Beyond Revanche, page 14
Their taxi slowed to a halt behind a lame horse whose cart was laden with barely edible vegetables. Under the relentless heat they would be useless by lunchtime.
“We have a problem.”
“I’m sorry?”
Roux interrupted once more. “Not you, idiot boy, not you. Someone in the prefecture told Guichard about your notes. He tried to berate me earlier, before the general arrived. He began with the phrase, ‘I am informed that…’ No one outside that interrogation room knew you still had your notes. If he was informed, it was from the inside. Not me. Not you. This leaves us with the embarrassment of suspecting Simon, Dubois, or Girard.”
“Surely not.” Mathieu was unconvinced. “Surely not.”
They sat in silence as the taxi edged past the stricken cart horse. “What did you make of the interview?” mused Roux.
“There was one item on Messimy’s agenda. He wanted to know if we intended to investigate Raoul Villain further. To pursue our belief that he did not act alone.”
“Correct. Hennion told me that the government was caught out by the murder last night. They knew Jaurès was in danger, but not that the assassin would strike so quickly. At one stage the president and prime minister considered recalling three cavalry divisions from the border regions in case the workers took to the streets today. Someone steadied their nerves. Not certain who. Might have been that Russian ambassador or one of the other real power-brokers. In the end Poincaré decided to keep some cavalry in reserve, and use the press to tell their version of the story first. Have you read today’s paper?”
“No.”
Bernard Roux took L’Humanitè from inside his jacket and handed it to Mathieu. “Bottom of the fourth column, front page.”
Printed there was an open letter to Jean Jaurès’ wife.
“Why did the president of the republic send Madame Jaurès a letter of condolence in the middle of the night?” It made no sense to Mathieu.
“In which he urges national unity, please note,” Roux added, thinking aloud. “And have it delivered to the newspapers in time for publication this morning. And why make it public?
“He wants to keep the socialists on-side. United against Germany.” Mathieu tried to help.
Roux nodded rhythmically. “Understandable of course. But his speed is almost indecent.”
“Neither the Élysée Palace nor Quai d’Orsay are noted for quick responses to anything. That I have learned in my short career.” Mathieu had watched the diplomatic corps take twenty minutes over a decision on whether or not to have coffee. “Do you think they prepared this statement in advance? Ready for the event because they expected Jaurès’ assassination?”
Bernard Roux looked straight ahead towards the river, letting the question hang like rotten meat in an abandoned abattoir. “Look at the next letter. From the prime minister. Note that it is to be copied and printed on official posters all over France today.”
Mathieu concentrated. Tried to put any quick conclusions to one side. To see the flaw in his chief’s unspoken accusation. But it was Prime Minister Viviani’s letter which provided the evidence of state collusion: The assassin has been arrested. He will be punished. Have confidence in the law. Stay calm and united.
“It’s official, then. The assassin. Singular. Raoul Villain. No one else. They have not only decided that the prisoner is guilty, but that he is a lone wolf.”
Roux shook his head disconsolately. “The people of France have been informed that there is no need for further investigation. That’s what it’s all about. They have effectively closed down any discussion on Jean Jaurès’ murder. No need for further investigation.”
“And our notes on Villain before Guichard burst into the room?” Mathieu need hardly have asked.
“Gone forever. As will we be if we continue our inquiries, and all on the same front page which carries the first news of the great man’s death.”
“Can they do that?” Mathieu’s question betrayed an innocence as yet unshed.
“They already have, and you will be quoted as having said that Villain is a rambling imbecile. According to the minister of war, you confirmed in the presence of the prefect of police, his assistant, and your own commander, that Raoul Villain is an imbecile. And everyone agreed.”
Mathieu closed his eyes and wished he was somewhere else.
Guy Simon burst into the office at half past four in high excitement, brandishing a wad of yellow public notices. “Just been delivered…we’ve to ensure that they are plastered over every public place, railway station, street corner, and theatre.” He held out a large poster from the Ministry of War announcing, GENERAL MOBILIZATION. All reservists are to be called up, starting tomorrow.
