
Villain had not expected to explain such an obvious question. “We have to punish traitors.”
“Ah, so who was with you?”
“Pardon?”
“You said ‘we.’ You certainly did not do this on your own, monsieur. Who else was there?”
Villain took stock. His face betrayed confusion. Guy Simon slipped into the room and stood behind Raoul Villain. He had the pistols in his hand, but only his colleagues could see them. The interrogation continued unabated.
“And in a crowded street, you had time to carefully move the window curtain before shooting the unarmed man in the back of the head? No one saw you. No one shouted a warning?” Mathieu ought not to have interrupted, but the chief kept his gaze firmly fixed on Raoul Villain.
They tried a frontal team attack.
“If you had to move the curtain, how did you recognize the back of Jaurès’ head?
“Where did you purchase the guns?” Guy added. “Nickel-plated, I see. Expensive, eh?
“Is that a new suit?
“Where were you running to?”
“What was your plan of escape?” Questions were fired with such rapidity that Villain’s head spun round in shock. His face betrayed his confusion. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure of himself. Mathieu watched the assassin try to steady himself as if he realized for the first time that he was on the point of stepping into a trap.
“Were you told to say nothing?”
Alarm visibly registered, eyes widened, brow furrowed as if to ask, My God, can you read my mind?
Roux softened his voice reassuringly. “Were you given instructions, Raoul? Were you forced to do this?”
His eyes darted from Roux to Dubois and then Mathieu, while inside his head he struggled to find an answer. You could almost hear him trying to work it out. They’re being nice to me. Be careful.
Dubois picked up the wad of notes which had been taken from Villain’s jacket. “Where did you get these francs from?” Again the silence of confusion.
“Do you know how much money you have in your pocket?” Girard asked. It was a simple question.
“No, er, yes, of course. Yes.”
“Which?” Everyone in the room knew that had the commander left, Dubois would have resorted to the straightforward process of beating the truth out of him. Instead, Bernard Roux repeated
“You said that you were given instructions?”
Though he had refused to answer the question previously, Villain’s reaction was edged with panic. “No, No.”
The commander repeated his question “Who gave you instructions? You said you were given instructions.” The commander’s voice was raised. Angrier, ever more assertive.
The prisoner swung round shaking his head vehemently. “No, I didn’t. I meant that I know how much money I have.”
“And how much is that?” Dubois closed his fist round the notes, forming them into a paper knuckle-duster.
“Em,” Villain struggled to remember, “six…”
“…hundred?”
“Less. Much less. Not six hundred.”
“Where did you buy your revolvers?” Guy Simon planted a firm hand on his shoulder. Villain shuddered. The interrogation never broke stride.
“A suit from Hermes, or is that a fake label?” Mathieu observed with apparent interest. “We’d all love to have enough money to buy our clothes at Hermes.”
Dubois leaned forward and roared, “How much have you spent today?”
The commander pursued his own line. “Who forced you to do this?”
“You are a member of Action française.” The captain drew the statement from the ether. It blindsided Villain and punctured what was left of his bravado.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not illegal, is it?”
It was the manner in which he admitted the fact which struck them all forcibly, almost as if they found the link he had been denying.
“You know people in Action française? Important people?” Mathieu slowed the pace down to calm the assassin.
Villain’s confusion ran ahead of his capacity to think. “They didn’t tell me what to do. I did it myself.”
“So who did, Raoul? You can tell us. Who put you up to killing Jean Jaurès for France?”
“I don’t know names…”
The door burst open and the assistant prefect of police stormed in. All except Villain stood to attention, as shocked as they were surprised. God’s right hand man had descended once more from on high and stood once more in their presence. He glared, not at Villain, but at the commander.
“I was told you were bringing him to headquarters. In fact, you were instructed to,” he shouted angrily, flecks of spittle flying in all directions. His jowls shook in uncoordinated fashion as if trying to catch up with the rest of his face. “You appear to think that you can do as you like, Monsieur Roux. Well you can’t.”
Roux shrugged in apparent surprise. “Dear me, my apologies.” His lack of sincerity was obvious. “I suspect that there has been a failure in communications. Were you aware of this, Captain Girard?”
“No, Sir. Bertrand and I simply brought him to the nearest police station. Here. For protection, Sir.”
