“But de Gaulle won’t commit that blunder, at least not immediately. Which is a pity. So it’s to our advantage in every way that the plot he champions should fail. . . . Anyway, the Central Committee will decide on our position.”
Lamentin lit a cigarette. He allowed himself only three a day and retained the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible before expelling it.
“It’s odd, we Communists are the only real soldiery left, the only army that obeys its leaders, whereas the paratroops, who, on occasion, seem to be following in our footsteps, are still only in the stage of the soviet of soldiers. The Russian army has been hard put to it to cure itself of habits of that sort, adopted during the revolutionary period. Only an inexorable power, an endless purge, a firm ideology and iron discipline have enabled us to win through.
“The army which launches a revolution must almost immediately be liquidated and replaced by another which will defend this revolution against the original revolutionaries. That is why we might one day need the paratroops! My dear Gisèle, I should like to know what Jewish circles in Algiers and the Consistory think.”
“They’re just as Fascist as the French Algerians. One part of them, the Zionists, are closely akin to the paratroops. Since Suez, there’s been nothing but fraternization. The business men think of their business and believe that the independence of Algeria will lead to general bankruptcy. The traditional Jews recall the former Arab pogroms, but the fools forget the racialism of the French of Algeria, who made Drumont a deputy. . . .”
“You will draft me a note on the subject and if possible without any personal feeling. . . . Have you seen Paul?”
“He called at my office in the Government General. He’ll meet you on Thursday evening at the Brasserie de la Lorraine. The table next to his will be free.”
“Did you get a permit for the night?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow evening you’ll try to resume contact with Mourad, but only after the curfew.”
“He’ll only ask us for bombs and specialists again.”
“You’ll tell him that those days are over.”
* * * *
On May 8th Pflimlin was requested by the President of the Republic to form a new cabinet. Lacoste refused once more to cross the Rubicon and declared to all those who were urging him on:
“Asking me to leave the S.F.I.O.* is like asking me to leave my wife after thirty-two years of married life.”
“It would be a nice change for him,” said Esclavier on his way down a corridor.
Lacoste went off after being decorated with the Croix de la Valeur Militaire, but his departure already looked like complicity. He left his intoxicating, passionate and warm-hearted mistress, his remorse and his delight. This mistress, drenched in sunshine and heady scent, harassed him with her complaints and her demands; she required love incessantly and was willing only to give him her powerful body stretched out on the Mediterranean, for she could not offer him a soul that she did not possess. He went back to the S.F.I.O., the dim little grey-haired wife with the petty stratagems of a parsimonious housekeeper, selfish, careful and close-fisted.
There was no one in power in Algiers, apart from the Tojun with his fine silvery hair, who was waiting for a sign from his mysterious gods that would make him understand that his hour had come. He had learnt from the War of the Three Kingdoms that one must know how to wait and scheme. He knew how Ts’ao-Ts’ao, the man with the red beard whom no one loved and everyone distrusted—managed to get the better of Liu Pu, the most handsome and valorous of the warriors. Liu Pu was empty-headed, like those big paratroop captains whom the crowd applauded whenever they walked by. But all this took place in the 26th year of Tsin.
And in the depths of his big empty office he weaved his crafty schemes.
On the morrow he would send the President of the Republic a message which his staff would have distributed in the messes and in which he declared himself firmly against abandonment.
On May 10th the F.L.N. shot three French prisoners of war in Tunisia as a reprisal for the execution of terrorists in Algeria. The veterans’ associations planned a demonstration of protest against this killing, to be held on May 13th. The demonstration was to take place simultaneously in Algiers and in Paris. In Algiers the army would allow it, if they did not actively support it.
Marindelle came in from the divisional base area with information that was, to say the least, astonishing. G.H.Q. was sending sixty Nord 2500s, some double-decker Bréguets and DC4s to Algeria: enough to transport two regiments of paratroops! The official reason: so as to be able to reinforce the garrisons on the Tunisian frontier at any moment. . . . Yes, but there was also the possibility of dropping regiments into Paris.
