The Crimes of Paris

by Dorothy Hoobler; Thomas Hoobler

  She denied that her actions on the day of the murder showed premeditation. When she bought the pistol, she was only replacing the one she had lost. The note she had written to her husband, in which she said, “It would be I who would render justice,” meant nothing. “I attached no importance to it,” 35 she said, but it is doubtful that anyone in the courtroom believed her.

  The most gripping part of her testimony promised to be her account of the murder, but it was surprisingly dry. Describing how she sat for an hour waiting for Calmette to arrive, she said she thought she heard all around her the newspaper’s employees telling jokes about her husband. As she entered the editor’s office, “the gun went off all by itself.” Henriette paused and said, “I regret it infinitely.” With that, she stopped, and Magistrate Albanel had to prompt her to show more remorse, but she merely added, “It was fate. I regret infinitely the unhappiness I have caused.” 36

  If the spectators were a little disappointed at her low-key performance, they would be gratified by the rest of the proceedings, in which the trial became a contest between Joseph Caillaux and the murder victim. External events in Serbia, Austria, and Germany were ominously leading toward a general war in Europe, a war that Caillaux had tried to avoid but many other French politicians were willing, even eager, to fight. Nonetheless, all the major Parisian newspapers printed the full transcript of each day’s proceedings at the trial — requiring them to add extra pages and often to devote as much as 60 percent of their entire contents to the trial.

  Caillaux himself took the stand on the second day, preening and looking as if he were in charge of the proceedings. (Because he was a member of the legislature, he had special privileges: he was allowed to use notes while testifying and did not have to be sworn in.) He began by describing the unhappiness he felt in his first marriage and how he sought relief in the arms of Henriette. In the divorce settlement, Berthe had promised to destroy the letters she had stolen from his desk, but clearly she had not, and when his love letter to her (the “Ton Jo” letter) had appeared in Le Figaro, he concluded that his letters to Henriette would be next.

  Having been accused in Le Figaro of “infamy and treason,” Caillaux felt entitled to respond, and the judge did not stop him as he launched into a defense of his political career, including the negotiations with Germany during the Agadir Incident. For good measure, he virtually accused Calmette of treason, alleging that Le Figaro had ties to German banking interests and had received funds from political parties in Austria-Hungary. As everyone was aware, both these countries were now threatening war against Serbia, an action that would bring a declaration of war by France in a week’s time.

  The following day, the president of the board of directors of Le Figaro contradicted Caillaux’s charges against the newspaper and its murdered editor. Pointedly, he said, “The lion attacks the living, the jackal attacks the corpse.” One of the lawyers representing the Calmette family 37 added, “I know of no enterprise more shameful than coming before a public audience to profane the tomb one’s wife has opened!” 38

  Returning to matters that would seem more relevant to the trial, the court heard a series of witnesses testify about Henriette’s emotional state leading up to the murder. The salesman from the gun store said that she was quite calm and, for a woman, showed good marksmanship on the test-firing range. Friends of hers, however, stated that they could see that Le Figaro’s campaign was affecting her deeply.

  The next day, the prosecutor called Caillaux’s first wife, Berthe, to the stand. Except for a pair of white gloves, she was dressed in mourning clothes, even though Calmette was no relation to her. Berthe admitted that she had photographic copies made of the eight letters between her husband and Henriette. Labori, the defense attorney, pointed out that the divorce agreement had obliged her to destroy any correspondence, and that Caillaux had paid her generous alimony to ensure her compliance. She denied that, saying that Caillaux had asked for her word of honor that she would destroy the correspondence, and she had refused because his word of honor was worthless. She launched into a catalog of grievances against him.

  Yet Berthe still insisted that she had not given Calmette the copy of the “Ton Jo” letter that he published, although she admitted that her sister (who had arranged for the photographing of the letters) might have done it. And what, she was asked, of the other letters? Berthe astonished the court by taking a sheaf of photographs from her purse and announcing that she had them right here.

