The Praetorians

by Jean Larteguy

  “What news of Pellegrin?”

  “He has formed a Public Safety Committee at Z. He wants it to be presided over by Raspéguy, who’s playing hard-to-get.”

  * * * *

  Captain Marindelle leant forward above the crowd, which was gradually calming down. A few minutes earlier it had still been a single cohesive mass. Now it was breaking up into thousands of men and women who were suddenly thinking of lunch, a date with a boy- or girl-friend, of the end of the month which was going to be difficult if the employers didn’t pay them for the days spent on strike in the Forum.

  At thirty different points simultaneously the cry of “French Algeria” broke out. The crowd took it up half-heartedly, then more and more loudly. “A Public Safety Government” . . . “Long live the Army.” Pieron had got the order of the slogans muddled. The crowd reassembled, forgot its worries, its habits, its empty stomach and parched throat, and became once again that powerful, impulsive, warm-hearted, violent animal with a thousand voices and a thousand arms.

  Marindelle gazed down upon it and for the first time felt a mounting desire to embrace not a woman but an entire people. The captain had turned pale and his ears were buzzing. Pasfeuro seized him by the shoulder:

  “Yves, don’t get taken in by this. You won’t be able to do without the crowd. Since it’s unreliable, so as not to lose it you’ll go to any lengths. Wake up!”

  “I’m all right . . . a little tired. Give me a cigarette. Thanks. How’s Jeanine?”

  “She’s fine. Every time I ring her up she asks me what you’re doing, if you’re happy, and tells me to keep an eye on you.

  “She also asks me if you’ve fallen in love with anyone else. I’ll tell her it’s not a woman you’re in love with but a whole town. She won’t understand, she’ll just wrinkle her pretty brow and put on a gramophone record. You wouldn’t by any chance like to go out and get dead drunk this evening?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve got a lot of work to do. It’s funny, Herbert, how we’ve never come to loathe each other. You feel you have to keep an eye on me, and three days ago I prevented a little group of extremists who’d turned nasty as a result of one of your articles from beating you up on a street corner. Why do you love Jeanine?”

  “I can’t think. When she goes to sleep she turns her back on me, pulls the bedclothes up to her chin and won’t let me touch her. Like a great big sentimental poodle, I then stay awake for hours watching over her.”

  “I never knew a Jeanine like that. We always slept in each other’s arms.”

  “Yes, a couple of shivering brats! But I was the one from whom she borrowed money to buy you that smoked salmon from Petrossian’s that you liked so much.”

  The crowd uttered a deafening yell:

  “Long live Soustelle!”

  “It’s the first time,” said Marindelle, “that we’re winning not merely a battle but a crowd. We shan’t ever be able to forget it.”

  * * * *

  “What are we going to do about Restignes, Colonel?”

  “He’s lying low. The Commander-in-Chief is on quite good terms with him. When normal relations have been re-established with Metropolitan France we’ll ask him to be good enough to go back to Paris.”

  Arcinade drummed with his stumpy little fingers on the big desk which he had been occupying since that morning at the Government General. Entrusted with the task of establishing communications—what sort of communications was not specified—between the Public Safety Committee, the army and the Press, he had at his disposal a telephone with several lines, three secretaries and an assistant, a pale, harassed young man who never stopped picking his nose.

  In his formal dark-blue suit, which did not succeed in flattering his tubby form, and with his pearl-grey tie, Arcinade tried to look like a senior civil servant, which he had always dreamt of being.

  He exuded happiness. But his white shirt was too tight and felt uncomfortable round the collar. He would have liked to be elegant, handsome and easy-mannered like Colonel Puysanges, who was sitting back in an armchair with one leg crossed over the other, dreamily puffing the smoke from his cigarette towards the ceiling.

  “Restignes is a dangerous nuisance, Colonel. He’ll be even more so if ever General de Gaulle is in power. And our worthy Commander-in-Chief appears to be resolved to play that card.”

  “For the time being.”

  “Restignes has had contacts with the F.L.N.”

  “I know. So have our special services. They were the same sort of contacts.”

  “In Algeria he is looked upon as a traitor.”

  “Just as Soustelle was when he first arrived, and Lacoste . . . and our general! Have you forgotten the bazooka incident?”

  “I warned you of the danger at the time.”

  “That doesn’t prevent there being two characters in the Public Safety Committee who were up to their necks in that business and who claim to be loyal to you. But let’s get back to Restignes.”

  “I took it upon myself to have him watched. Mahmoudi has called on him. And yesterday, late at night, two of his friends—one of whom was an agent of mine—went and advised him to leave Algiers and take refuge in the Oran district. He told them he was in no danger and that if the situation deteriorated there were men ready to protect him. Some people, he added, would be even extremely surprised to learn that his protectors belonged to the very group which only yesterday wanted him arrested. Then he burst out laughing with his usual self-sufficiency.”

  “This is beginning to sound interesting, Arcinade. Who will protect him? Bonvillain?”

  “No, not Bonvillain. He’s a clever lad. He’s playing too difficult a rôle to saddle himself with such a handicap, and then he has certain ambitions . . . short-term ones, shall we say. He has arrived at the very moment he hopes to see himself rewarded for his pains and derive a little benefit out of life. He has developed a taste for the salons of Algiers.

  “Mahmoudi leads us back to Glatigny, Esclavier, Boisfeuras, Marindelle, all that group who’ve been deeply marked by Indo-China and Vietminh Communism.

  “Restignes is a man of the left. They say that in his youth he had Communist leanings. He once made a journey to Russia.”

  “For several months, Arcinade, I thought that certain officers might veer towards Communism; I was wrong. Too many things hold them back in our camp. Whatever they might do, even if they haven’t been baptized, even if they’re freemasons, they still remain Christians and nationalists. We see them dabbling in Marxism; at a pinch they’re capable of adapting some of the practical methods of Communism to the problems confronting us at the moment, which are the same for all over-developed countries, but they’ll never go any further. As for Restignes, his thoughts may be left wing, but his private income, his way of life, his rich bourgeois manners, place him on the right. What do they want to do with him?”

  “Make him a Minister of Algeria.”

  “Since yesterday the Commander-in-Chief has been wielding full civil and military powers. I can assure you he’s not ready to surrender them!”

  “Restignes is a street-vendor of empires.”

  “Come now, Arcinade, when there are just the two of us present there’s no need for grandiloquence. Keep that for the Forum. Go on having him watched and keep me informed. But, above all, don’t intervene.”

  * * * *

  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 witnes
sed 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.