The Praetorians (26 page)

 * * * * 

In the afternoon Françoise Baguèras, Pasfeuro, Malistair and about twenty other journalists attended a press conference given by General Massu.

“Well, now,” said Massu, wrinkling his brow, “I'm not going to mince my words. . . . I'm not a factionist general. . . . I could well have done without this mission. . . . When I arrived at the Government General I was collared by a group of young men. I tried to show them the demonstration was out of place. Impossible to make myself heard. I looked at General Salan out of the corner of my eye. He didn't say a word. I hesitated for thirty or forty seconds. Then I accepted. To me it seemed the only means of restoring law and order. In spite of the crowd's idiotic opposition to General Salan it was necessary to have the establishment of the army respected and not to prolong a rebellious situation which is liable to cut us off from Metropolitan France. I don't know who provoked the march on the Government General. There are certainly people in Algiers who do not wish us well. . . .”

The phrases went on pouring out, short and clipped.

“. . . The Committee has been recognized by General Salan. I think that's a good thing. What are we heading for? I don't know at all. . . . If there's no Public Safety government then we'll see. I shall do all I can to avoid bloodshed. The power is in the hands of General Salan and he is the spokesman of the
Government. If the Committee forgets that, it will be dissolved. . . .”

“I questioned a young man,” said Pasfeuro, leaning over to Malistair, “yes, one of the first ones who broke into the Government General. He must have been sixteen or seventeen. As fair as a girl, freckled and with his nose in the air. I asked him: ‘What now?'

“He wrung his hands as though someone was stamping on his feet.

“‘What with all this business, I'm going to fail my exams. And then there'll be a fine to-do. But maybe there'll be a special session for those who were at the Government General.'”

 * * * * 

On the morning of Ascension Day a thin mist rose from the sea, but was soon dispelled by the sun. One of the steamers which had been forbidden to leave hooted
“Al-gé-rie-Fran-çaise”
on three separate notes and several thousands of men began quietly making their way towards the Forum.

In an office on the third floor of the Government General a bald jowly man of about fifty, with dark gentle eyes behind their spectacles, sat totting up a column of figures.

“The Bank of Algeria has only nine hundred thousand francs in hand, the stocks of petrol are half empty, barely enough fuel for ten days. Food is going to be in short supply . . . and munitions. . . .” But munitions were no concern of Pierre Vigier, head of the economics branch. In possession of these figures, he now knew that if the blockade continued the army of Africa would have to land in Metropolitan France in two weeks' time.

He called for his secretary:

“Madame Barouch.”

Gisèle Barouch arrived, her lips pressed tight together.

“Would you please type this report out at once. They're waiting for it.”

Down below the roar of the crowd rose and fell like gusts of wind.

“Anything wrong, Madame Barouch? You're frightened, but frightened of what? The people aren't crying for blood;
they're only breathing freely at last, waking up from a nightmare. . . .

“Three copies, please!”

Gisèle Barouch was not trembling with fear, but with hatred, and at the same time she felt attracted by those loud yells from down below.

She took Vigier's report and read it through. The figures swam before her eyes. Algeria, cut off from Metropolitan France, could hold out no more than ten days. And she had to warn Lamentin at once; he might be able to get a message through to Paris or Milan.

 * * * * 

It was ten o'clock in the morning; the Forum was not yet filled to capacity, there were scarcely ten thousand people there; all the other French Algerians had gone to the beach, for it was a really lovely day.

The Commander-in-Chief arrived, composed and smiling, followed by Massu, who was scowling as usual. Bonvillain, who was attending a meeting of the Public Safety Committee, rose to his feet to greet him. But he was sweating: with him, a sign of anxiety.

Colonel Puysanges looked Glatigny straight in the eye, and the major blinked as a sign of acquiescence.

The crowd which had gathered in the Forum that morning was not liable to cause any unpleasant surprise.

Bonvillain stepped forward:

“General, you ought to say a few words out on the balcony.”