  Their appearance set off extended sparring among the lawyers and judge as to whether Berthe should be permitted — or compelled? — to read the letters aloud. Since no one was quite sure how the jury would react to them, only the lawyers for the Calmettes urged that their contents be made public. Finally it was agreed that the defense attorney should read them privately and determine if they were relevant.

  Caillaux asked for and was granted permission to respond to Berthe’s charges, as if he were the person on trial. He said it had been a mistake for him to marry her, because she was not of the same “stock” as he, even though they had been “perfect friends.” Still in the courtroom, Berthe began to shout back at him, “Be quiet! You dishonor yourself!” Caillaux added that he left her because his “dignity” had not permitted him to continue living with her. “I will say nothing more,” he added, allowing his listeners to assume the worst about her conduct. 39

  To that, Berthe stood and shouted, “No, I summon you to say everything. I demand it!” He needed no more prompting and, pointing, hit her with the allegation that when she entered his house, she had “not a single centime!” Now, out of concern for her welfare, he had given her nearly half his fortune. “I do not understand what protestations such a woman can raise,” he said. 40

  Berthe announced she would no longer respond to Caillaux’s insults, and pardoned him. Not to be outdone, he in turn pardoned her. Throughout, the judge had made no move to stop their bickering. That was a mistake, because during the next three days, such outbursts became more common. Caillaux now stood next to his wife at the defendant’s rail, as if protecting her or perhaps acknowledging that the trial was as much about him as about her.

  Labori returned on the following day and announced that he would read aloud only the three letters written from Caillaux to Henriette. This drew a protest from Charles Chenu, representing the Calmette family, who wanted the jury to hear Henriette’s letters as well. The prosecutor suggested that Chenu be allowed to read those letters privately. Berthe, who had returned to see what would happen, declared that all the letters should be read aloud. This set off a shouting match among the lawyers and Berthe, which finally roused Magistrate Albanel from his permissive mood. He proposed a recess, only to have one of the two assistant judges remark quietly, “Monsieur, you dishonor us!” 41 evidently prompted by Albanel’s apparent intention to save the defense attorney from embarrassment.

  That became even more obvious with the testimony of the next witness. Postponing the reading of the letters, Magistrate Albanel allowed Caillaux’s closest friend in the legislature, Pascal Ceccaldi, to give testimony. It soon became clear that Ceccaldi’s only purpose was to smear poor Calmette, saying among other things that the editor had speculated in German stocks and slanted the news coverage in Le Figaro to ensure that his stocks would rise. These charges again led to a shouting match that the chief judge allowed to continue unabated.

  Ceccaldi’s calumnies were interjected into the trial at Caillaux’s request. After he finished, the prosecution responded with two character witnesses for the dead man: Henry Bernstein, a young playwright, and Albert Calmette, the editor’s brother. Bernstein asked how Caillaux could attack the honor of a man his wife had murdered. It was a taunt Caillaux would not forget. Albert Calmette then related that he had been given the papers his brother carried in his coat. These included all the now-famous documents: the “Ton Jo” letter, the Fabre memorandum, and the documents verts. Reading the last of these, Albert realized they were secret stat
e papers and gave them to President Poincaré, who thanked him for “doing his duty.” This was an embarrassing revelation, because the government, in order to avoid diplomatic repercussions, had already declared that the documents verts were forgeries. Albert Calmette concluded by saying that his brother was an honorable man who would have told Henriette — had she but asked before firing her pistol — that he would never publish her private letters. He turned to Labori, Henriette’s defense attorney, and asked if that was true. Embarrassed, because he had known Calmette for years, Labori merely nodded.

  The excitement did not end when the court adjourned for the day. In chambers, Magistrate Albanel demanded an apology from the assistant judge who had criticized him. He received it, but in the next morning’s Le Figaro, Albanel read a report of the incident, along with a statement by the assistant judge saying that he had nothing to apologize for and that he felt Albanel was showing partiality to the defendant. Albanel responded by giving an interview to another newspaper in which he indicated he might have to require satisfaction for this insult. He would not rule out challenging his fellow judge to a duel — in those times, not an empty threat.

