CHAPTER 119 : ELECTION NIGHT
Paris, the Ministry of the Interior, May the 10th, 1939
The Ministry of the Interior
For the past twenty-four hours, the “Place Beauvau”, as the Ministry was known to most Frenchmen because of its Parisian address, had been the theater of a ballet of motorcycle messengers and official cars, to the point the honor yard gravel had already needed to be raked in twice. The madness had begun the day before, as the electoral monitoring station had been set up in an old ballroom generally reserved for official banquets, and now that the evening had started to fall on Paris, it showed little sign of abating. The arriving visitors were mostly provincial officials sent to Paris with the mission to check, double-check and authenticate the results transmitted by France's 112 Préfectures centralizing the results of the local polling stations. A dozen employees from the Ministry of Colonies did the same with the settlers' votes in France's various overseas possessions. The 1935 Constitution granting voting rights to French citizens established in foreign nations, a
chef de bureau from the Foreign Ministry had also arrived, transmitting the results of the polling stations established in every French consulate abroad. For practical reasons, the electoral operations for the citizens voting outside of Metropolitan France and the Algerian
départements had been conducted the week before, and its results had been sealed so as to limit the risk of influencing the vote in France itself.
“Do we have Marseille?” asked Interior Minister Joseph Paganon, breezing through the corridors leading to his office. Behind him, three senior employees were doing their best to keep up with their boss, perilously consulting their notes as they slalomed between harassed secretaries and bleary-eyed staffers trying to bring some issue to their attention.
“Marseille votes are 90% in” panted Lucien Hougron, Paganon's chief of staff, “there has been a problem on three stations, it seems, which has delayed the voting operations”
“What problem?” asked Paganon as the quartet finally reached the relative haven of the Minister's office.
“Envelopes. There was a snag in the delivery, and some stations didn't get enough while others received too many.”
“Oh
bon Dieu!” groaned Paganon. Marseille was the country's third-biggest city, and any major problem there could rapidly cast suspicion over the entire electoral process.
“It has been corrected, Monsieur le Ministre”, said
Paule Pignet, earning a grateful look from Hougron. If her status as the only woman among Paganon's senior aides held one single advantage, it was the fact the Minister usually kept his temper in check with her. Not that Paganon was a tyrant – he was demanding, but generally affable - but he had a clear tendency to vent at his staff in times of stress. And in this regard, the organization of the first direct election of the French president by the French people was the most stressful task he and his aides had to grapple with yet.
“It has? Satisfactorily?”
“They made the round of neighboring stations to collect as many envelopes as they could” confirmed Pignet. “The Préfet authorized these stations to close down one hour later so as to process as many voters as possible. They sent for more volunteers for the count operations to make up for the lost time, which means early results should arrive shortly. The delay will be marginal.”
“No contestation from any candidate?”
“None” said Hougron. “All the parties agreed to allow more time for the vote. As it concerned worker districts, the PSR was of course favorable, the local PSF did not want to rock the boat, and the Action Française apparently didn't care either way.”
“Thank God” Paganon grunted as he sat down heavily. “Still. I'll have a talk to Bouët and Surleau.”
Hougron and Pignet traded a look : unless they managed to mollify their boss, there was no doubt Paul Bouët, the Préfet of the Bouche-du-Rhône area, and Frédéric Surleau, the special Administrator who ran Marseille
since the city had been placed under trusteeship the year before, were in for a trip to the wooden shed. By common and silent agreement, the two aides decided to let the local authorities have it.
Paule Pignet, one of France's fist women in a position of power
“The
Préfecture de Police is compiling the last Paris stations”, added Jacques Lusseau, the third and youngest member of Paganon's top aides. “The results from Lyon and Bordeaux are definitive and have been authenticated by the Préfectures.”
“How does it look?” asked Paganon, finally allowing himself to ask the question.
