Beyond Revanche, page 15
“You will do as you are instructed,” was the commander’s final order.
Guy did not break step nor look round. “I will do what is necessary for France and return to my artillery brigade,” came the retort.
And he was gone.
Mathieu knew what he was duty bound to do. He knocked on Bernard Roux’s open door and, with some trepidation, explained his position. “ Sir, I have to return to my unit, too. It’s not that I want to leave Paris, but…” He got no further.
Bernard Roux did not even look up from his desk. He took one draw from his sturdy Gauloises and asked, “Have received your orders, Mathieu?”
“Well, no.”
“Of course not. You have a problem, you see. You’re dead. Have you forgotten?” Roux’s abrupt reaction brought it all back. He was. He was dead. Vincent had been buried in the Saint-Pierre Cemetery in Marseilles where a headstone commemorated his valor. Mathieu was the exile in Paris.
The commander blew out a calming smoke ring and called the others into his office. He stood in front of his desk and brought his anger to heel with deep breaths and timely silence. Once composed, he chose a quieter route.
“Look, I’m not sure that you all understand what’s happening here. Last night Paris was celebrating the declaration of war against our old enemy. Today the whole backdrop to our lives has changed forever, and not one of us knows how that will end, believe me. This is going to be one hell of a long day and there will be many more to come.” He parked his ample rear on the edge of the desk and tried to find a convincing smile. “Big changes will affect us all immediately. The prefect of police told me last week that he would have to step down when war broke out, but he has always had plans to reform and modernize the force. The Tigers will become part of counter-espionage in the Deuxième Bureau, with the responsibility to protect the head of state and nominated citizens, as well as keeping a close watch on anarchists, socialist dissidents, and the anti-war brigade. Stamping down on major organized crime will still be important to us, and I am to be the chief superintendent.” He paused for effect, shrugged, and hauled out a packet of Gauloises.
Paul Dubois was truly impressed. “Congratulations, Chief.”
Mathieu leaned forward to shake his hand.
“Yes, yes. Thank you for your loyalty and service. Etcetera.” He had further news. “You will continue as a special unit, answerable only to the minister of the interior and me. For that reason we have another promotion to accommodate. I just hope you prove worthy of our confidence, Lieutenant Bertrand.” Mathieu was taken aback, but said nothing.
Dubois beamed. Even Pascal looked happier. “A chief superintendent and a new lieutenant.” Handshakes and backslapping lasted just as long as it took Roux to light up his next Gauloises.
“Start packing, we’re on the move to number 36, Quai des Orfèvres.”
It was the center of the known police universe situated close to the Palais de Justice on the famed Isle de la Cite, one of two natural islands as the Seine cut through Paris. Number 36 they called it for short, home to the Deuxième Bureau and the nerve center of police intelligence. They were on the move before the oldest clock in the city struck eight.
Mathieu was also trying to cope with equally important emotions which had stripped his innocence and left him wondering if he had found hope. In the gathering dusk of the previous evening, he and Agnès had wandered out of the Café Cluny into the intoxicating warmth that wafted across the Seine and became entangled in their own moment.
“Do you have any more of those precious kisses?” Mathieu’s voice quavered.
She looked up, the knowing accomplice, and teased him. “Perhaps, if and when I find a man worthy enough. I would never throw myself at any passing policeman, no matter how well connected he might be.” Before he could stop himself, Mathieu drew her even closer so that they breathed in tandem and he could feel his heart pulsating close to explosion. This time their kiss was breathless, as if each was drawing strength from the other.
An old chapel door hung open beside them and they fumbled inside what was once an orchard, overgrown, even in summer, its strange dark recesses throwing their shadows deep against the historic walls. Agnès whispered encouragement to his eagerness. She tore at his shirt, and with one arm around his neck, unbuckled his belt and eased him closer. He raised her up and gently slipped into her. He wanted it to be right, to be perfect for Agnès, but nature took control and with unwarranted speed burst onto the scene, leaving him embarrassed and her disappointed.