It was hinted that the man who was to command this operation was Colonel Raspéguy. The Minister of National Defence who had resigned had come to see him at Z. He had not even bothered to conceal his identity.
Boisfeuras was full of sarcasm:
“It’s no longer a plot, it’s a public meeting. You’re not even asked for your entrance card at the door!”
“The whole of France is wavering,” said Glatigny, “even the men who were in charge of her institutions: the police, the constabulary, the C.R.S., the secret services. One part of Parliament is an accomplice, the other is frightened and is trying to see how to get out of it without losing face. The Communists have no more troops and when you talk to the trade unions about defending the Republic they reply: ‘What about our wages?’ The heads of ministries are split up into different camps. Ely is with us and has just dispatched to Algiers his former chief of staff, General Petit. Has such disintegration ever been seen in our history? If this goes on de Gaulle won’t even need our bayonets any longer.”
Captain Mahmoudi came in with another piece of news which was no less surprising: Restignes was willing to meet Glatigny and Esclavier, but before committing himself any further he wanted to see how things would turn out.
During these days a mysterious murmur filled the Kasbah, and it was not a hostile one. Everyone was waiting.
* * * *
On the eve of May 13th, in a villa on the edge of the sea near Saint-Eugène, a meeting had brought together the principal activist leaders in Algiers. These included figures engaged on mysterious and childish activities, who were at the head of politico-esoteric sects and were clandestinely controlled by the secret police or the Deuxième Bureau (Arcinade was the prototype of these); publicans like Monsieur Joseph, whose long association with the Algerian French had led him to be on friendly terms with certain elements of the police; the representatives of the small settlers of the Mitidja, Martel and Puydebois, sincere defenders of their few acres and their meagre privileges; Poujadists and students.
The latter—many of them were no more than schoolboys—were the most determined. The president of the A.G.E.,* Lagaillarde, a young bearded man with a swashbuckling appearance, could never forget that he was the great-grandson of Baudin, the deputy who was killed on the barricades shouting: “This is how one dies for twenty-five francs a day.” He had served with the paratroops as a lieutenant, and from this service derived part of his standing, which made Monsieur Arcinade bristle with resentment. The sunny romanticism of the bearded youngster shocked the man of underground conspiracies and clandestine contacts.
Adruguez was finding it difficult to follow the discussion. Jealousy was gnawing at his guts: Isabelle Pélissier, on hearing that the 10th Regiment was in Algiers, had tried several times to get in touch with Captain Esclavier; she was in love with him and had never ceased to be.
The student barely retained the essentials of this heated discussion. During the demonstration on May 13th the activists were to forestall the Gaullists and face the army with a dilemma: to shoot or come to terms with the demonstrators. The army would not shoot, an undertaking to this effect had been given; it would be brought to power i
n the name of French Algeria, with its full establishment and the Tojun as its leader. When this name was uttered, Puydebois straightened up and yelled:
“Dien-Bien-Phu!”
“He wasn’t there,” Arcinade gently protested.
“He’s a freemason and a Socialist.”
“That’s what they say, but it’s not true.”
In the end they all took an oath to see the thing through to the end. It had become a ritual to take an oath after each meeting and Adruguez paid no more attention to it than was necessary.
He immediately rushed to the telephone which was in the entrance hall of the villa.
Arcinade emerged from a corner.
“Whom are you ringing up, Adruguez?”
“A girl. . . .”
“This is no time to be bothering about girls, when the country is in danger.”
Adruguez lost his temper.
“Mind your own business, you bloody little eunuch.”
“Paul Pélissier is one of our allies in this struggle. You seem to forget that.”
