Beyond Revanche, page 6
“She then asked you to load it for her, did she not?”
“Yes.”
“And you obliged?”
“Sir, you are well aware that I did not. Company policy clearly states that no employee may load a customer’s gun on the premises. I have repeated that every time your officers have asked.”
“But you showed her how to load the gun.”
“Yes,” he sighed. How often must he repeat himself? “I demonstrated how to remove the clip from the bottom of the gun, fill it with six bullets, and snap it back into position. Even when loaded the gun could not be fired until the first cartridge was racked into the chamber.”
“Just to recap, Monsieur, Henriette Caillaux consulted you in regard to a .32 Browning on the afternoon of 16 March, was personally tutored on the process of loading the gun, and subsequently purchased said gun.”
“I’ve told you and your associates this four times. You really are wasting my time.”
Mathieu’s head snapped up from his notebook. “Associates? Other police officers have been here? Before me?”
“Surely you knew? From the Deuxième, they said. The general manager called to instruct me to assist them. They went down to the basement and fired several shots. Quite alarming it was.”
Strange. Mathieu said nothing but thanked Formentin and reported back.
The commander shook his head in resignation. “They’re checking us out. Want to make sure of every aspect we’ve covered for the trial.”
“Who?”
“Ah… If we knew that, we’d probably know more than was healthy.”
Bernard Roux’s apprehension spread throughout the prefecture and reached Mathieu at a low ebb. He was exhausted by the endless demands emanating from the prefect of police. He reviewed his notes, reorganized the dossiers of evidence, despite the fact that there was no mystery. Nothing needed to be proved, save how much political interference and judicial sleight of hand could be brought to bear on the jury. But a storm was brewing behind the apparent calm. It could blow everything off course. The commander’s last words to Mathieu as they left Café Clichy on the night before the trial chilled the young man’s stomach.
“It will not be a court drama, trust me. It will be a pantomime; a pantomime which will concentrate attention on the scandal, while in the corridors of power, secret steps are already underway to propel us all to hell. The more unpopular the right wing press can make the Caillauxs, the easier it becomes to paint him as a German-loving traitor who wants to stop war. You do understand, Mathieu? This trial will be about sensation and showmanship, and behind that façade, it will be about politics. There will be no winner. It’s not about justice. It’s a smokescreen to keep the people from listening to the anti-war brigade.”
Mathieu lowered his voice and asked in vain, “And we can do nothing?”
“It’s already too late.”
Raoul’s Story
The Chosen One
I drank hard from the chalice of commitment and dried my lips to leave no stain. At last I understood what it was to be chosen. I was a modern-day Templar about to set off on crusade. In the cool of the vaulted wooden ceilings, I found refuge from the trials of the day, safe in the unassuming home of the Jesuit Order in Paris, my beloved Saint Pierre de Montmartre.
Here, they say, Saint Ignatius Loyola took his sacred vows that led to the founding of the virile Society of Jesus—the Pope’s foot soldiers. No sign now of the ruinous disgrace of the Revolution which desecrated and destroyed the old church and built a telegraph tower in the midst of its apse. Revolutions are but passing fancies and my spiritual home was rebuilt with massive Roman columns and, eventually, stained-glass windows. Frankly, I disapprove of the new limestone Basilica of Sacré Coeur which has been constructed beside my ancient church, so that it now dominated Paris, enveloping Saint Pierre as a swan would its cygnet. This is my secret place. In my heart, still.
Have you a secret place in which you can shelter, my friend?
I sat in the still of its ecstasy, head back against the wooden pew, a living statue, breathing deeply to smell the lingering incense from an earlier celebration. All the perfumes of Arabia may not have solved Lady Macbeth’s proverbial problem, but she had not experienced the heady draught of incense which infused my mind and body like an opiate.
“May I be of assistance, my son?” A hand on my shoulder.
Startled, I recoiled from the touch.
“What the…?” I almost shouted at the black shape before me, but the priest made no move. Why would he? This was his parish. It was his church. Or so he assumed.