As Minister of the Interior, he would have to announce the results in less than two hours, results that would define the future of the French Republic. Never before, Paganon thought, had an election carried so much weight. A hitherto unimportant affair, the election to the Presidency of the French Republic had been, for the past sixty years, a simple parliamentary procedure. After a few rounds which allowed to candidates to measure up their influence over députés and senators, political parties struck deals that rapidly allowed the emergence of a winner. It was, many thought, an exercise in futility, since the Third Republic granted little power to its Presidents, who were largely eclipsed by the Prime Minister and by the Parliament itself. Time and time again, politicians and commentators of the
chose publique had lamented this state of affairs, which made the governmental action depend on the fragile and ever-changing alliances that dominated the French political landscape. Their calls for urgent reform had, for decades, fallen on deaf ears, as the members of the Parliament saw no urgency in changing a system that placed them at the top of the political food chain. In the
cafés, that informal Senate which held permanent session in every French village, the parliamentary Republic was largely seen as a hotbed of impotence, incompetence and corruption, a feeling that had largely fueled the ranks of anti-democratic movements and anti-government demonstrations. In the Senate's anterooms, as well as in the
cafés' backrooms, everybody felt the Third Republic was living on borrowed time: sooner or later, there would come a crisis the regime would prove unable to weather. Some longed for it. Others called for one last effort before it was too late, and predicted a harsh day of reckoning when Fascism or Communism would prevail over representative democracy.
One such Cassandras had been
André Tardieu, who, after two short terms as Prime Minister and a lifetime of public service, harboured no illusion about the regime's chances of survival if it didn't embrace structural reform. In January of 1934, he had published yet another call for action, a severe verdict on the Republican system titled 'The reform of the State'. The book had attracted polite reviews from friendly newspapers, and little else, as Tardieu himself expected. He was approaching 60, and had basically given up on his dreams of reforming the régime. The Third Republic, it seemed, would never accept change, and as a result would one day succumb to its addiction to Byzantine politics and weak institutions. It was time, Tardieu felt, to let others deal with the incoming crisis, and go tend his roses and grow his wine in his Menton mansion. History, as it happened, had other plans. One month after the publication of Tardieu's book, on the 6th of February, the 1934 riots had broken up, and the Croix de Feu “legal coup” had swept La Rocque in power. Tardieu, who had slept late, had barely had time to read the account of the riots in the morning newspapers when La Rocque's chief of staff had rang at his door. Richemont had asked a simple question: would President Tardieu help the new Prime Minister with the daunting task of establishing a new Republic? Tardieu had been so astonished he had opened the morning edition of
Le Figaro to verify the man sitting in his salon really was the one photographed besides La Rocque as the retired Colonel entered the
Assemblée Nationale. After that, everything had happened quickly. On the first of March, Tardieu was made Minister for Constitutional Reform. In April, a group composed of respected law scholars as well as bright young minds had started writing a draft for a new Constitution. In the spring of 1935, that Constitution had been approved by the two-thirds of the Parliament, whose members had either been convinced it was time to reform, or swayed by a battery of
INSEE polls that showed clearly in what little esteem the parliamentary system – and its partisans – were held by the voters. In total, sixty nine percent of the voting
députés and senators had put the troubled Third Republic to rest in an unexpectedly dignified way, and had ushered in the Fourth Republic. Tonight's election was the first test of the new Republican avatar.
“It looks pretty good, sir. It seems the PSF could enjoy a comfortable lead nationwide” said Lusseau, cross-checking a wad of electoral results. “We stand poised to win big in Paris and Lyon
intra muros, even though it must be noted that, in both areas, the 'red belt' largely voted for the Social-Radicals. But hear this: voter turnout in the old Communist bastions is down twelve percent compared to the last legislative elections, while it has gone up almost everywhere else.”
“Twelve percent?” exclaimed Paganon, almost bolting out of his chair.
“I talked to Mouriez, my
Renseignements Généraux contact at the Préfecture. He's a field guy, really knows what he's talking about. He says the clandestine Communist party has given contradictory instructions to their militants. It seems Celor sent word to vote for the PSR in the name of 'antifascim', but flyers signed Thorez have circulated as well, telling workers to boycott the election entirely.”
“By God! That is fantastic!”