“Which struggle? Yours, perhaps, but not mine. If I’ve come in on this business it isn’t to protect Pélissier’s apartment-houses and farms, or his pals, the big settlers and Public Works contractors, or to blow the Republic sky high. I was only able to complete my studies with a scholarship, and it was the Republic that gave it to me. I don’t represent the pimps of the Bab-el-Oued, the pals of Monsieur Joseph, or the students of the Rue Michelet who turn up for their classes in English sports cars, but the small, worthy people: the clerks, the school-teachers, those who address the Arabs as ‘vous’ and with whom the Arabs work. I’ve no confidence in the army. They don’t give a damn about Algeria; for them it’s a question of pride and survival. De Gaulle’s still the best solution. And if I like going to bed with Isabelle Pélissier, who is beautiful and big-hearted, no one is going to stop me.”
Arcinade raised his little finger.
“She will herself. Esclavier, who, they say, roused such emotion in her that she has never been able to forget him, is one of the champions of the Gaullist plot with which, it seems, your sympathies lie. If the Gaullists bring it off, you can say good-bye to Isabelle. If they fail—which is what we are trying to engineer—Captain Esclavier and his little friends might well find themselves in the depths of the Sahara. . . .”
“You swine!”
“So you’re going to help us, aren’t you?”
Adruguez hung his head.
“Very well, then. Colonel Puysanges is expecting you shortly at his office at Region Ten.”
* * * *
The morning of May 13th was exceptionally fine. Dawn broke softly over a sea that shimmered like a pearl and flooded the heights of Algiers with its light that changed from grey to mother-of-pearl.
Worn out after a night spent in drinking, in covering the activist meetings and then comparing their frequently contradictory information, Pasfeuro, Françoise Baguèras and the American journalist Malistair lay stretched out in deck-chairs on a terrace of the Hôtel Saint-Georges, enjoying the peace and quiet.
“Friendship is rather like this morning in Algiers,” said Malistair.
He took Françoise’s hand and went on:
“Why don’t you want to marry me? I’d always be prepared to give you back your freedom. I’d take you with me on assignments to the Pacific, India and Burma. You’d witness other tragedies, but, as they wouldn’t be your own, you’d be less affected by them.”
“John Malistair,” said Pasfeuro, “you don’t know this lady’s emotional strength. She is capable of taking just as passionate an interest in any minority in the world, provided it’s a militant one. In Burma she’d side with the Karens, in India with the Sikhs, in the Haute Région with the Meos, in Spain with the Basques and Catalans, and in China with the Moslems. . . .”
Marindelle appeared in camouflage battledress, his sleeves rolled up over his skinny freckled arms. From the pocket of Pasfeuro’s jacket he took a cigarette and lit it.
“Whose bed has he just come from?” Françoise wondered. “This bird didn’t sleep alone last night and he slept here, in this hotel.”
“Will you buy me breakfast?” asked Marindelle. “In exchange, I’ll give you one or two rather interesting bits of information.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Captain,” said Françoise, “you’re the coup d’état Press Officer.”
“Today, as you know, there’s going to be a monster demonstration. Reason: the three P.O.W.s who were shot by the F.L.N. But actually we’re going once again to demand a Public Safety government headed by General de Gaulle. Lacoste is no longer here to prohibit the demonstration, and the Tojun is far too crafty to take such a risk. He’s even going to lay a wreath on the war memorial at six o’clock. . . .”
“How could one live in Algeria without war memorials?” said Malistair. “You go in for that sort of monument rather a lot.”
“That’s the only thing, Monsieur Malistair, that the army has in common with the French of Algeria, war casualties.
“At the same time a general strike, starting at one o’clock. Every restaurant, café, cinema, hotel, private and public office must close down.
“The Vigilance Committee has decided to send out small teams everywhere to see that this measure is carried out.
“All the French Algerians must be out in the street and without knowing where they are to go.
“The demonstration must last as long as possible, until nightfall, until we know how the Assembly has voted and whether Pflimlin has been invested.”