“Can I help? Do you wish to go to confession? You have been immobile for a good half hour, which is long enough for any prayer.”
Confused in that moment, I shook my head. The priest nodded gently. “I’m over in the far confessional if you have a change of heart.”
“Thank you, father.”
With a swish of his black soutane, he disappeared into the privacy of other people’s sins, though only a few elderly souls had need of his earthly judgment. I waited in the shadow of the great columns, seeking reassurance. This time I startled my prey when he stepped out from his seat of forgiveness.
“Father, may I have a word?”
We slowly walked down the central aisle to the great door which commanded a spectacular view across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. Some modernists apparently admire the latticed monument to French engineering but I thought it soulless, like the late author Guy de Maupassant who lunched there every day because it was the only place in Paris from which Eiffel’s monstrosity could not be seen. We, both priest and Patriot-Templar, absorbed the view of a wonderful but immoral city which had to be brought to its senses. Our eyes could only see sin.
“Father, tell me, would you kill for God?”
The priest looked at me in astonishment. Was this a theological hypothesis or a genuine question?
“No man has the right to take the life of another,” he paused, “unless…”
“Unless?”
“Well there are circumstances of war, of self-defense, of the protection of the innocents…”
“Would you kill for God?”
“I hope never to be in such situation.”
“Would you?” I stamped an insistence on the question by raising my voice and facing my would-be mentor. I changed tack. “Would you kill for France?”
“What is this talk of killing? We are not in confessional. Take care what you tell me.”
“I’m not telling. I’m asking. Would you kill for France? Catholic France?”
Pity and confusion wrung a frown from Monseigneur Richard. He had to consider his answer. My question clearly troubled him.
I looked into the priest’s face for some sign of confirmation. Perhaps the concept was too contentious for the clerical mind. A true Jesuit would have approved any action to protect the church in France. And it was not simply about religious belief. I was talking about the body politic. About the future of France. I had recently heard a discussion at Action française where a senior surgeon from the Hospital Hotel-Dieu had likened our task of liberating France from cretinous socialism to his own professional dilemma. Did the patient require urgent intrusive surgery to save his life, or should he take a conservative line, make some minor cut, and keep his fingers crossed that all would subsequently be well? Intrusive surgery. Those words resonated within me. I heard Gregorian chant, sensed hot incense, weighed the power of clear resolve against constant dithering, and knew that I was being called to action. This was war. It was. Inner voices dispelled older doubts. I’d found my vocation. It was to be intrusive surgery on the body politic.
And what of Madame Caillaux? She had not hesitated to kill. Her trial was imminent. I could hardly control my anticipation of the witch’s conviction. Indeed, why were the authorities prepared to waste money? Thousands of francs on an unnecessary process. Feed her to the guillotine. Have you ever heard of a clearer act of premeditated murder? Justice was demanded. Had she been some lady of the night from the Pigalle or an impoverished immigrant starving in the eighteenth arrondissement, she would have been dealt with summarily.
But Henriette Caillaux? Five-star treatment. Best of everything. Ate with her husband in the commandant’s own office. Haute cuisine brought from the most exclusive restaurants. Visitors every day. Two nuns were allocated to look after her, and her personal maid stayed by her side. The ordinary prisoners slept on stone floors and survived on thin oatmeal broth. How I wished that Saint Lazard had remained a leper colony. That would have been a fitting home for Madame Henriette Caillaux. Her jaundiced body parts disintegrating before her eyes. In the Music Halls, songs were concocted to ridicule the assassin, but such was the power of the Caillaux name, that the police had intervened to stop the fun. Typical of a feckless France. The case against her was uncomplicated. She was charged with voluntary and premeditated homicide. Should not be a long affair.
What do you think? Over in a day? Two at the most?
5
Monday 20 July, 1914 – The Trial
Bernard Roux’s premonition proved an almighty understatement. From start to finish the trial of Henriette Caillaux was pure farce. Justice and law in the Third Republic earned its reputation as an irredeemably inconsistent oxymoron.
