Beyond Revanche, page 36
“You will be asked about your loyalty to France. Keep your head high and look proud to acknowledge that.”
Well, obviously.
“Above all, do not call Jaures a traitor or bad-mouth him. Leave that to us.” Giraud’s conceit was obnoxious. I knew what to do and as the list of instructions became more and more repressive, I resented their inability to recognize that.
When they had gone I prepared a celebratory coffee. Its mouth-watering aroma drew Carbolic like a dog to the butcher’s bone. God, what had I to call him, again? Moutie! Merde,.
But he knew things, and I liked talking to him…the way he held his head and nodded appreciatively did me good. He was crafty that one. He always managed to wheedle out my secret concerns.
“Did you know that I’ve been in prison without trial for nearly five years? That must be a record.”
“Yes, Monsieur, I do. The government prosecutors have had to review your case every six months. They called it preventative detention.” I swear he was on the point of salivating. His eyes never left my cup.
“Yes, my lawyers have managed to keep me out of court so that I couldn’t be tried by the military. Good men. Know their job.” On every count a lie.
“They must be costing you a fortune, Monsieur, such expensive lawyers.” He smiled. Was that admiration or contempt? Or was it the needle to prick my resolve to silence. I almost told him that others were paying for my defense but caught myself in time.
“Only the best,” I retorted, trying to mimic his pose.
“You do know that it was former Prime Minister Viviani, who asked the general prosecutor of the Seine to sign a postponement order on your original trial, and all of his successors have done likewise? Not your lawyers. The government was afraid that if your case went to court in 1914 it would put the sacred union between Frenchmen of all political inclinations at risk.”
“Yes, of course.” It’s the way he spoke with such authority, as if he knew more than me that I always found annoying.
“The Human Rights League and some of Jaurès’ friends have been clamoring for you to be brought to trial, Monsieur, claiming that it was unfair to you to be held in La Santé.”
I had to put him in his place. “They don’t give a sou about me. They think they can get their pound of flesh in revenge for the loss of the German-loving traitor, but they don’t know…” I let the words drift towards the ceiling. Careful, Raoul.
“Don’t know what, Monsieur?”
I was bored with the conversation but could not let him have the last word. “I have friends out there. They will look after me.”
“You certainly have…but you also have enemies. You do realize that, surely?” He smiled again, that sly look on his face.
I laughed. Loudly. Scornfully. “Name them.”
Without hesitation he rattled off a list of the riff-raff who had always been a danger to France.
“The left-wing press, L’Humanite in particular, the unions, the socialists, anarchists, the hundreds of thousands of ordinary people scarred by the war, and not just in France.”
I had not considered this. Every time we spoke he managed to leave me feeling unsettled, but this was different. He was aggressive.
“I think you should go now. I have had enough of your impudence.”
“You have had enough of MY impudence, you conceited nobody?” he retorted, his jaw set to intimidate. Carbolic came closer to me than he ever had, which was alarming on a number of levels. His breath smelled of the sour odor of decay. For the first time I realized that he had practically no teeth and his lips were stained with…was that nicotine? He was taller than I thought, and though his body bore the perma-smell of carbolic soap, his hair was matted and held in place by his own sweat.
“Go away. I don’t want to see you again. Ever. Go, or I will call the warder.” I was aware of the hesitation in my voice. Bastard knew how to upset me.
“You don’t get it do you? You are a murderer. You killed an innocent old man in cold blood and you think you are going to get away with it. Well, you won’t.” HE was shouting at ME. “I make you this promise. I will make sure that you never rest easy.”
“Help, help. Please, somebody help me.” I couldn’t stop myself shaking. The sheer effrontery of this pathetic ignorant man behaving like a thug overwhelmed me.
“Look for me at the Palais de Justice. Look for me in the streets. Be careful where you go at night. I will crawl into your head and invade your cozy conceited life, you bastard.”