“Then,” said Pasfeuro, “Soustelle arrives. With a firm hand to guide them, the crowd seizes the Government General, the Prefecture and a few other public buildings which won’t be guarded. Immediately behind it are you paratroopers, who at once have all these buildings cleared and post a guard outside every one of them. Not a drop of blood shed. Algiers seized without a shot being fired, Oran and Constantine follow suit, then the big towns in south-western France, then Paris. . . . But if Soustelle doesn’t turn up, if the police or the C.R.S. fire on the crowd, if your men are outstripped, if Oran—just to be different from Algiers, as usual, or because Prefect Lambert shows a strong hand—if Oran holds tight and doesn’t follow you, if the Front Populaire comes to life again in France and if, under the cover of some Kerensky or other—Mendès, Mitterand or le Troquer—the Communists seize power and shoot de Gaulle . . . then it’s civil war. Have you thought of that?”
“It’s too late,” said Marindelle, “everything’s already under way. Forgive me while I put through a phone call.”
He went inside and, through the Mogador military exchange, rang up the 10th Regiment at Z. He was put through at once to Colonel Raspéguy.
“Captain Marindelle here, sir. Yes, sir, it’s for this evening or tomorrow morning. In the Gaullist group Soustelle’s the favourite. Our horse, the Minister of National Defence, is losing ground every hour. Bonvillain is dropping him. What’s Esclavier doing? He’s sleeping—yes, of course, alone.
“Mattei has left? He didn’t like the idea? Yet it’s rather nice for him to be sent to command a parachute company in Bastia, his home town. What’s that? He says he’s bound to fall out with his relations. We couldn’t have sent Orsini, he’s too highly strung and he’s got even more relations than Mattei. The movement order? Yes, of course it’s a fake, sir. The switchboard? We’re beyond that now. It’s a plot, or rather ten or twenty plots wide open to the sky. General Hellion’s with you? Please give him my regards and remind him that it’s also in memory of his son that we’re doing this. Yes, the whole regiment is standing by.”
Marindelle hung up and came back outside on to the terrace.
Françoise Baguèras sat thinking, with her chin on her fist, and on her mobile face, like clouds drifting across the moon, could be seen in quick succession astonish
ment, anger and also slight amusement:
“Tell me, Captain. Did you sleep here last night?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t alone, but with my niece, with that little slut Jacqueline. She was hanging about the lobby earlier on in the evening. Was it you she was waiting for? Where is she now? Because out here it’s not the same as in France, we don’t like our girls of eighteen to get off with every Tom, Dick and Harry. What’s the number of your room, so that I can go and tear her eyes out? Because the revolution’s one thing, the family is another. And if you don’t watch your step I’ll have the whole Baguèras tribe down on you.”
“She’s already left,” said Marindelle, sinking into a deck-chair.
The captain had tried through this young girl to revive the memory of Jeanine, of whom she reminded him with her big eyes, heavy head of hair and plaintive voice. He had been disappointed.
“She’s gone back home with ants in her pants,” said Françoise, who liked indulging in outrageous language. “She’ll put on that little virginal air and say to my sister: ‘I spent the night at Aunt Françoise’s, and I tidied up for her; you know how untidy she is!’ Malistair, am I really untidy?”
“Yes,” the American admitted.
“And you still want to marry me?”
“I’m an old bachelor, I don’t like untidiness, but what I dread more is boredom, and when I’m away from you I’m bored.”
“Captain Marindelle,” said Françoise, “for the sake of Pasfeuro, who’s by way of being your brother, your brother-in-law and your cousin, I shan’t make a scene. But I should be grateful to you, when you go out with my niece, if you wouldn’t bring her back here, to the Hôtel Saint-Georges, where anyone might bump into her. Heavens above, what do you see in that girl? She’s an idiot. She’s going to fail her baccalaureate for the third time running. You might at least try and make her work. Did you do Latin at school? It’s true, I’d forgotten, you’re too busy; you’ve got a revolution on your hands. Your revolution might well go up in a puff of smoke. Instead of running after schoolgirls and compromising them you’d do better to attend to the competition. Go and have a look round the Faculties by and by. Lagaillarde is already swaggering about in his paratroop uniform. He wants to seize the Government General this evening.”
The Praetorians Page 19