Mathieu could hardly pretend surprise. He had heard part of Messimy’s discussion that morning, but the miserable deception annoyed him. Germany, threatened by the massive Russian mobilization on its eastern border, was on the point of declaring war against the czar. It was a carefully orchestrated trap. If Germany moved against Russia, France would support its ally in St. Petersburg. If the kaiser waited, the Russians would be upon Berlin before his armies could be mustered. What else could he do? The president had just come back from Russia. His bags were barely unpacked, but he insisted categorically that the subject of war had not been discussed. Liar. In his eyes, there was surely never a better chance to crush Germany. It beggared belief… Jaurès, not cold in his grave, and the war he tried so hard to oppose, became unstoppable. Did no one sense a connection?
They did not.
The Clichy Café-Bar was alive with jubilation. Guy was genuinely happy. Happy? He was ecstatic. Such a change from the comparative calm when the commander had first told them all that war was coming.
“The Russians will take them from the east and we will drive in from the west. The race for Berlin has started.” He danced around the floor like an overexcited Dervish.
“Tell you what, I’m not going to miss this. I am going to be there.” Guy’s beer sloshed onto the carpeting as he raised his glass to la victoire. The lounge responded with the blind excitement of untested youth. Cheers and bonhomie filled their jars. The ensemble gave voice to a passionate rendition of La Marseillaise. Men bellowed their patriotism from atop the tables, standing rigid to attention hats in one hand, glasses in the other. Protest was useless. Waiters garnished the presentation with a hearty two-part harmony.
Bernard Roux sipped his cognac and tried to find hope in his heart; joy was impossible. He knew enough to doubt conventional wisdom.
“You do know that the Germans will be no pushover. I lived through the war of 1870 . It was just like this at the start.” He recalled the initial hysteria. It had died along with hundreds of thousands of Frenchmen. Did no one remember?
Mathieu looked deep into his beer, but found no consolation. Agnès saw the sadness in his face from across the room and read the pain as if it were written in longhand. She pushed her way closer to his side.
“Why?” was her first question. “What are they doing to us?
Her presence warmed him instantly. He gazed into her soft features and wanted to be lost in her spirit. Here was goodness and common sense. He had lived in a world of men since he came to Paris, a world of intrigue and petty jealousies, of politics and dishonesty yet with Agnès he felt he could leave that aside. They had both recognized something different in each other, but the few months of their brief encounter had left their feeling to smiles, nods, occasional pleasantries, and unspoken feelings. Mathieu put his arm around her so he could smell her touch and she pressed closer to him.
She whispered to his heart. “And us? You and me? Whatever happens we will be part of it, too.” It wasn’t a question. The future had suddenly lost its certainty. In the midst of this general euphoria Mathieu abandoned his reserve. What did it matter who saw them? He kissed Agnès with modest delicacy, unsure why, in the midst of so much apparent joy, he felt so happy and so sad. It was a kiss which held no promise; no condition; no wasted words.
“We will…” He tried to find a promise, but she touched her finger to his lips.
“We will see.” That beautiful woman. Agnès the good was also Agnès the wise.
Part 2
The Age of Destruction
Raoul’s Story
No Denial
I did it. Me. I released every loyal Frenchman from the bonds of servitude. My name was being written in the annals of glory as I spoke. On August 4th 1914, my bravery opened a new chapter in French history. I did that. Not on my own, but as far as the world will ever know, me alone. I lay on the hard cell cot and saw myself accepting the Legion of Honor, Grand Cross from a grateful President Poincaré, bedecked in a tricolor. Of course.
They used to celebrate the abolition of serfdom in 1789 on August 4th. Fine, if you consider the Revolution a noble achievement. Otherwise forget it. They buried Jean Jaurès on 4th August 1914. Huh. That was an opportunity missed. All the socialists and traitors, all the peace-mongers and international worker-types turned up. We should have shot them. There and then.
