Beyond Revanche, page 7
As if to underline the distinct irrelevance of fact, the evidence taken in court from the two policemen was brief and to the point. Bernard Roux cut an impressive image of the law in action but his clarity was met with a yawn from the president of the court and a curt, “Yes, yes,” from Henriette Caillaux’s lawyer. Mathieu was treated with equal disdain when he took the stand but even the press pack were disinterested. Calmette’s murder inside his Figaro office had been reported in great detail by the newspaper itself. No one from her defense team sought to question what had taken place. Just as he was about to step down, one of her extensive legal team rose smartly to his feet and feigned a sudden interest in Mathieu’s view of the events.
“How did Madam Caillaux appear to you when you first saw her?” A smirk crossed his tight-mouthed lips. Instinct warned Mathieu to think carefully.
“She was in shock, standing…” He got no further.
“Ah.” A wry smile slithered across the lawyer’s face. “Madam Caillaux was in shock.” He accentuated the final word as if it proved some point. The legal inquisitor preened himself like a sly crow spying an easy morsel, but Mathieu anticipated his next move.
“Everyone in the room was in shock. It’s what happens when an assailant fires a gun close to you. Madam Caillaux was no more and no less in shock than everyone else, with the probable exception of the man she had shot.” Mathieu was not to be patronized by some lawyer seeking to put words in his mouth. “If a person fired a gun in this courtroom, I can assure you that everyone here would be in shock. It is neither remarkable nor unexpected. That is not what I think, it’s what I know.” He set his jaw and moved his head imperceptibly towards the crow as if to advise he should take flight. Silence. It took the president half a second to thank Mathieu and dismiss him from the witness stand.
“Good man,” was all that Roux whispered as his junior officer rejoined him, but to Mathieu it felt like his boss had embraced him with approval.
The commander established his own routine for the duration of the trial. First, breakfast at the Café-Bar Saint Michel. Roux certainly loved his croissants, followed by a tasty Gauloises. His assistant stuck to coffee. They analyzed the progress of the Tour de France as if it was the highlight of the day. To Mathieu’s delight, the Parisian favorite Pelissier had won the stage which ended in Belfort, but he could not best Philippe Thys overall. Even after the Belgian champion incurred a thirty-minute penalty when his cycle wheel broke and he was forced to buy a replacement on the last day, his lead proved unassailable. Years later Mathieu realized that the 1914 Tour had started on the 28th of June, the same day that Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated in Sarajevo. By that time, historians had decreed that the murder of the heir to the Austrian Empire was the cause of a world war. He knew it was a lie. A lie so monstrous that it would be taught as fact for a century. No one wanted to know the awful truth. Perhaps they never would.
They ambled back from the Café-Bar reluctant to step back into the sweat-filled furnace of the court. Roux energized himself with a healthy Gauloises. That’s how he described it.
“A moment, Commander.” They turned to find one of the diplomatic advisers from Quai d’Orsay pressing his way through the gate. “The minister would like a word.”
“Which minister?”
“General Messimy. He is in the left-hand room off the Gallerie de Presidence.”
“Wait for me in the corridor, Bertrand.” No familiarity was ever displayed in public. What did the minister of war want? Not good, whatever. Messimy was a soldier first and politician second, and he had served as war minister once before, just days before the crisis between France and Germany over Morocco in 1912. They said there would be a war, but Joseph Caillaux had smoothed the ruffled feathers and a strained peace was maintained. Messimy was known to have a low regard for the kaiser. What was he plotting? It was the perfect place to hold a secret meeting right in front of the world’s press. Absorbed as they were with the gossip and tittle-tattle of a salacious trial, no one stopped to question why the minister of war and the most senior policemen in the city were engrossed in their own meeting. Mathieu paced up and down the corridor, aware that the trial had resumed. Five minutes dragged into an hour. Several minor officials from the war office and the diplomatic corps acknowledged him with a nod as they came and went from the meeting room.
Stern faced, Bernard Roux finally left his unscheduled audience, throwing Mathieu a look which said, Say nothing. The two policemen strode towards the courtroom but did not enter the inner sanctum of French justice.