Bonvillain knew that the Tojun had received an envoy from Paris, that Pflimlin had put his trust in him again, that there was a direct line linking Salan to the Présidence du Conseil. Yesterday he had made certain promises; would he keep them today? He was to cry out publicly: “Long live de Gaulle!” But what if he merely let himself be acclaimed? Then they might have to think of taking very serious decisions: liquidating the Commander-in-Chief, or, which would be preferable after all, safeguarding his life. But who would agree to do it among the paratroop officers? Glatigny? Surely not. To him a general was
still a sacred figure, like a priest. Esclavier? Bonvillain knew that Esclavier instinctively disliked and distrusted him. Boisfeuras perhaps. . . . Yes, surely Boisfeuras, he had that ugly look which is suited to such tasks!

The general had stepped out on to the balcony; he stood to attention in front of the microphone and spoke in a clear voice, but without much conviction:

“French Algerians, my friends, I am on your side. I am on your side, because my son is buried at Clos Salembier. . . .”

He paused, and all of a sudden the crowd, with a single voice, gave a great yell:

“Long live French Algeria! Long live Salan!”

“Listen to that,” said Glatigny to Esclavier, who had just come in, “. . . it can't be possible.”

The two officers were a few yards behind the general; they could see his handsome clear-cut face. All of a sudden the features seemed to alter, to grow blurred, as the acclamations grew louder and louder. . . .

Glatigny nervously clenched his fists:

“Salan is moved—Salan, the Tojun with the face of marble—and yet he knows we've engineered these acclamations. It's a gang of hired clappers down there this morning, it isn't Algiers.”

“What's going on in his mind?” Esclavier wondered, feeling intensely interested all of a sudden. “Yes, in the innermost depths of his mind? Perhaps that impassiveness of his is nothing but intense shyness, and his longing for solitude and secrecy only the fear of difficult relationships, painful encounters. And here it is, all melting away in the blazing Algiers sunshine. These acclamations, which he knows to be fake, move him so deeply that they bring tears to his eyes. Is there, after all, a heart beating behind all those rows of medals?”

The general turned round, he was coming back into the office without having shouted “Long live de Gaulle!” An icy shiver ran up Bonvillain's spine.

The Tojun looked at him with his grey eyes, eyes that he had never been able to see until then, wonderfully calm eyes washed by tears and rendered all the more sparkling. But on his slightly
twisted mouth Bonvillain fancied he could see an expression of veiled irony and also contempt.

Like a vanquished gladiator stretched out in the sand of the arena, he was gazing at the emperor who, with a thumbs-up or thumbs-down sign, would grant him his life or condemn him to death.

The general returned to the microphone, seized it, pulled it closer to his mouth and in the same calm, steady voice:

“Long live de Gaulle!”

He had given the thumbs-up sign and Bonvillain slowly clambered to his feet.

 * * * * 

Puysanges always came into Arcinade's office without knocking, to remind him what a hold he had over him.

Arcinade was speaking on the telephone in his reedy little voice. He was wearing the same suit as the day before, but another tie, and was sporting in his buttonhole the narrow ribbon of the Croix de Guerre in which the red predominates over the black. This ribbon could be taken for that of the Légion d'Honneur.

“Well, what news?” asked Colonel Puysanges.

“Restignes had quite a few visitors last night! The Grand Mufti, a little later the President of the Jewish Consistory and later still Professor Jourdain. If you call that lying low!”

“Arcinade, I've just this very moment witnessed a remarkable demonstration by our little friends the paratroopers of Glatigny's team: a perfect infiltration of the crowd, without its being noticeable, achieved exclusively with civilians belonging to organizations of the Vigilance Committee, war veterans for the most part, and only a few paratroops in disguise to orchestrate and keep an eye on things.

“For eight minutes those ten thousand people applauded General Salan with such warmth that the old man was quite overcome. They could have shouted with equal conviction: ‘Death to the Traitor, the Tool of the System.'