Stupid, I know, but when he slammed shut the cell door, I sank to the floor in relief. I’d see he lost his job. I would. My friends would. He’d be sorry. Then a deeper worry penetrated my soul like a burst dam which could no longer stem the river’s flow. The statues? When they erected the statues? Would anarchists and no-good down-and-outs daub disgusting slogans along the base? Surely not.
34
24th March 1919 – Blind Justice Mid-Morning
Although no. 36 literally abutted the Palais de Justice, Roux’s special team decided to follow the old routine to celebrate the first day of Villain’s trial. It would be the beginning of the end for Mathieu for whom the savage slaying of Jean Jaurès remained a crime in desperate need of punishment. They met for breakfast at the Café de Deux Ponts as they had for the entire week of Henriette Caillaux’s trial five years before.
“It’s like old times.” Dubois rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the wonderful croissants which, as before, were already on their way from the kitchen, with just a world war in-between. “Remember how Guy used to say…” His words died as he spoke, drowned in a memory still too painful to talk about. They fell silent. That was the problem with war. The fighting might stop, but the hurt did not. Its victims lived on in the hearts and minds of those who cared and flitted into conversation uninvited, releasing pain and guilt, which though undeserved, broke ranks and asked, why me?
“Was that Guy Simon? I’ve seen his name on the role of honor, but never knew that he was part of this team.” Jacques looked into their faces, croissant in hand, and realized that he was the only one to have touched his.
“Died in the first week of the war. We begged him not to go…but he insisted. Thought it would be over in a month.” Mathieu picked up his coffee and let his eyes drift over the river. He’d not thought of Guy recently. So much had happened.
“It wasn’t the only bad decision he made that week.” The words were out before the chief realized that he had spoken. Dubois and Mathieu internalized the sentence and looked first at each other and then at Roux. Stunned. What did he mean? Three croissants cooled on the plate.
“I, ehm…I didn’t mean… Yes…I’ll explain later.” He was clearly embarrassed.
“These croissants are superb.” Jacques wiped his mouth with the napkin unaware of the tension. “Are you going to leave them? I’ll help out if necessary,” he joked, expecting a rude riposte. The silence hurt. They had not heard him.
“I will explain. In the office.” Bernard Roux’s pallor went even paler and markedly older eyes looked out from his tired face. “Later.” He pushed the plate of croissants away and rose to smoke outside.
“I was only asking,” Jacques tried to apologize as if he had made some gross error of judgment.
“It’s the trial…and the memories we carry of the night of Jaurès’ murder. They run deeper than we realize,” Dubois said, knowing full well that there were unanswered questions which troubled those who had been present. He had forgotten that.
“This trial won’t take long, will it? Be over in a day, surely. It’s all very straightforward. He was caught in the act of murdering a man in cold blood in front of more witnesses than you could find in the Moulin Rouge on a Saturday night.”
A deep and painful sigh wracked Mathieu’s body as he rose to leave. His half-empty cup held no appeal. “French Justice is a lottery, my friend. You should know that, Jacques.” His words drew pain. They left the café sad and somber. Three croissants turned cold on the table and hardened quickly, untouched, unwanted and quickly forgotten. Like the memories Mathieu wished could be forgotten.
Raoul’s Story
Nothing Can Go Wrong
Special treatment is something that you should deserve. And I did. Most certainly.
The warden escorted me personally to the rear of the Palais de Justice and marched me through the glistening corridors towards a studded oak door which opened as if by magic into the inner chambers. In the shining marbled anteroom, normally the exclusive reserve of defense lawyers, Maîtres Giraud and Bourson were carefully dressing themselves in the robes of their office, glancing first at the wall length mirrors and then at the ribboned files which were neatly piled on the central space. They looked at me without uttering a word and continued their ritual transformation. Neither spoke until they were fully dressed.
“You’ve been carefully prepared, Raoul. Nothing can go wrong.” Bourson, as ever, oozed optimism.