  The tension only increased on the following day, July 25. The session began with a pointed declaration by Albanel: “More than anyone else in this room I take care to defend my own honor and the honor of the magistrature — despite what anyone may have said.” 42 Since many people knew that Albanel had met in his chambers with Émile Bruneau de Laborie, the author of a handbook on dueling, few doubted his words.

  The matter of the letters was at last settled, with the agreement that Fernand Labori, the chief defense attorney, would read aloud two of them, from Caillaux to Henriette. They were flowery (“I threw myself toward you with passionate fervor”) and contained plans for deceiving Berthe, but they were nonpolitical, indicating that Calmette would not have chosen to publish them. Still, as Caillaux’s words became more specific, the letters had an effect. When Labori read the closing of the second letter, “A thousand million kisses all over your adored little body,” Henriette fainted. 43

  It might have seemed anticlimactic at this point to bring on doctors to testify about the murder, but this was a trial involving constant diversions. The doctors who had treated Calmette testified that it had been impossible to save him — a conclusion that Labori questioned. Reading from a text, he asserted that it was dangerous to transport patients with severe wounds and argued that once at the clinic, the patient should have received better care. One of the doctors, a professor of surgery, said he had never seen an attorney try “to incriminate the surgeons.” 44

  The medical testimony complete, the prosecution rested its case. The next day, before the defense could begin its presentation, Caillaux once more asked, and received, permission to make a statement. This one was truly startling. He flourished what he said was a copy of Calmette’s will — by law, a private document. When Magistrate Albanel asked how he had obtained it, Caillaux haughtily declared, “In the same manner by which M. Calmette obtained his copy of the ‘Ton Jo.’” 45 Despite heated objections by Chenu, Caillaux obtained permission to read it aloud — surely getting his revenge for the publication of the “Ton Jo” letter.

  It appeared that Calmette’s estate totaled some thirteen million francs. Some of that had accrued from investments, but six million francs had been a gift from Calmette’s mistress. Caillaux mocked the memory of a man who would make a fortune in the bedroom. Then he asked rhetorically what kind of person would defend such a man, singling out Henry Bernstein, whose testimony had particularly stung Caillaux. Referring to the playwright, he said, “When one has not fulfilled one’s duty to the nation, one is ill-equipped to give certificates of morality to others.” 46 The implication was clear — that Bernstein had been a draft dodger.

  Chenu was finally able to ask what relevance all this had to the case (the question had seemingly not occurred to Magistrate Albanel). Caillaux responded that “there is something worse than to lose one’s life, and that is to save it when one, by turns, attacks women and enriches oneself at their expense.” 47 In other words, it was relevant only as character assassination of the man Caillaux’s wife had killed.

  The defense was then allowed to present its case. It called Dr. Eugène Doyen, another surgeon, who used a diagram of the murder scene to argue that Henriette had aimed her first two shots at the floor, intending only to frighten Calmette. However, the recoil from the pistol tended to bring her arm up at the same time that Calmette was dropping to the floor to shield himself. Unfortunately this brought him into the path of Henriette’s fatal bullet.

  Chenu was highly indignant at this reconstruction. Having tried to blame the physicians for Calmette’s death, the defense was now saying it was Calmette’s own fault for throwing himself into his murderer’s range of fire. Chenu demanded that the other physicians be recalled to the stand to refute Doyen’s testimony.