“I need a seat,” Roux said, meaning that he was desperate to taste a Gauloises so they veered off into the side garden.
“Apparently the president needs to have regular reports about the trial sent to him by diplomatic channels, and they want us to provide an objective view every day.”
“Can’t some civil service lackey from the war office do that?” Mathieu reflected Roux’s annoyance. “We’ve our own job to do.”
“I’m afraid you’ve just been volunteered.” He pulled a long drag on his Gauloises and looked away.
“They seem to trust you implicitly. Your grandfather was mentioned in passing, and ironically they have assumed that you, too, can be trusted with matters of state.”
“But…”
“Don’t waste your time. It was me or you and I’m not trundling along there to hand in a report.” He saw Mathieu’s lip curl upwards. “It’s one omnibus stop along the river, my friend. Break up your day.”
And it did. It more than did.
Because he arrived at the Quai d’Orsay with information which had to be coded before being sent by diplomatic telegram and forwarded firstly to Russia, and then, as the week progressed, to the presidential party on the battleship France as it steamed down the Baltic, the secret brotherhood of trusted insiders assumed his loyalty. Mathieu’s became a familiar face to diplomats and civil servants in the Quai d’Orsay where the all-knowing Benoit Durfort decided to adopt him as a friend.
“Ah, Mathieu Bertrand.” He greeted the commander’s messenger as if he was a well-loved sibling. “How safe are we all today on the streets of Paris?” Public opinion may not have mattered to him, but it exercised the president’s mind so he feigned interest. Mathieu detested him.
Durfort was of aristocratic descent, connected by blood to a remnant of the ancient regime which had survived the Revolution. He treated Quai d’Orsay as his natural abode and cherished its splendor with proprietorial interest. He walked the great corridors as if they belonged to him, finding fault only with those who were not granted audience as his favorites. Benoit Durfort dressed in the nineteenth century and undermined the twentieth. His inability to consider the feelings of those around him added to the difficulty of working for him. Underlings were barely tolerated in his world. His long skeletal fingers were tipped with sharp feline nails which he drummed noisily when irritated, and little irritated him more than the kaiser and Germany. He was a hatcher of plots, a minder of secrets, a devious influence on those who would hold power, but from the outset, Durfort liked Mathieu.
“What nonsense today in the Palaise de Justice? Should the guillotine be sharpened for the Caillaux bitch?” Benoit Durfort punctuated his conceit with a high-camp giggle. The commander’s handwriting appeared to defeat him on a daily basis, drawing Mathieu uncomfortably close to the scented fop.
“And what does Monsieur Roux mean precisely when he notes that Henriette Caillaux appeared to be distressed by the proceedings? I hope she is thoroughly distressed, the harlot.”
Mathieu had never been tasked to work with a more self-obsessed creature and he let Commander Roux know. “He has this need to impress how important he is,” he complained to no effect, “and he makes my skin creep.” Bernard Roux was not moved. He had long known the bloated ego that was Durfort and had no intention of reacquainting himself with a man he despised.
“His indiscretion is boundless. He has shown me copies of telegrams between the president and the kaiser, he talks about the English foreign secretary as if he was a best friend, and assumes that I know precisely why the president is currently in Russia. Of course it’s not the President, it’s ‘Raymond.’ It took me three hours to realize that ‘Alex’ was the Russian Ambassador, Izvolsky.”
Roux chortled to himself with such force that his moustache appeared to take on a life of its own, dancing a pacy jig above his trusty Gauloises, but when he tried to suppress the laughter a deep painful cough rasped his throat. Mathieu thought his boss was having a fit. Once he had regained his composure, the commander agreed. “As you say, he’s not to be trusted but let him confide in you. He’s a mere undersecretary, but believe me, he is a protected species. He wouldn’t treat me that way but your youth and openness unquestionably attracts him. Play to his vanities. Pretend you’re impressed, but don’t get too close.”