It was the
Parti Communiste Français' second year of clandestinity since La Rocque's government had ordered its dissolution, and sent the police to raid its facilities. Initially happy to play the role of the Conservatives' most vocal opponent in the
Assemblée Nationale, the PCF had turned to a more confrontational stance when France opposed the Soviet coup in Spain in 1937. When French forces entered the Iberian peninsula to re-establish the old Republican regime, Communist demonstrations had rapidly turned to violent protests, and the strikes organized by the Communist CGT union had rapidly degenerated into acts of sabotage. In the
Assemblée Nationale, debates with Communist
députés had more than once turned into insult contests, and even brawls. Through its informers infiltrated in Communist-dominated unions, as well as in the Marxist party itself, the Directorate of the
Renseignement Généraux had established the PCF had been ordered to hamper France's war effort in Spain as much as possible, by disrupting production, destroying supplies, or committing acts of industrial sabotage in armament factories. More gravely even, the
RG report had stated that while the Communist leaders refused to resort to blind terrorism, such as train derailments, they also doubted they could prevent such actions at the local level, as activist groups had already begun to organise depots of stolen weapons and explosives. In the end of June, the government had decided enough was enough: it was time to ban the Communist Party, as well as a smattering of Fascist Leagues. Under the guise of preparing the 14th of July military parade, scores of troops and
Gardes Mobiles had been sent to every town and city which was either Communist-run or known Communist bastions. In the countryside,
Gendarmerie squads and local police had stood ready to raid Fascist safe-houses. No sooner had the Champs-Elysées military parade finished that the order had been given to raid every office belonging to the PCF and its parent union, the
Confédération Générale du Travail, and to
arrest cell leaders and known saboteurs. While the operation had allowed the police to collect extensive intelligence on PCF membership, as well as to dismantle dozens of hidden depots, it had failed to decapitate the Communist party. Contrary to their Fascist counterparts, the French Communists were highly disciplined and had long prepared for clandestine activity. Almost overnight, the PCF had shed its official organisation and run underground. Like most of the Communist leadership, PCF leaders
Pierre Celor and Maurice Thorez were supposed to still be in France, using false identities and hiding in safe houses, from which they maintained a minimal activity. Their safety had come with a price : deprived of a unified command, and losing ground to the still-authorized
Parti Populaire Français, the PCF leadership was splintering. One group, led by Pierre Celor, advocated support for the Blum-Daladier ticket. The other, dominated by Maurice Thorez and Jacques Duclos, urged a closer alignment of the clandestine party with the Moscow-dominated Third Internationale. To Paganon, the low turnout in the voting stations meant that the clandestine movement had reached the point where it had become unable to mobilize its electorate to boost the Social-Radical ticket, which was great news indeed for the PSF.
Populist leader Jacques Doriot's ascension helped divide the Communist electorate
“And that's not all” added Pignet. “The INSEE exit polls show the PSF has made inroads in worker districts as well, not enough to unseat the Social-Radicals of course, but in this election every vote counts.”
“Chalk one up for the Reindustrialization Program”, chuckled Hougron.
“By God, but it does look good indeed!” exclaimed Paganon, who felt awash with relief. If the PSF lost that first election, he knew, it meant the end of everything that had been constructed since 1934.
“Maurras must be livid” said Lusseau. “The
Action Française might not survive tonight, they are stuck with single-digit scores in practically every voting station. Pétain's prestige is going to take a serious hit – I doubt the
Maréchal will forgive the AF for that.”
“He should never have stepped down from his pedestal” said Paganon. “Six months ago Pétain was like
Dieu le Père. Now that he has raked the mud with the rest of us, that's the end of his legend. Oh well. I am sure we'll offer some olive branch to soothe his pride. Tell me, Lucien, what's our program for tonight ?”
“The counting operations stop in one hour. Your car will take you to the Elysée Palace – we have a few journalists here to cover your departure, but they know the drill, they won't ask about the results. They're just here to get some additional material for their colleagues who'll be at the Elysée anyway. President Lebrun and the Prime Minister will be at the Elysée, as well as the other candidates. They'll welcome you at the steps of the honor yard, and you will officially give them the envelope with the results. Four rows of photographers will be there, as well as radio reporters. You'll deliver the results – microphones have been installed by major French and foreign radio stations. Then the candidates will make a short speech – thirty minutes for the victor, ten minutes for each of the defeated candidates. The evening concludes with the Republican dinner, nothing major since tomorrow at the crack of dawn there will be the official ceremony of power transfer, and the announcement of the new government.”
“I am exhausted already” sighed Paganon. “Just make sure I don't get seated next to Pétain at the dinner, will you?”
It is the end of a long evening at the Ministère de l'Intérieur on that evening of 1939
Paris, the Saint-Roch Church, May the 10th, 1939
“Bless me father, for I have sinned” said the young man in the confessional, his voice trembling a little. “It has been a week since my last confession.”