  The doctors were conferring when the door of the courtroom burst open and Henry Bernstein strode in. He had been informed via telephone of Caillaux’s earlier comments. Shouting, “Caillaux! Are you there? Because I do not insult adversaries in their absence!” he marched to the front of the room. With no attempt from the judges’ bench to stop him, he began to denounce Caillaux as “a man climbing atop the coffin of his wife’s victim in order to speak to you more loudly.” 48

  After saying that the documents verts — which officially still did not exist — proved that Caillaux was a traitor, Bernstein took up the charge of draft dodging that Caillaux had leveled against him. It was true, he admitted: as a young man serving in the army, he had fled to Belgium after five months of service and only returned to France after a general amnesty. It was, Bernstein said, a mistake of youth. But now he had enlisted in an artillery unit and would be sent into combat should France mobilize for war. “The mobilization may be tomorrow,” he pointed out, and he was only about a week too soon. Turning directly to Caillaux, he had a final riposte: “I do not know what day Caillaux leaves for the front, but I must warn him that during a war, he cannot have himself replaced by his wife; he will have to fire himself!” 49 The cheers from the spectators finally forced Albanel to call a recess.

  The defense presentation was brief, concluding with testimony from a colonel in an artillery regiment who claimed expertise in ballistics. He was there to confirm Dr. Doyen’s analysis. Diagramming the pattern of the six bullets Henriette had fired, he claimed that they moved upward from the floor owing to the involuntary motion of her arm. This proved that she had not meant to kill Calmette and that had he not fallen to get out of her way, she would not have. The jury may have found more authority for this opinion, coming from a military man.

  On July 28, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia, setting in motion the treaty obligations of other allies on both sides. As France prepared for a war many now saw as inevitable, the lawyers made their final arguments. That evening, the jury began its deliberations, which didn’t take long. Five minutes short of an hour later, they announced that by a vote of eleven to one, they had found Henriette Caillaux not guilty of either charge. She and her husband embraced as their friends in the gallery cheered.

  The couple’s triumph was short-lived. Three days later, on July 31, a student aptly named Raoul Villain shot and killed France’s leading pacifist politician, Jean Jaurès. The police feared that someone would make a similar attempt on Caillaux’s life because he too was known to prefer negotiations to war. The prefect of police advised him to leave Paris. He and Henriette fled the next morning. It was the first day of August, 1914, the month Europe plunged into the bloodiest war in its history, making the murder of one persistent editor pale into insignificance. The Belle Époque was coming to an end.

  10

  THE GREATEST CRIME

  Germany declared war on France on August 3, 1914. Most French citizens were elated, feeling that at last they would take revenge for the humiliation inflicted by Germany in 1870. Misia Sert, the w
ife of a newspaper publisher, who was famous for her Paris salon, recalled thinking, “What luck! Oh God, let there be a war,” 1 when she first heard that Austria had declared war on Serbia six days before. Now, with her wish granted, she took part in the celebration that swept the streets of Paris:

  On the grands boulevards, in the midst of a rapturously enthusiastic crowd, I suddenly found myself perched on a white horse behind a cavalry officer. I wound some flowers around the neck of his gala uniform, and the general exaltation was so great that not for a moment did I think it strange. Nor were the officer, the horse, or the crowd around us in any way astonished, for the same sight could be seen all over Paris. Flowers were being sold at every street corner: wreaths, sheaves, bouquets, and loose bunches, which a minute later reappeared on soldiers’ caps, on the tips of their bayonets, or behind their ears. People fell into one another’s arms; it did not matter who embraced you; you wept, you laughed, you were crushed, you were moved to tears, you were almost suffocated, you sang, you trampled other people’s feet, and you felt that you had never been more generous, more noble, more prepared for sacrifice and, in short, more wonderfully happy!” 2

  Within a month’s time, the mood had changed drastically. With astonishing speed, German troops had swept through neutral Belgium and into France. By August 26, they had reached the Marne, and an advance cavalry unit captured the racecourse at Chantilly, a few miles north of Paris. From the top of the Eiffel Tower, people could see the distant German units approaching. Refugees from the countryside poured into the city, and their presence added to the growing panic. On September 2, the government abandoned the capital to relocate in Bordeaux. Among the valuables taken along was the Mona Lisa, on its second major journey in two years.