Beyond Revanche, page 16
The chief’s train ran twenty-five minutes late and he was angry and unforgiving, but not at the rail service. He nodded to Mathieu in recognition and relief, desperate to share his contempt. “They’ve decided to abandon Paris,” he growled in disgust.
“What?” Mathieu’s first reaction was embarrassment. His face stung at the insult those words implied.
“That meeting was supposed to coordinate the defense of the city, but I was ordered to organize the immediate evacuation of Poincaré’s government and keep it secret. Can you believe this? They are going to run away from the Germans and leave the people to fend for themselves. And it’s our job to protect them.” Tears swelled in the older man’s eyes. “It’s dishonorable, Mathieu. The very person who engineered the war six weeks ago has turned tail and needs us to organize his secret escape from the City. The sly bastard. And the nation’s gold reserves have already been sent to Brittany. In a worst case scenario, it’ll be transferred to London or New York.”
Mathieu couldn’t take in the awesome betrayal..
“Classified works of art in the Louvre have been carefully selected and boxed so that they can be secretly transported out of the city.” He drew a sharp intake of nicotine and spat on the platform floor. “We have to help those with power and money to run away while the ordinary man and woman is left to rot. La Putain’s union sacrée didn’t last too long did it? If the people knew what was happening…”
On later reflection, Mathieu considered this his most shameful task in the war years. The minister of the interior, Louis Malvy, was instructed to oversee the evacuation in a joint operation with the Deuxième Bureau, but his legendary need to compromise made clear-cut action impossible. Mathieu watched him scurry about like the proverbial headless chicken, in and out of Roux’s office to offer advice which was instantly ignored. The minister of the interior had been instructed to organize a special presidential train from the Gard du Nord to Bordeaux which turned Roux apoplectic.
“Malvy, are you completely mad? Do you seriously think the president can sneak away from the people he serves through the busiest station in the country? You might as well call all the newspapers and ask them to send photographers. This is supposed to be a secret evacuation. There will be a riot.” He turned to his own men. “For Christ’s sake, find an alternative point of departure. Immediately.”
The special train was hastily rerouted to allow President Poincaré’s undignified retreat from Paris in complete secrecy. The governing class clambered over itself like cornered sewer rats as they scurried though the modest Gare d’Auteuil in the suburbs of the sixteenth arrondissement, scrambling over each other in their haste to abandon the capital. No military band trumpeted their withdrawal nor polished cavalry helmets sparkled in the dim gaslight, for a guard of honor was out of the question. La Marseilles was replaced by the silence of self-preservation. It was undoubtedly Bernard Roux’s most embarrassing moment in a war of multiple embarrassments. Mathieu shared his disgust.
Ambassadors, civil servants, ministers of state, secretaries, wives, children, assorted pets, and overloaded baggage vied with each other for the best available space like refugees being carried to asylum on the last train to freedom. Just when it seemed impossible to make matters more embarrassing, the American ambassador, Myron Herrick, sauntered onto the platform with his wife to witness the debacle.
“Good evening, Chief Superintendent,” he began with a smirk. “You’ll be relieved that the citizens of your noble city have not turned out to jeer at the president.” His assistant secretary, Bryson Hamilton, stood half a step behind him, smoking a trademark Gitane, taking notes and responding to requests. With every Allied embassy closed, the ambassador was to be saddled with the responsibility of representing their interests when the Germans marched into Paris.
Roux tried to bring a semblance of dignity to the chaos, but the more he urged calm, the higher the decibels. Though they were in no immediate danger, a sense of panic energized the assorted parties already on board. There were no first-class carriages. For those used to the privileges of State, it was a sad come-down. Just after eleven o’clock, as the train pulled away into the murky night, the ambassador’s secretary turned to Mathieu and caught the moment perfectly. In his broad southern growl the American sneered, “They’re like a band of gypsies.”
Bernard Roux heard the throw-away line and shook his head. He agreed. Had an assassin appeared on the platform, he might have pointed to the president’s compartment. And the final word from Poincaré to the citizens of Paris as his train steamed off to the safety of Bordeaux? “Fight and stand firm.”