“Take heart, my son”, replied the priest softly. “Tell me, what sins have you committed?”
Monsignor Jean de Mayol de Lupé allowed himself a smile. Whatever sins the young lad thought he had burdened his soul with in the past seven days, he was quite certain they had not put his salvation in danger. The boy came from a family the priest knew well, having been his parents' confessor for the past thirty years.
Jean-Marie Bouvyers was the third child of a respectable and devout Christian family from the Nièvre countryside, in central-western France. He was born in what the priest considered the “real” France, a country of fields and churches where proud traditions defied the trappings of modern society. Monsignor de Lupé abhorred modern society, with its constant pursuit of material wealth, its relentless assault on spiritual values, and its corroding of Christian conscience. Wherever he turned his eyes, he saw social unrest, envy, crass materialism. And, most odiously, he saw what to him had long become the mark of Satan himself: the Marianne effigies and the tricolor flag of the loathed republic.
“I… have lusted after a woman”, blurted the young man, and even through the latticed panel of the confessional the priest saw him blush violently. For this sin and all the sins of my past life, I ask absolution and penance from you, Father”
“Oh?” said the confessor. He repressed a smile. Having served as a divisional chaplain in the Great War, he had heard his share of raunchy confessions from sex-starved first-line soldiers, and doubted young Jean-Marie had much to say on the subject of lust. “Desire is not a sin
per se, my son. God does not forbid the inclinations of the heart, as long as you do not covet another man's wife. Who is the young woman you have longed after?”
“It's Hélène de Fontreilles” said Bouvyers.
“Ah! Ah, yes, she is a fine young girl” replied the priest, his heart suddenly heavier. The de Fontreilles were another family he knew well, militantly Christian, and, like himself, just as militantly Action Française. The confessor knew their daughter Hélène well, a fine young girl indeed, vibrant, full of energy, who divided her life between her classes in a Nevers private school and tennis, which she played whenever she could. No doubt young Jean-Marie had fallen for her during one tennis match at the Fontreilles' country house, which was a stone's throw from the Bouvyers'. In any other circumstances, the confessor would have leaped in joy at the prospect of bringing these two youngsters together, as the quiet Jean-Marie and the vibrant Hélène would have made a beautiful couple. He would have helped the young man's infatuation blossom into a durable union, and gently nudged both families into this marriage. And a beautiful marriage it would have been, the priest knew. That he had to crush that happy prospect underfoot was, for Jean de Mayol de Lupé, another heinous crime the despicable Republic would soon have to answer for.
“Now tell me: has this gone beyond mere desire?” he asked.
“No, father” the young man replied, shaking his head. “I think of her often, but I haven't told her yet.”
“Have you confessed your affection to her? Did you talk with her, or write to her?” asked the priest.
“Only in a journal.”
“Good” said the priest softly, sighing his relief. It was a much different path he had chosen for Jean-Marie, and, hurtful as it was, he had to make sure the lad neither abandoned their project, which would be a grave setback for Mayol de Lupé, nor revealed . “Still, I think it would be best not to leave that journal at home. We have to think of what will happen afterwards, you know. Best not to cause young Hélène more sorrow than would be strictly necessary.”
“Yes, father” replied Jean-Marie. “I'll call my brother today and tell him to burn it. Father, I must know… What I am about to do, is it right? I mean, this goes contrary to scripture, doesn't it?”
Ah, thought the confessor.
Doubt. It finally comes. Well, it had to be expected.
“Jean-Marie, I know how difficult it must be to you. And I am immensely proud of you, my son, for accepting to sacrifice your tranquility, your safety, and maybe even your life in the hope to achieve greater justice for your fellow man. I can imagine how the immensity of what you are about to accomplish weighs upon your young shoulders. But fear nothing, Jean-Marie, for it is right. You are not alone. Throughout History Man has tried to live up in accordance to what the Bible teaches us, and has often found it difficult. It is, indeed, for we live in an imperfect world. Under the guise of political freedom, the minions of the Adversary lure us away from God. Under the guise of science, they chip away at our faith. We must react, my son, we must defend what is rightfully ours. And this is the deep, spiritual meaning of what you are about to accomplish”
“What if… other people die?”