But wait. The news of news. The reason for my being. The German ambassador returned his papers and left France for Berlin on 4th August 1914. War was declared. Our war of liberation for Alsace and Lorraine was underway. Revanche.
Some judge had tried to interrogate me on the night I was rescued from the police after they tried to confuse me, but I knew I had to keep quiet. I said nothing, as instructed. It was fun really because I answered every question in my head…but said nothing.
“Your name, Monsieur?” Pen in hand, he waited.
I looked blankly in his direction and smiled.
“Address?”
Find out, if you can, I said to myself, turning to count the number of persons in the room.
“Did you kill Jean Jaurès as he sat with his back to you…”
I have to admit I broke my vow at the stupidity of the question. “Yes, of course I did,” I shouted at him. “He was a traitor to France. Don’t you know? Everyone else does.”
I recall my inquisitor was taken aback.
“You admit murdering Monsieur Jaurès?” His mouth fell open like a sea bass on a bed of ice in the Marche Bastille. I am partial to sea bass baked in salt, so the look was far from offensive. I didn’t bother replying. This trumped-up fellow asked me to read and sign what he had written. He called it a declaration. I looked away and shook my head, as contemptuously as I could.
“Will you sign your admission?” He was getting angry. I smiled again and said nothing.
“Very well.” He was shouting by then. “You will be charged with voluntary homicide. Take him to the cells.”
So they carried me to La Santé. As prisons go, this must be the best. I was given a large cell to myself, and could receive visitors in a special room which led into Rue Messier behind the prison walls. I was forbidden to tell who did visit me. You would be shocked, believe me. I could hear the crowds cheering in the background. Was it for me? Have you ever heard crowds cheering for you? An unfair question, my friend.
One of the warders slipped me a copy of the Figaro. He winked and whispered, “The war is underway. The people are cheering our troops in every town and village across the land.. They’ve forgotten Jaurès already.” He pulled me into a corner. I thought he was about to strike me, but no. He had a message. “They are going to examine you in a special court. I have to remind you to say nothing…except that you killed him. No names. You know that, don’t you?”
I nodded. I was never sure about that man. Might have been another trick. I had to stay alert.
Apparently it was called a hearing. They took me to La Seine Court where a flunky, Joseph Drioux, introduced himself as the preliminary magistrate. Turned out they couldn’t quite grasp what I was about. For two and a half weeks stupid Drioux repeatedly asked me the same questions.
“Why did you kill Jaurès?”
“When did you start planning the assassination?”
He called it an assassination. You don’t assassinate swine.
“Do you regret killing him?”
What? Did I regret the greatest moment of my life? Was the fellow insane?
“Where did you purchase the guns?”
Find out yourself, my man, I answered in my head.
“How many times did you fire the gun?”
I almost broke my silence with a sarcastic remark. Check Jaurès’ head. Honestly, there were times when I had to hold back laughter.
Then the trick question. “Did you fire both shots or did the other man fire the second?”
It would have been so easy to respond with a sarcastic, “What other man?” or enter into an argument in which I might have said something I regretted. Instead I maintained my stoic silence. By the end of this boring process, his only comment was that I gave no impression of regret. Well yes, he was correct. No regret whatsoever.
My warden friend, let’s call him Pierre, warned me that they were watching my every move. That some low-order detectives were frustrated by my insistence that I acted alone. They had traced my clothes back to Rue St. Honore but friends there swore that I was alone, that I paid for the clothes in cash. The police discovered I had eaten at Eiffel’s tower, but were disappointed when it turned out that I had eaten alone. Every metro ticket was purchased as a single journey. How clever of Theo, Maurice, and Action française. They said that I must take every possible opportunity to reinforce the claim that I acted alone. Find a way to put it in writing, but be extremely careful to talk only of Jaurès. It would be valuable one day. They planned everything with meticulous precision.