“Yet one can never be completely prepared for the twists and turns of such a public trial. Remember, if in doubt, say nothing,” glowered Giraud, raising his index finger to emphasize his authority. God, I hated them both. In their black raised cap, gown, and white-laced neckpiece they picked at the documents which had been amassed over the last five years like magpies at the municipal rubbish-tip, touching this juicy morsel which, though unrelated to the case, might catch a headline or make the jury sit up and listen; picking up another, pecking over the content, then dropping it as if it were rat poison. Within two minutes the neat files were strewn haphazardly across the desk.
Bourson sat down and for a fleeting second I’m sure that he contemplated the consequence of failure. Untenable failure. But the doubt passed.
“You’ll be exemplary, I know.”
“Yes, you will,” Giraud sneered contemptuously. “Too many have too much to lose if your case goes badly.”
I was about to become the biggest celebrity in France at a time of celebrity overkill. The front pages of every newspaper had been filled for months with international politicians and generals whose names were known worldwide; names which commanded respect, not because it was deserved, but for what they now represented. Move over, President Wilson and his insufferable advisor, Mandell House; Lloyd George and his foreign secretary, Alfred Balfour; Marshalls Foch and Joffre, Georges Clemenceau and his finance minister, Klotz and many of the hangers-on who had filled the front pages for months. Now was my moment.
Giraud and Bourson preened themselves. They had completed the first stage in their task and been well paid. My lines had been rehearsed, my moves prepared, my gestures carefully directed. No time for stage fright. The jury had been handpicked; all male, all middle-class, all trusted and loyal.
At 12:30 the President of the Court, Boucart, entered the chamber, bowed to the legal fraternity, smiled towards the jury, and posed regally at his bench. The calm atmosphere offered no comparison to the near riot which accompanied Madame Caillaux’s daily performances half a decade ago. A side door opened and the audience hushed. The curtain rose. Act One was about to begin. I entered the chamber slowly, hesitantly, almost deceitfully, aware of my audience and the task that lay before me.
35
24th March 1919 – Blind Justice Mid-Afternoon
“Merde,” Mathieu whispered to Dubois, “they’ve dressed him up like a bank clerk. Where are the expensive clothes he was wearing when we arrested him?”
“Christ Almighty,” Dubois responded. “I think he’s wearing women’s make-up.”
Mathieu looked at the thin pale figure at the dock, his blond hair neatly trimmed, his light moustache adorning a quivering upper lip.
“Moutie said that he had put himself on a diet of rich coffee, but this is ridiculous.”
Villain appeared dazed by his circumstances.
“Look at the jury,” Roux advised. “Look at them, they’re smiling at him. He’s taken them in already.” The President of the Court leaned forward to hear Raoul Villain’s soft-toned reply to the formal questions about his age and family history. To the astonishment of the few neutral observers in attendance, he proceeded to lead Villain through a list of personal tragedies for the benefit of the jury. Questions were asked which painted him as a lost soul who had never had a chance to develop normally.
“You never knew your mother?”
Through pouted lip he nodded. “I was aged four when they took her away to an asylum.”
“Your grandmother had visions of the Blessed Virgin?”
He shrugged his shoulders and bent his head to the left as if the question was a mark of shame. “Yes, Sir. I have been told so.”
“You were educated by the Jesuits?”
“Yes, Sir, for six years, and then at a High School.”
This was not news to Mathieu, Dubois, or the Chief. They had read his files. Indeed they had helped fill out some of the detail. What followed astounded them. The President of the Court turned to Raoul Villain’s military service and once more led him by the nose through what could have been an emotional minefield. “You had a bitter experience during your military service, did you not? You were happy at first to don the uniform of your regiment but you were shocked by the deception you found there.”
“That’s not even a question.” Jacques began to understand that all was not as straightforward as he anticipated.
“You were mocked by others when you spoke of loyalty to France?”
“Yes indeed, Sir.” There was a brief silence as if the judge was waiting for him to say more. Maitre Giraud came close to intervention.