“I am certain you will be careful. And as long as your heart and your intentions are pure, that will not tarnish your name nor your soul. Fear not, my son. God knows your heart better than you, and he will forgive you as I do. Christ died to redeem us from our sins, past, present and future. Time has no meaning for Him. Now, my son, it's time for us to go prepare. Let me hear your act of contrition.”
“O my God, I am sorry for having offended you. I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to sin no more, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”
“Amen. I bless you my son. Through my blessing, God forgives your sins, as he will forgive all of ours – past, present, and future ones. Be assured that even if you find your path arduous, you will walk in His grace.”
The young man signed himself and left the confessional. He felt relieved and tried to focus to what now needed to be done. Walking to the nearest pew, he picked his raincoat, which he had draped upon his camera case. He checked he had his press card, which identified him as a photographer for the right-wing
L'Oeuvre. Without it, he would not be able to access the building at all. A glance at his watch made him realize he barely had time to call his brother about the journal, and he finally decided against it. Better use what little time he had left to make sure he could have a spot in the front row. Thinking of what laid ahead, Jean-Marie Bouvyers stepped out of the church and hailed a cab.
“The Elysée Palace, quick!”
Inside the Church, Monsignor Mayol de Lupé entered the sacristy where Father Girouard, the usual curé of Saint-Roch, was preparing for the Compline service.
“Thank you for having allowed me to use your confessional” he said, rapidly changing into civilian clothes.
“It was my pleasure” replied Girouard, a simple, affable man. “I am certain it made a difference for the young man, to be able to receive the blessing of his confessor.”
“Let us hope so!” said Mayol de Lupé with a tired smile. “But I have high hopes for this young man. Yes, high hopes indeed”
Monsignor Jean de Mayol de Lupe
An hour later, Monsignor de Mayol de Lupé entered a small flat, rue Baudelique, in the 18th district. Throwing his coat over a chair, he walked directly to the telephone and placed an inter-city call. When the phone rang a few minutes after, the conversation was kept to a minimum.
“This is Byzantium speaking”
“Speak, Byzantium. Will he do it?”
“Yes. No doubt about it now.”
“Excellent. You have someplace to go?”
“I have taken my dispositions.”
“Good. Safe travels, then.”
As Monsignor Mayol de Lupé left the flat, his correspondent placed another call to alert the next link in the chain of command. Thirty minutes later, the last call was placed by the Berlin switchboard to a top-floor office in the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse Once again, the conversation was short and to the point. At the Albert, as the building was commonly known to most Berliners, it was no secret that SS-Gruppenführer Heydrich liked efficiency.
And now… à la grâce de Dieu! thought Walter Schellenberg.
Paris, the Quai d'Orsay, that same evening
“His excellency
Aristide de Sousa Mendes, ambassador of Portugal and madame!” exclaimed the usher as the newest member of the Parisian diplomat corps entered the old ballroom.
“Here comes the ingenue of the ball”, mused Otto Abetz, making a small gesture towards the Portuguese diplomats who was being greeted by the French Foreign Minister.
“Excellent analysis!” said Prescott Bush, the american ambassador, raising his glass of champagne to salute the German's witticism. “But who will court senhor de Sousa Mendes first now? You, perhaps Otto? Unless our hosts want to try to woo him first, of course. Paul seems awfully keen to show our new colleague around.”
“And how about
Sir Ronald?” replied Abetz, turning towards Campbell, the new representative of the Court of Saint James. “We all know the British Crown has vested interest in Lusitanian affairs, after all, ever since Napoleon at least. Of course, this is now a very different Portugal. President Salazar might want to look for friends in different places...”
“Old friendships do not die, Herr Abetz”, Campbell replied curtly, with a side glance towards the Third Reich's ambassador. “Our amity might be hard to earn, but once offered we live up to it.”
Despite Abetz' charm and affability, the Briton neither liked nor trusted his German colleague, and did little to pretend otherwise. Naturally, his position made it necessary to conceal his opinions behind a façade of impeccable yet icy politeness, but in private he considered Abetz a pretentious amateur. Sir Ronald Hugh Campbell had only arrived in Paris three months before, having left his Belgrade embassy when the National Government had deemed it necessary to reshuffle the diplomatic cards all over Europe. None of his colleagues ignored that it was Campbell's vocal denunciations of the Reich's aggressive policies in South-Eastern Europe that had earned him the attention of the upper echelons of the Foreign Office, and many said Foreign Minister Anthony Eden himself had handpicked Campbell to make sure that a firmer hand would lead the Paris embassy, after Tyrell and Phipps' repeated calls for appeasement with Berlin during their terms.