Bâtard.
Deserted by his own government, the formerly retired General Gallieni took military control of the capital. He gathered a dispirited force of army reservists, police, and citizens and swore to defend Paris against the invaders. Plans were drawn up to blow the bridges across the Seine. Gun positions were agreed and ammunition and stores taken to the barricades along the city boundaries. Boulevards were to have their trees cut down. Avenues with splendid villas and shops were scheduled for demolition. In the northern and eastern suburbs, whole sections of the city were emptied so that the defense would be unobstructed. Eiffel’s tower was identified as a strategic communications link which would be razed to the ground. Nothing was more sacred than holding Paris at whatever the cost.
But the old Tigers knew there wasn’t enough time for detailed preparations. Decisions were revised. Attack has long been the best form of defense. The chief superintendent summoned his reconstructed force to the old gymnasium under their headquarters and spoke with absolute confidence.
“The general has decided that Paris will not wait for the Boches. We will march out to defeat them.” Brave words, but somehow they were not hollow. Bernard Roux’s sincerity brooked no doubters. “You, Messieurs, will organize the transportation of every volunteer, reservist, gun, and bullet to the front line. Starting today. You have the power to requisition any and all means of transport available. Do it.” He drew heavily on his blessed Gauloises as if to reinforce the command. “Now.”
14
September 1914 – Secrets
Armed with megaphones, standard rifles, and a squad of recently seconded gendarmes, Roux’s men set about their mammoth task. Gendarmes and special police units in every prefecture did likewise. Any citizen who had a car, taxi, truck, or useable means of transport was explicitly ordered to assist in the movement of men to the front immediately.
“Slight problem.” The chief looked uncomfortable at their mid-morning meeting. “The ministry has emptied the prisons. Given an amnesty to prisoners who have sworn to defend France.” He made it clear that his advice had not been canvassed. “Just…” He was momentarily lost for words. “Just do your best. And before you ask, Lieutenant, Raoul Villain has not been released. Any worker with a gun in his hand would put a bullet in him. No. He’s safer where he is.”
Cars began to appear on the streets of central Paris heading for the city barracks. Mathieu teamed up with Paul Dubois, who claimed that in a previous life he had served in the first road transport unit and found himself manipulating the flow with a precision that the others had to admire. His hand, eye, and arm coordination was spectacular. “Like riding a bicycle,” he exclaimed. “You don’t lose it.”
No one had ever seen Dubois near a bicycle, but he was clearly enjoying himself.
He stopped a delivery van driven by a loudmouthed socialist with whom they had crossed swords at a number of demonstrations. Dubois recognized the wizen-faced factory worker, a well-known trouble-maker with a sour attitude and sourer breath, and demanded he open the rear door. The two men scowled at each other in mutual distaste.
“Sacred union my arse,” Dubois scoffed. “Let’s see what anti-war propaganda this peasant is carrying to the front.” Inside, eight armed reservists were engaged in emptying a third bottle of vin rouge. They looked none too pleased at this intervention.
“Are we there already?” The youngest cocked a snoot towards the intruder, emboldened by the wine.
“Fucking flics wants to check which side we’re on.” The driver stared at him, giving no quarter.
Dubois had the grace to apologize with a nod of the head and a quiet, “Good lad,” to the driver.
It looked as if every vehicle in France had been summoned to the cause. Cars of all types, some deluxe models, had been requisitioned. Charabancs, too. An ancient horse-drawn omnibus still advertising the route between Madeleine and Bastille, toiled towards the Porte de Bagnolet, laden with soldiers. Taxi after taxi after taxi—some estimates claimed over 600 taxis, more used to carrying the bourgeoisies than the last of the Parisian guards—were filled with men and munitions.
A Renault coupe proudly displayed its pristine polished frame, an oak coffin securely fastened across the rear seat. The juxtaposition of a chauffeur driving a makeshift hearse was less ridiculous than the sight of the driver, coat collar raised to cover part of his instantly recognizable face. Moutie.