Mathieu met the commander at the Café de Deux Ponts between the Pont Saint-Michel and the Quai des Grands Augustins. As was his way, he arrived ten minutes early and chose to draw breath beside the meandering Seine. He hung over the side wall as if pondering a quick dip in the water, but the river was almost as low as his spirits. The heatwave would soon bring a shortage of water and a significant rise in the crime rate. It won’t be the only crisis this summer, he thought to himself.
Mathieu rested his forehead on the warm grey stone and breathed deeply again. The immediacy of the trial ought to have driven Roux’s secret from his mind, but they both found time each day to trace events elsewhere as if, by careful watch, they would find fault with the undercurrents steering Europe to war. But the secret timetable kept pace with the president’s sacred plan.
“Croissant and coffee, or just coffee?” Bernard Roux’s voice boomed above the traffic. There he was, dressed immaculately in his black suit, tailored waistcoat, and shoes polished to within a fraction of reflection. His top hat rested on the red-checkered tablecloth, upturned, doubtless to accommodate his black gloves. You might have mistaken him for an Advocate.
“Coffee’s fine, thanks. My stomach couldn’t face food at the moment.”
“Please yourself.” He beckoned the waiter and ordered croissant, cheese and thinly sliced ham, and two coffees. Bravado or what?
“It’s going to be hot over there. Outside and in.”
The Palais de Justice stood firm across the Seine, its magnificent gilded gates enclosing the three-sided courtyard which created boundaries that French law had not fully defined.
“It’ll be fun and games, be assured, and the whole damned lot of them will use the occasion to promote themselves. Henriette Caillaux may be the accused, but it’s French society which is in the dock.”
Mathieu sighed. The commander had repeated the same warning on a daily basis for the better part of a month.
Roux pulled out that morning’s edition of the sports newspaper, L’Auto. It had sponsored the Tour de France, a cycle race around the coasts and borders of the country, and its coverage was unsurpassed. Like the weather, the 1914 Tour had begun to heat up. The Belgian champion, Philippe Thys, was considered favorite for a second win in a row. His main rival was his popular Parisian teammate, Henri Pelissier. The contest that day, a 325 kilometer race from Geneva in Switzerland to Belfort near the German border, included some tricky mountain twists. The French champion certainly thought he had a chance to win the stage. L’Auto concurred. But anything could go wrong, and frequently did. During the third stage from Cherbourg to Brest, the entire peloton took the wrong turn. Embarrassment bordered on national humiliation. After they had ridden for 30 kilometers in the wrong direction, the riders reached the first check point one hour late. The race had to be restarted. No one was impressed by the stupidity of the marshals, least of all the competitors.
Mathieu studied the detailed route map on the front page and solemnly agreed. “This’ll suit Pelissier. Today could be his big breakthrough.” He traced his fingers along the circuit as if he could feel the undulating course. Mathieu was ever hopeful; that was in his nature. A serious French contender and a close race was good for the nation’s self-belief, and the paper’s circulation. Roux shook his head. Was this boy the supreme optimist, or not?
“Believe me, the Belgian will lead the rest of the pack around these streets on the final day. No question. A Cognac against two beers says I’m right.”
“Done.”
Commander Roux brushed flakes of heavenly croissant from his waistcoat. Whatever the consequences, a warm croissant was worth the risk of tell-tale crumbs. No man would ever be damned because he ate a croissant. It was, for Bernard Roux, one of life’s maxims. But his indulgence had drawn his attention away from the crowds who headed across the St. Michel bridge.
“Notice something?” His attention had been drawn back onto the street. It was as if word had passed from lip to lip that a great spectacle was about to begin. Like the populous of Rome, excited by the prospect of a good day’s killing at the Colosseum, the people exuded a strong sense of anticipation. Would Henriette be thrown to the lions or gladiators hack each other’s reputation to shreds? Might the charioteers ride to the rescue, or the Emperor conclude events with a determined thumbs-down? One thing was certain. They smelled blood.