Agnès could feel his dismay and said nothing of her own. “It’s OK, really, it’s fine, don’t worry,” she said softly. “Walk me home.”
They checked the street for watching eyes and left the orchard to mind its own secrets. “You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if my landlady was out,” Agnès confessed with just enough emphasis to open a door of possibilities. It took Mathieu several minutes to realize that he had picked up the pace and was almost dragging her along the boulevard to a different promised land. Agnès was right. No landlady was there to greet them, and when she returned, Madame Labossière appeared to have company, too.
Late evening passed into sleepless night as the two lovers grew into each other. Outside, Paris took time to quiet down from the exhaustion of the day while indoors Mathieu and Agnès struggled against the sweat of their excitement. By three in the morning, they began to think of what might happen next. She talked for a while about the war and how she might make a contribution; he listened, but somewhere in the conversation a word—it may have been innocence—triggered an image of a child and its mother floating in a canal in Marseilles and he turned away as if to beg forgiveness. His old guilt rose up to haunt his new hope.
“Let’s live for today,” he murmured to himself, but Agnès heard him and agreed.
Today continued at a breakneck pace.
“Chaos at Saint-Lazare,” Sergeant Toussaint, the gendarme at reception in no. 36 announced as they walked into the building with their personal belongings. He greeted Mathieu and Paul Dubois like long lost friends and looked at them expectantly as if they had the solution. He stood a burly five foot eight, too old for armed service, too proud to retire from police work. His enthusiasm for the aforementioned word chaos suggested that he embraced the idea with unbridled enthusiasm.
“And you want us to…?” Dubois began.
“You’ve got a Panhard. Let’s get over there. Better than melting in this mausoleum.” Dubois elbowed his new lieutenant in the ribs and agreed. Toussaint helped them dump their boxes behind the reception desk, and with their unexpected ally in tow, clambered back into the car and headed towards the 8th arrondissement, past crowded avenues and swarming groups of excited men. There was a vibrancy in the air which they could touch, an unbridled expectation that this was the day of reckoning. Next stop—Berlin.
Mathieu had never seen the station in such ferment. Saint-Lazare’s concourse throbbed with excitement. Thousands upon thousands of loyal Parisians clambered through the vast canopy, shouting, cheering, and waving at friends they had not seen for a while. Caps clung to most of the bobbing heads. Workers, pledged to La Libertie, carried the rest of their days in a single cloth bag. Straw hats and bowlers were also in evidence, but Mathieu was instantly struck by the predominance of the poorer classes. Farm hands from the surrounding districts must have risen before dawn. Had they given thought to a harvest as yet unfinished, he wondered. Shop assistants, factory workers, clerks and craftsmen, builders, joiners, and a troupe from the Medrano Circus joined with a battalion drawn from the municipal workforce. It was as if all Paris had heard a trumpet call and come running to a meeting point called Saint-Lazare. Years later Mathieu realized that it had been the prelude to a symphony called Armageddon.
Lines of willing conscripts and volunteers massed inside all the major stations to which they had been summoned. Saint-Lazare transformed itself into a drill hall. Though regular army troops were already stationed close to the German border, the reservists and territorials who stood ready for this moment were determined to have their revenge on the Boches. Some had lived their lives preparing for this dawn of retribution. France would be united; Alsace-Lorraine would be free. Some had given twenty-eight years of service from conscript to territorial reserve. Their time had come. The male population of Paris and its environs appeared to think they were going on a weekend tour, much as an all-conquering rugby team might. They had been assured of victory by a compliant press; a press owned by the merchants of war. That promise seduced even cautious men to march.
Pockets of impatience caused occasional flashpoints and tempers were strained where reservists and volunteers discovered that they had steadfastly joined a slow-moving column for the wrong train. Gendarmes had been stationed at the seven main front-arched entrances to help keep the throng moving, and regimental sergeants bellowed and cajoled the masses in front of them into a semblance of order. Both Mathieu and Dubois had to push back the more zealous as they threatened to break ranks; the sergeant reveled in the opportunity to punch them into line. Occasionally old antagonisms between the young bucks from different quarters of the city broke the mythical sense of a sacred union between all sections of French society which President Poincare so desperately wanted to promote. While the thrill of anticipation ran close to the surface of such excitement, a viper slithered through the unsuspecting ranks drunk on its own belief of invincibility, unaware that danger was ever present.