Mathieu strode into the coupe’s path and the hapless thief beamed in recognition, bringing the hearse to a stop millimeters from the policeman’s foot.
“Inspector Bertrand, a fine evening for a visit to the front. Are you headed this way? Or are you…?”
“Yes, Moutie, I am, and thank you for the promotion,” he replied and jumped into the front seat beside the driver. “I’m glad to find you better dressed, my friend. And your nose looks fine.” The ignoble thief touched his sore point gently. “Sadly, the smell hasn’t gone way. Still. Look on the bright side. This will be the most unexpected sacred union in France, my thieving friend. The president will be proud of us both, joining forces for the common good.” Mathieu swung round to glance at the box behind them.
“Tell me, what are you carrying in that coffin?”
“C-c-c…coffin?” His voice trembled.
“Yes, my friend, the coffin strapped across the back seat. You don’t often see these in posh cars.”
Moutie paused for a moment, keeping his eyes directly ahead while his brain searched for an acceptable answer.
“Ammunition”
“Ammunition? Excellent, my friend. I’ll inspect it shortly.”
Moutie was nonplussed. Sweat broke over his oily-haired brow. Unshaven, his sallow face bore the map of poverty better than the soiled rags in which he was still clothed. Had they been washed since Saint Lazare? This was not what Moutie intended. Clearly. Self-pity deflated his early attempt at bluff. Mathieu enjoyed the thief’s misery as far as the Porte. Unfortunately, the stench of the unwashed pervaded the “hearse.” Perhaps it belonged to the coffin’s occupant. Perhaps not.
“Pull in here, Moutie.” Mathieu pointed to a gap on the route. “This is far enough. There’s a police station across the road. But first, let me see inside the coffin.”
Moutie opened the rear door, unwound the cheap imitation brass screws, lifted the lid, and stood back, head down. Mathieu slammed the coffin lid shut and turned on him. “OK, Moutie, what are you going to do with the body?”
The thief protested his innocence. “There’s a body in there? Never! Honest to God, I thought it was empty.”
“Liar, you said it was full of ammunition.”
Mathieu was on the point of hauling him across the street when a chauffeured town car drove past. He recognized the passenger from the file in Roux’s office. Basil Zaharoff, engrossed in a swathe of paperwork. Zaharoff! On his way to support the boys on the front line? Not likely. Zaharoff on private business using the exodus as a cover? Much more likely.
“Right, Moutie. Report to the police station. Over there.” Mathieu left him stranded by the roadside, unsure of his next move. Moral dilemmas were not his forte, so the thief stole away into the comfort of the shadows. Had he taken a glance inside the coffin before he stole the motorcar, he would have known that Mathieu had set him up. It was empty.
Mathieu gave chase in Moutie’s stolen Renault, but the crowded streets limited everyone’s progress, and breaking into the flow of traffic slowed him down. Zaharoff’s beautiful blue town car blinked in the dying sunlight, but catching up proved impossible. From a distance, Mathieu could see it turn off the boulevard into a side street, but by the time he had maneuvered the hearse into position to follow, the avenue was empty. He found himself driving through a strange world, deserted, lifeless—semi-dark, boarded-up and locked down. These homes had been abandoned. The whole locality systematically emptied so that Paris could be defended. Looking north, Mathieu could see the flash of occasional gunfire across the darkening horizon, attended some seconds later by the dull pounding of distant anger. The ancient Greeks would have concluded that the Gods were mightily displeased.
He drove carefully along the unlit street. An elderly couple, arm in arm, bowed respectfully towards him. He duly returned the compliment. Three buildings from the end, he found Zaharoff’s car parked outside a once stately mansion where the chauffeur, cigarette in hand, doubled as the first line of security. Other vehicles straddled the curbside in a display of wealth and power which underlined the French dominance in European car manufacture. Mathieu looked straight ahead, ignoring the guard’s attention, aware that a hearse commanded unspoken respect. What he hadn’t expected was the cloak of near invisibility that accompanied the driver. What could be less remarkable than a car carrying a coffin in a dying city? Mathieu drove on, crossed the next junction, and turned into yet another deserted byway.