Both sides of the bridge had sprouted vendors as if they were early summer mushrooms, selling newspapers, journals, fruit and vegetables. Was that man buying a rosette? Why would anyone want to purchase flowers at this time of day? The detritus of cloth-capped society mixed freely with the top hats, bowlers and boaters. There were, too, huge wide rimmed concoctions of fashionable lace, feathers, plumes and ribbon. The pavements strained. Charabancs, some motorized, some still horse-drawn, vied with each other for space to disgorge their occupants. Across the boulevard the mighty Notre Dame Cathedral stood ignored. Even the legendary Quasimodo would have failed to turn these excited heads towards God.
A strict regiment of municipal police officers guarded the courtyard gates. All passes were carefully scrutinized, though Bernard Roux and Mathieu Bertrand had no need to provide documentation. The commander acknowledged a salute and lead Mathieu smartly across to a side-door. The Palais de Justice had been bedecked with tricolors and red, white and blue flower arrangements, spruced up for the benefit of high society. It was a truly theatrical backdrop to international self-flagellation.
Ahead a melee of journalists exchanged rumor and gossip, keen to find a fresh angle with which to keep their readers spellbound. Headlines bounced around the world, some indignant at the frivolous French, some basking in their own moral high ground. Yet another Parisian scandal. Marvelous. Typical of the French. Completely without morals. The Americans thought themselves above such vulgar distraction and their obvious disapproval was tinged with disdain for the Caillaux family. This was the journalistic métier of the moment. Theirs was the pen that would report, analyze, synthesize, and deliver the final verdict. But it was a charade which held the illusion of importance. In the sum of what transpired it was but one of several smokescreens behind which real evil prepared to strike. Justice descended to the depth of La Grande Theatre. Take your places, please. Stalls to the right, Sir. Private box, upstairs, Madam. The show is about to begin.
The conduct of the court added to the spectacle. Procedures were so lax that authority disintegrated into a free-for-all. Defendant, witnesses, lawyers, and the presiding judge took advantage of the occasion to color events in their decidedly jaundiced views. At times Mathieu could not work out whether the speaker was addressing the all-male jury, political allies, vested interests, or the greater world beyond. He gave his testimony with a confidence he had not expected to display, responding to both sets of lawyers with a clarity which brooked no objection. His job was to establish the facts. The circumstance of the arrest, the subsequent conduct of Madame Caillaux, and her reaction to the charges. He must have sorely disappointed the vultures from the press. They had already stripped the flesh from factual evidence and picked over the bones for four tedious months. No one had come to hear his evidence. This was a one woman show.
Directed by the best legal minds which a millionaire could buy, Madame Caillaux held her head high as she declared her actions to have been an uncontrolled crime of passion. Her every move was recorded. If she sniffed, some saw regret, while others wondered if it was mere scorn. Did you hear her voice? Was she close to a breakdown or play-acting? When she turned to face the jury, was she flirting or simply explaining her feelings? Not a single flicker of her eyebrows, subtle turn of her neck, clasp of her gloved hand, or purposeful pose went unnoticed. Each merited a comment. The home-based editors and journalists understood their appointed role. When she fainted, the gasps from the gallery echoed like a Greek chorus.
As she began to portray herself as a passionate heroine whose actions had been motivated by love for her husband, the tragic broken woman who could not be held accountable for the overwhelming emotions which dictated her reaction, it was clear that her defense lawyers were deconstructing and reframing the assassination into a crime of passion. The conservative press had screamed guilty before the trial began and scorned her every claim. She was not an emotionally distressed woman or a violently wronged female. Surely every sane person could see through her measured pretense? An expert was employed by L’illustration to analyze her dress in court. He concluded that it betrayed her emotionless personality which deserved no sympathy from the jury. In contrast, the daily newspaper Le Matin praised her modesty, her discreet sense of appropriate dress, her obvious distress at the mayhem she had apparently caused. She was indeed the epitome of a vulnerable lady. But then, Le Matin had long supported Joseph Caillaux.