Dubois saw him first. “To the right, close by the fifth portico, hovering towards the back of that mob from the tramway company.” He pointed towards a noisy collection of all ages drawn from the tram workers union, or so their banner claimed, who had waited patiently in a line which had ground to a halt for no obvious reason. Mathieu strained to see something suspicious, but the sheer volume in front blocked his view.
“Got him,” Toussaint confirmed. “Clever bastard. Jumping around at the tail of the column, arms all over his half-drunk victim as if he’s an old friend. Wait. See that? Quick dip into inside pocket and off. Let’s get him.” But they were not the only ones with sharp eyes.
“What a jerk. That asshole’s swiped Martin’s purse!” A tram-worker pointed towards the ragged thief who had been celebrating with them moments before. “Hey, you, stay where you are.” The bedraggled pickpocket started to run, but the terminus was so overcrowded that he had nowhere to go. He struggled against the flow of outrage and was quickly grabbed from behind and disappeared from view.
Dubois realized what had happened. “That’s the stairway to the station toilets. If they take him down we’ll never see him again.” Mathieu could feel alarm bells ringing as he pushed and shoved his way towards the toilet entrance. From the top of the stairwell they could hear squeals of panic rise from below despite the clamor around them. Word spread that a pickpocket had been caught stealing a worker’s purse, and by the time this had passed through four different mouths, the story had grown into a case of grand theft and larceny and a crime against the unity of France. It was suggested that he must be a German agent, and low and behold, the thief’s nationality was changed to meet the requirement of the damning accusation. Toussaint bellowed that everyone should stand aside, but no one was willing to move. He dealt with the issue like a plough would cut a furrow through a fallow field.
“No, no, no. It’s all a misunderstanding,” the ragged-trousered larcenist appealed as the first blow knocked him against a cubicle door, bursting his nose with spectacular effect. A second took all the wind from his thin frame. As he slumped to the sodden floor, part-flooded by the sheer volume of urine running through the station sewers, blood streamed down his filthy shirt and added color to the dismal surroundings. Dubois and Mathieu barged through and brought him momentary respite, but it was the sergeant who took control. “Police, stand back!” he yelled, asserting his authority over the vengeful mob. “We’ll take it from here.”
A couple of tram workers ignored him to their own cost. The first was cast into the urine filled slurry with one hand and the second had to be hauled out of the pissoir by his mates before he came to an ignominious end. Toussaint turned back to the half-conscious thief who had the wit to hold up the offended wallet in dejected submission so that it could be returned to its owner.
“Show’s over, mes amis. Let’s leave it at that.” The sergeant did a double-take and leaned into the bleeding, urine-soaked figure who struggled to stand on his own accord. “Mere de Dieu. Putain. Moutie you are a sick, stupid, incompetent cretin. I mean,” he was almost lost for words, “even for you this is pathetic.”
“Shorry, Shergeant. Shorry.” He spat out a tooth and put his hand gingerly to his face to wipe his nose. “Christ! It smells of pee.”
“I’ve news for you, mon ami, you are totally covered in piss and it suits you.” He laughed.
One thing was certain, none of the police officers had any intention of touching the sodden stinking offender who appeared to cry quietly at his fate. He stood looking at his wringing shirt and trousers, a cross between a pariah and a medieval leper and whimpered, “Look what they’ve done to me.”