He doubled back on foot through the empty backyards and found a suitable vantage point in a neighboring garden. He could see the flaking conservatory where Zaharoff and his associates were engaged in animated conversation. Faces he almost recognized but could not name peopled an otherwise empty room. Whatever was said annoyed the international arms dealer. He was adamant, but about what? Two of the men around him were representatives in the National Assembly. But who? Was that Wendel from the Iron and Steel Committee? Merde. He realized that the uniformed officer, with whom Zaharoff examined what appeared to be a map, was one of General Joffre’s personal staff whom he had met in Durfort’s office. They had spoken once at the Quai d’Orsay. A figure turned towards the armaments tsar and in the half-light, the obsequious face of Benoit Durfort beamed towards his master, head half bowed like a no-necked toad.
A slight movement disturbed his concentration. “Ah Monsieur, would you kindly tell me what you are doing here?” It was Zaharoff’s chauffeur-guard, barely a foot away, pistol in hand, directly pointed at Mathieu.
With considerable authority he straightened up and answered, “I live here, Monsieur. This is my home.” Mathieu indicated the villa behind them. “What are you doing on my property and why are you pointing a gun at me? Are you a Boches infiltrator?”
A flicker of doubt diverted the man’s attention towards the house, and in that instant Mathieu lashed out with his right foot and parted his would-be assailant’s groin with such force that the pistol dropped faster than the injured party. Dirty play? Yes, but he had a gun. A second sturdy kick to the chauffeur’s head gave him time to dive into the bushes, side-step a row of pot-plants, run at full pace down an alley, start the car and drive off, heart pumping, mind racing. In the gloom of the deserted avenue he had to pick his way carefully around the debris which the former residents had left in their wake. Behind him the town car’s broad beam swung into view. Having never driven such a top class Renault before, Mathieu struggled to get out of first gear. Zaharoff’s man closed fast. Ahead, the exodus on the boulevard appeared to have come to a halt. Not good. Nowhere to turn; nowhere to hide. At which point a citizen, realizing that a coffin-carrier was waiting to cross against the current, stepped forward and parted the way. Moses would have been impressed. The rich man’s town car, tried to follow and was met with a wall of angry rejection.
“I dare you.”
An irritated mob appeared from both sides of the street, baying insults at the chauffeur-driven town car which stopped in its tracks.
Mathieu crossed the avenue to make his way back to number 36. The streets were thronged with the strangest column of fighting men in the history of French military advances, but the light was fading fast and in the semi-dark, Mathieu’s vehicle was quickly absorbed into a counter stream flowing back to the center of the city. Only the back of the cars and taxis heading out towards the Front were lit and drivers were instructed to follow the lights ahead. This was history in action. The people’s contribution. All hail the taxi drivers. Most of them returned to normal service after a few days but some remained at the front longer, to carry back wounded soldiers and stranded refugees. In accordance with city regulations, most taxis kept their meters running. Years later, Mathieu discovered that the French treasury reimbursed in full a claim for 70,012 francs lodged by the taxi companies. Altruism has always had limits.
Raoul’s Story
A Flicker of Doubt
The greatest sadness comes from love lost forever. Of all the consequences of my bravery, I had never considered the obscene destruction of my beautiful cathedral in Reims. I couldn’t believe that the Boches targeted this most magnificent of churches. Its priceless presence was a symbol of our nation where once kings were anointed and crowned. How many times had I touched the wonderful masonry? Felt its history? Walked down the vaulted aisles? Stood in the wondrous reflection of the stain-glassed windows? Imagined myself at the coronation of King Louis the Fourteenth, the Sun-King; the most absolute of absolute monarchs. Of times when France spoke and the world trembled? This was their revenge. I was the keeper who let slip the dogs of war. I made sure that the enemies of France were rudderless so the Germans burned down Reims to punish me. But I will never apologize. Have you ever been punished for doing the right thing, my friend?