Mathieu nodded. He now knew every word spoken by Bernard Roux was truth. “Everything I see and hear proves you are right. We are organizing for war. It’s scandalous.”
But Paris was agog with a different kind of scandal. Mathieu had expected the voyeurs who hung around the Palais de Justice to thin out as the trial unfolded, but public interest was stoked by scurrilous revelations, open squabbles, and barely veiled political self-interest. Inside the building, the atmosphere became febrile. Lawyers berated each other; advocates sweated. Judges fell out. Honor was allegedly impinged. The government ought to have moved the entire proceedings to the Comedie-Française on the Rue Richelieu. For a start, it would have been more comfortable.
There was one compensation: lunch. Lunch in the small but well-provisioned Bar-Bistro across the Pont Au Change became a daily respite. No matter what, Mathieu managed to make it back in time from the Quai d’Orsay. Bernard Roux knew how and where to eat. The proprietors greeted him by name, and he returned the compliment. Having survived his initiation at the Quai d’Orsay on the opening Monday, Mathieu allowed the commander to treat him to a respectable plat de jour. On Tuesday, after Joseph Caillaux had impressed the court, they ate a succulent rabbit stew in a red wine sauce. Wednesday witnessed the spectacle of Henriette presenting herself as a vulnerable, sensitive, dutiful, and loving wife. It may have turned the stomachs of more conservative diners, but the steak au poivre, washed down by a palatable wine, proved a worthy compensation. Thursday’s excitement in the Palais de Justice, as Caillaux’s former wife took to the stand, required a lighter lunch; a salad sufficed. But Friday’s farcical performance over the infamous letters for which Gaston Calmette was shot drove the duo to serious drink.
“Enough,” Roux decided. “We have suffered enough. I have had my fill of so-called honor, reputation, and virtuous women.” They pushed their way through the crowded street, across the river and north to familiar territory. “We’ve spent the whole week listening to pathetic excuses from a pampered harlot who brings disgrace to our nation. She may have millions of francs in the bank, live in a luxury we will never comprehend and pursue a hedonistic lifestyle behind the closed doors of her indulgent villa, but she is not a good person. Believe me.” He snorted menacingly. His stride widened. Bernard Roux was a man on a mission and it would only be accomplished when they reached the Café Clichy.
“Oh.” He stopped short and turned to Mathieu. “You’ll be mindful you owe me a cognac.”
The bloody Belgian had won the Tour de France.
Raoul’s Story
A Leader in Waiting
My sense of justice has always been acute. So has my instinct. I treasure my own code of honor. I do.
Standing at the gates of the Palais de Justice with its grand colonnades and nineteenth century facelift, I gloried in the thought that though Marie-Antoinette had been imprisoned on this site before being condemned to the guillotine, the indignity of this regicide would shortly be redressed by Henriette Caillaux. Yet, surrounded as I was by a large group of my friends, I sensed a problem. Every morning a cohort of Action française supporters lined up behind the cordon of municipal police and gendarmes to hurl insults at everyone associated with the Caillauxs. What amazed me was the number of her supporters who massed on the other side. Were they paid agitators? No Frenchman worthy of the name would surely associate himself with these socialist murderers.
Caillaux had proved to be an enemy of France. His previous willingness to submit to the kaiser’s demands had weakened our nation and made us a laughing stock in Europe. His misdeeds as minister of finance were an affront to decency, but still Joseph Caillaux hung onto his ill-gotten post until she put paid to his reputation and career. But it was insufficient. Action française would take care of such traitors. Now his wife Henriette had been disgraced, his filthy affairs spread across the civilized world like a sexual disease. That was it. The Caillaux clan were a cancer which must be removed. The Paris sewers, though too good for them, had work to do.
“Murderer! Murderer! Liar! Thief! Thief!” A chorus of phlegm shot across the gilded gateway as Joseph Caillaux’s limousine glided to a halt, Patrick at the wheel. Bodyguards leapt forward to clear a passage as Caillaux exited towards his supporters, removing his top hat as if in salute. Joseph smiled broadly, raised his walking stick, and bowed almost imperceptibly. I shivered as the enemy turned towards us and extended the same confident smile. His eyes were cold and friendless. His moustache groomed to perfection. Was he looking at me? Did that bastard actually smile directly at ME?