“Asshole, you did it to yourself.” Toussaint caught a whiff of pungent urine and made matters clear. “I need you to walk one step ahead of us up the stairs, and you can stop your pathetic attempt at amateur dramatics.” He turned to his colleagues. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but let me introduce you to Moutie—thief, pickpocket, and bumbling idiot. If you graded the entire criminal class in the city in terms of common sense, Moutie barely makes it to the infant class. Now,” he turned back to his captive, “when you get to the top of the stairs fuck off and don’t let me see you this side of next year.” The unsuspecting horde of reservists parted before him as Moutie the fantasist rushed from the station to find solace in his own version of events.
The grand station clock struck loudly on the hour to assert its role as master timekeeper for all travellers. “Merde. The chief will be wondering where we are,” Mathieu reasoned. “We’d better get back to no. 36. Sergeant, ehm, sorry we’ve not introduced ourselves, Dubois and Bertrand. First day at the Deuxième under Bernard Roux. He’ll not be impressed if he hears what has happened.”
“Ah, that explains a lot. Victor Toussaint at your service, reduced to little more than the receptionist at 36 because of allegations from criminals that have never been fully proved. Just blame me. Say I misled you. Everyone else does.”
Mathieu cast a last look over his shoulder at the overexcited throng still pushing its way through the vast concourse and shivered at the vision which took shape before him. Great clouds of steam billowed from the mighty engines standing ready to take fresh battalions to the northern frontier. It cast a thick shroud over the platforms on the western side of the station so that the volunteers and reservists disappeared like lost souls in a fog-bound cemetery. Mathieu watched in dumb distraction as the youths advanced fearlessly along the platform through the poisoned haze to meet their ghost-like fate on the other side. One minute they were drunk on their own bonhomie, the next they shrank into oblivion and were gone. The constant clamor of station announcements, platform alterations, shrill whistles from beleaguered guards, and ear-splitting horns from impatient engine drivers vied with the thunder of steam and the grating of iron on iron. This was the sound of chaos, and for a moment Mathieu felt he was in that dock in Marseilles, powerless to turn back the tide of wrath which he knew had already been unleashed. He felt what these young men couldn’t—fear.
In truth the rest of the day was boring The team argued over desks, filing cabinets, whether or not the telephone should be mounted on the wall, and which of the well-worn seats they wanted. Mathieu thought of Agnès, how serious the night before might be, whether or not they should have used a préservatif, did they really mean all the things they said to each other in the passion of the moment? Dare he tell her about Marseilles? Nothing would ever be the same.
13
And Long Nights of Darkness
One calendar month later Mathieu returned to Saint-Lazare to pick up the chief from a meeting on the outskirts of the city. He found himself in a strange world of altered images, absurd in its hollow promise to vainglorious youth. A presumption of easy victory had been undermined by the evidence of near disaster. Hordes of willing reservists had been replaced by nursing volunteers. In the space of half an hour, a queue of hospital trains pulled into the far corner of the through-line en route to Versailles-Chantiers where they would be cared for by a blessed legion from the Red Cross. Initially, injured French and Belgian soldiers were met with acclaim. Men and women cheered “Bravo!” and those depleted bodies that could walk or wave were filled with amazing resolve. Everyone on the concourse was moved by the sight of a one-legged infantryman, unsteady in his twisted gait, insisting, “We’re just home for the weekend. Then it’s back to give the Boches another taste of our bayonets.”
But their bravado masked a harsh reality. Smiles hung from cigarettes as the maimed struggled towards a lifetime of misery. Gaslight from converted hospital carriages fell on others less fortunate, patched-up for public view but irrevocably broken. Mathieu shuddered at the thought of what lay inside the closed carriages with drawn blinds where the dying were administered to with desperation. The cheering faded, then stopped.
Despite their brazen early optimism, newspaper headlines began to reflect a cruel deception which Mathieu had always feared. French and British forces on the northwestern borders were pushed back by the German onslaught. In the east, the Russians were destroyed over a five day battle at Tannenberg which shattered their Second Army. The race to Berlin dissolved into an urban myth, as every Allied army was driven backwards across northern France. Instead, the German divisions indulged in their own alternative—the race to Paris. By the end of August, gunfire could be heard above the clamor of street noise on the outskirts; louder than the metro. The Boches were coming.