“And in the barracks you were dismayed and offended by the outright disloyalty shown by your fellow soldiers?” Saved by the President of the Court.
“Yes, yes indeed.” He cleared his throat to buy a second’s grace. Then he remembered his lessons. “I was shocked, that’s right, I was very shocked to hear the man who lay in the next bunk to mine…who was in the guard of honor…singing songs by the revolutionary jingoist, Montéhus…”
He began to dry up, so the judge helped him again. “Do you mean communist anthems?”
“Yes, Monsieur, I do.”
“Dreadful,” Boucart said, loud enough for the jury to hear. Every effort was made to portray Raoul Villain as a fine Catholic boy who became a quiet respectful citizen. Testaments to his good behavior were read to the court. These apparently came from landlords he stayed with in Rues Fleurus and Duguay. Mathieu noted that the police had no such information.
Jacques nudged Mathieu gently and inquired whether he was to be called to give evidence.
“They know I’m here…so are all the journalists from L’Humanite who were in the Café Croissant that night, but this is not about reminding the jury what actually happened.”
The story, as repeated by everyone protecting Raoul Villain, became more ridiculous by the hour. Having spent time creating the image of a child who lacked all of the normal affections associated with motherhood, the judges then helped create the notion that he was a patriot.
Mathieu was livid. “If every motherless boy in France turned into an assassin claimed he was a patriot, we would have no politicians left.”
“Good point,” said Dubois. “Pity it’s a piece of dog shit philosophy. What followed was a heart-warming picture of a young man, inspired by a visit to Alsace, to free the young people there. Allegedly he carried a photograph of the Kaiser in his pocket and had planned to kill him.”
Roux turned to his men and shook his head slowly. “This is entirely bullshit. We had the records to disprove it all, but they’ve disappeared. Now we know why.”
President Boucart continued the fantasy. “You were particularly upset by the action that Jean Jaurès was taking to stop the outbreak of war, were you not, and the idea to kill him replaced the idea you have previously had to kill the Kaiser?”
“Yes, Monsieur le President.”
And you were at your grandmother’s funeral in Reims when Jaurès and his colleagues from the socialist international went to Brussels to meet with the German delegates…the same ones who went back to Berlin and voted for the finances for the war?”
“Yes, Monsieur le President.”
“This is too much.” Dubois was incensed. “They are twisting the facts into fiction. He went to Reims on 24 July. The Brussels international conference was on the 29th.”
“And you came back to Paris determined to kill Jean Jaurès.”
“Yes, Monsieur, but I did not know that he had a wife or children.”
“Bloody hell. This is pathetic. Do you think anyone’s going to tell the court that Jaurès’ son Paul was killed fighting the Germans in Picardy last June?”
“And you did this out of patriotism?”
Mathieu and Bernard Roux pushed their way out of the courtroom. They could take no more. Dubois followed, blowing his nose into a frayed handkerchief. Jacques came running to catch up with them before they disappeared into a tavern on the left bank.
“You won’t believe it but he ended his account by claiming that he shot Jean Jaurès on impulse.”
Roux bought four brandies and told Jacques that if he didn’t drink brandy, he’d transfer him to the customs office in the Pyrenees. Jacques usually avoided strong drink but if there was a moment to start, this was it.
“All this effort to turn Villain into a hero? I don’t follow, I really don’t. We arrested him, we had the murder weapons in our hands, he confessed, several times over. We had the evidence…but they are rewriting it. Why?”
Mathieu smelled the dark promise of five-star Cognac and swilled it in its glass. “Why?” He looked for inspiration from Roux. Even after all that they had been through, the chief superintendent’s secrets ran deeper than the city’s metro system; deeper than the secret sewers under the city. Bernard Roux had grown into his senior years trusted by all sides of the political spectrum because he kept his counsel. In his elevated position at the Deuxième Bureau, he had access to many government departments, but not an inch beyond the closed file on those who owned France. Those who truly owned the nation, its politics and its people. Its wealth.