“Die Caillaux!” I heard myself yell. And meant it. “Prepare to follow her to the guillotine!” To my surprise the packed throng around me took up the cry. “Die! Die! The guillotine’s too good for your likes!”
“Off with her head…and yours!”
“Lock them away and lose the key!”
“Guillotine them both!”
The thrill of leading orchestrated abuse fired me up. Each day I prepared a new insult for Caillaux. It became my ritual contribution.
“Callous Caillaux” became “Shameless adulterer” and then “Treacherous lecher.” I particularly liked that one, and gave it a second airing. Hearing my insults reverberate around the courtyard made me proud. I felt like a leader.
Are you a leader, my friend? I think not.
A firm hand patted my shoulder just as Caillaux disappeared into the Palais de Justice on the fifth morning. “Raoul?” the fresh-faced enquirer beckoned. “Raoul, be careful. This way.” I let myself be drawn into the crowd. It was always more comfortable there. I recognized the man from Action française meetings, though we had never spoken. He sported a bowler hat which struggled to fit over his curled black hair and a suit so sharply pressed that it cut a passage before him.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re being watched. Plain-clothed detectives. Keep your head down and follow me.”
I did as advised, turning my gaze to shoes, boots, and cobbled road. We picked up pace. I was about to ask where we were headed when a sleek green Renault EF Torpedo, its engine purring, braked hard at the curb. Maurice, the fellow’s name came to me just as the rear door opened, beckoned me forward.
“Quick, before they realize we’ve gone.” The thrill of conspiracy increased my heart-rate. The last time I had felt that kind of joyous fear, I had just escaped the clutches of my brother’s friends. They intended to beat me for betraying them to our teacher. They had no business stealing from the orchard. Thieves. Every one of them.
“Keep your head down. We don’t want you arrested.”
“Arrested?” Why would the police want to arrest me? Oh dear. I was decidedly uncomfortable despite the luxury of the Renault’s brown leather upholstery. My rescuers smiled knowingly.
“Because they have orders to waylay important members of the A.F. Several of the lads were picked up this morning and held for a couple of hours.”
“So they couldn’t protest at the Palais de Justice?” I filled in the rest of the story as they probably hoped I would.
“Precisely. I’m Conrad, by the way.” He extended his hand and grasped mine firmly.
“Raoul.” I nodded seriously. “And you are Maurice, I believe.”
“Yes. We met that night you were assaulted by the police. After poor Calmette’s funeral.”
“Right.”
“I’m Theo,” the driver added without turning his head. The Renault sped effortlessly down Boulevard Saint Michel, past the Sorbonne, the Luxembourg Gardens resplendent in their July finery, almost empty, too early yet for the ambulant bourgeoisie. We cruised across Montparnasse towards the Catacombs and the Porte d’Orleans. Theo slowed down.
“We’ve given them the slip.”
“Well done, Theo.”
He drove round in a circle before announcing, “We’re here.”
We climbed out onto the Rue Friant, checked up and down the street for spies before I was hustled up two flights of stairs into a well-appointed apartment.
“Raoul.” A middle-aged gentleman rose from his window seat and greeted me enthusiastically. “Very pleased to meet you at last.” He had the aura of breeding. Erect, confident, his words implied a positive familiarity which disarmed me immediately. He bore a short-cropped beard which must have required daily attention, and his waistcoat was of deep purple satin. Thin rounded spectacles sat comfortably on his nose, and while his smile appeared genuine, it may have been well-practiced. A manservant appeared from the kitchen with a tray of coffee and small patisseries which were laid before us as an offering.
“Sit down, please, and thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
It took a second before I realized he was speaking directly to me.
“I understand you have suffered for the cause, and want to be directly involved. Action française has need of strong men like you, which is why Maurice was sent to keep you from the clutches of those who would put you in prison. I’m Charles, by the way.”