“Astonishing, don't you think, my dear Arcinade?”

“The rules of political agitation are sufficiently well known . . .”

“No, not these rules. We know how to work up a mob, to
rouse it and launch it into action, but not how to exercise control over it at every stage. I consider these officers remarkable. In the old days the prætorians of Rome made and unmade emperors merely by clashing their swords together, which put the people in an unholy funk. The paratroops may well be the prætorians of this day and age. They know that a country, a government, is controlled not only by weapons, even if their firing rate is twelve hundred rounds a minute. Here they are, wielding a new form of power, popular action. Their ideas on this subject are not yet quite clear—you can see they are embarrassed, for they have to disentangle themselves from a past which drags them backwards. They're still only at the start of their evolution. But that is why, at this very moment, at the age of forty-nine, I have decided to pass my parachute test, even if it costs me a broken leg.”

“Colonel!”

“Which king of France do you think is the greatest, Arcinade?”

“I don't know—St. Louis. Louis XIV.”

“No, it's Philippe le Bel. More than a century ahead of his time, he was the only one in the Middle Ages to realize that it would soon not be swords or lances that governed the world, but money. Since money knew no frontiers, he concluded that, by means of it, it would be possible to create that empire of the West of which he dreamt. So he decided to control the order of the Templars which had become the master of money in Europe. Philippe le Bel tried first of all to become Grand Master of the Templars, but those imbeciles of Templars didn't want anything to do with him. So he had them burnt, because he could not tolerate that such power should remain in the hands of people who did not obey him.

“This group of officers, these prætorians in strength, are also wielding an immense power, which in our era tends to replace money or the regular game of politics.

“I shall have those men with me and then I can hope for anything, that's to say to hold the strings of the puppets who are to perform onstage. But if they don't want me then I'll smash them.”

“Thank you, Colonel, for the trust you show me in unfolding your most secret designs.”

“I need you above all, Arcinade, and, besides, I've got a hold over you.”

“What hold, Colonel?”

“I can have you charged with murder. I'm well aware that in these troubled times we've all become murderers, but we have an excuse in the eyes of the law, or else the evidence has disappeared. As far as you're concerned, there's no excuse and I am in possession of the evidence.

“Keep a close watch on Restignes. The very men who had our beloved general acclaimed could just as easily arrange for Restignes to be voted in. I want to be informed at once if any of the officers of that group call on him.”

Puysanges rose from his arm-chair and, across the desk, seized Arcinade by the shoulder.

“You're behind the times, my dear fellow. The secret agent has now been replaced by the stage-manager. We shall have to think of your reconversion.”

The colonel strode off, banging the door behind him, and his fierce laugh echoed for a long time in the corridor outside.

 * * * * 

In Paris the director of
Influences
read out to Villèle the message which General de Gaulle had just published:

“‘The disintegration of the State leads infallibly to the alienation of associated nations, the unrest of the army on active service, national dislocation, loss of independence.

“‘For twelve years France, at grips with problems too harsh for conditions to be made, has been involved in a disastrous process.

“‘But lately the country has placed her wholehearted trust in me to lead her to safety. Today, faced with the ordeals which once again confront her, let her know that I hold myself ready to assume the powers of the Republic.'

“What do you think of it?”

“It's well written, in an old-fashioned but substantial style. Mendès would not have been up to it. Behind this style stands the man, who has a certain grandeur. We're in the middle of a tragedy and this tone is perfectly suited to the situation.”

“You're not going Gaullist, Villèle? The rats are leaving the sinking ship!”

“You know perfectly well I veer in the direction in which
my interests lie. De Gaulle only likes men of good breeding round him, and I am not well bred.”

“We're going to defend the Republic.”

“Why not?”

“If necessary we'll make an alliance with the Communists.”

“Nought plus one equals one. You don't exist, the Communists do exist, so they'll swallow you up.”

“How many troops are there left in France?”