So I wrote to my brother. He had enlisted as a swanky aviator. Trust him. Took the easy way out. Flew around in the sky above the real action. Had I been free I would have served on the front line, pushing the Germans back to Berlin. He just wanted to be a hero, too. Like me.
Anyway, I wrote to him to confirm that I wiped out the greatest traitor of our time, the big mouth who tried to bury the hopes of those true Frenchmen who demanded the return of Alsace Lorraine; the traitor who voted down the three-year armed services law. My only regret? That I wasn’t the first Frenchman to step into a liberated Alsace.
I punished him. I punished Jaurès absolutely. Me. In the name of France and our allies.
Do you think I made it clear enough?
12
August-September 1914 – Hope in a Time of Change
There were noisier morgues in Paris than the Tigers’ Den at HQ. The previous night’s jubilation had faded fast in the early morning certainty that everything had changed and no one knew exactly what that meant. Every man was at his desk by six A.M. though the commander hadn’t summoned a meeting. Old Girard acknowledged each in turn as he arrived but was set on his own purpose. Mathieu watched him carefully put a large box on his desk and start to fill it as if he was wrapping precious memories to be carried off in private. He held up at a boxing medal and seemed on the point of speech when underneath he found an envelope. Girard withdrew a handwritten letter which drained his face of expression. He picked it up, looked at it, front and back, and visibly shrank before it. What secret lay inside? Which painful memory had been roused? He shivered, and Mathieu turned away lest he see him cry. Dubois, who had served with the captain from the day the Tigers had been established, rose to comfort him but hesitated when halfway to his feet. He had always found it difficult to capture the right words where emotions were concerned and was as likely to say something inappropriate. Whatever was inside, Girard had kept that letter close, though no one found out why.
Mathieu retreated behind the morning newspaper but couldn’t read beyond the single word headline: WAR. It swam before his eyes and disarmed his focus. Yesterday’s hope had gone, yet something remained. A different hope, as yet undefined. Guy Simon sat twirling a pencil as if he had no care in the world. He reclined in his chair, balancing himself, feet on desk, impervious to the anxiety of the others. This was the day he had dreamed of since he was a child at infant school in Sèvres, fighting the Germans—boys from a neighboring school—with his closest friends, setting traps for them on the way home, imagining victory and popular acclaim. The others had heard his stories over and again. Every moment of his military service had been focused on the day that war would be declared and he knew what he was about to do. So did Mathieu.
The commander banged open the door, looked around, and exploded. “What the hell is going on here? You look like mourners at a wake who’ve lost the recently deceased’s body.” He stood at the door and glowered. “So we’re at war?” He opened his arms and shoulders and shrugged as if it was a regular occurrence. “We knew it was coming. We’ve known for weeks. So get your arses into gear. And start packing. We’re on the move.” That caught everyone by surprise.
The old captain followed the commander out into the corridor but had hardly stepped over the threshold before his objections were shot down. “You have to stay, Pascal, at least until this is over. I need you now more than ever.” Roux’s insistence was absolute.
Pascal Girard took one step forward and two back. “Christmas. I’ll stay till then. But not one day after.” He believed that would be sufficient time to drive the Germans back to Berlin. Most Frenchmen did.
Guy Simon brushed past the captain, clearly set on an early exit, and found his way blocked by the commander. “Don’t waste your time, Sir. I’m returning to my army unit. Today.” The unstoppable zealot met the immoveable pragmatist head on and blocked the corridor. Roux took a step back as if to let him pass but instead pushed Guy though his office door and slammed it shut.
“I make the decisions in this department.”
The rest was a tirade of bitterness. Mathieu had never heard such anger rebound from the close confines of the Tigers’ HQ, but neither man gave ground. The three remaining Tigers looked at each other in disbelief. Occasional sentences were formed from a legion of harsh words before Guy stormed out in anger, face burning with resentment.