German Ambassador Otto Abetz
“Everybody's here” commented Bush, eager to defuse the tension. “Look at Stucki, trying to evade the Romanian chargé d'affaires.”
“That's what you get for accepting to represent the Soviets in the name of Swiss neutrality” sighed Vollgruber, the Austrian ambassador, as his colleague Stucki was trying to catch the attention of a waiter while at the same time pretending to lend a sympathetic ear to his Balkans colleague, who was complaining about tariffs slapped on Rumanian cement.
France's intervention in Spain to bring down the Soviet-style government in Madrid had led to a rupture of diplomatic relationships between the République and the Soviet Union. Ambassador Bogomolov had left Paris in a huff the day after Madrid fell to Franco-Spanish forces, while Coulondre, his opposite number in Moscow, had been expelled three days later. After several months of diplomatic uncertainty, during which the Quai d'Orsay had hoped things would go back to normal, a telegram from Stalin's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs had informed Paris that the representatives of the peoples of the Soviet Union saw “no reason to re-establish direct diplomatic relations with the current Fascist French government”, and that the USSR called upon Switzerland to take care of Soviet interests in France.
“Mesdames et Messieurs! Please ! Mesdames et Messieurs!”
The brouhaha of conversation died down and heads turned around as Paul Reynaud, France's Foreign Minister and likely candidate to lead the next government if the PSF candidate won, walked to the middle of the room. Behind him, two ushers carried a large radio set, which they installed on a small table in the middle of the ballroom.
“It is now five minutes to eight!” said Reynaud. “In a few minutes, France will have spoken and we will know who will be at the nation's helm for the next seven years.”
“And whether you'll keep your job”, quipped Abetz
sottovoce, earning an irate look from Campbell. Reynaud's intervention had caught him halfway to the hors-d'oeuvres, and he had every intention of enjoying this soirée to the fullest extent, regardless of the results. He had already written two reports for the Wilhelmstrasse the day before – one for each probable winner – and he'd just have to add some minor details here and there to make them a little livelier. Ribbentrop liked diplomatic gossip, and Abetz was certain that, Champagne helping, he'd overhear some juicy anecdote to make his minister happy. If all else failed, he could just walk to Codreanu and start a conversation about the statute of Transsylvania, or to Stucki about the Swiss' desire to acquire Messerschmidt fighters.
“We all know how crucial these years will be” continued Reynaud, “as the specter of war haunts not only Europe, but the entire world. To diplomats like us, these will be harrowing years, years of great perils and greater challenges. I am confident, though, that we will be able to confront those challenges together, in a spirit of cooperation, and even of friendship.”
“Well said” commented Campbell, loud enough to make sure the German ambassador heard him.
“I thus look forward to pursuing our work together”, concluded Reynaud, “as it has been, in the past two years, not only my duty but my privilege. Thank you, gentlemen, and let us now hear the voice of France!”
“Finally!” groaned Abetz, moving to the table where the last oysters of the season had been piled up.
Amidst the applause – some sincere, some merely polite, Reynaud turned on the radio set. With a crackling sound, the speakers that had been installed around the room came to life, and the recognizable voice of Jean Nohain, the star reporter from Radio-Paris.
Radio journalist Jean Nohain
“
...of the Interior's car is now entering the honor yard of the Elysée Palace, I can see the Republican Guard standing to attention, their swords drawn to salute as the Président de la République and the Prime Minister have now reached the steps of the Elysée – you cannot see it but it is now a deluge photographers' flashes here, real fireworks as every news agency wants to immortalize this moment, me and my technicians have shimmy in our eyes, reporters are trying to get past the red cordon to get closer pictures. Mr Paganon has now emerged from the car, he has.. yes! He has a large, sealed manila envelope in his hand, no doubt it is the official results, Messieurs Lebrun and de La Rocque are waiting for him halfway, I can see the Président de la République, Mr Lebrun seems quite moved by this moment. The Prime Minister looks confident! The Interior Minister salutes the press, photographers are asking him to show the envelope, it's going to be another barrage of flashes but … hey, wait ! Watch it, buddy you cannot just... Oof! Wait ! Wait ! Stop !!”
As the diplomats shared quizzical looks, the speakers suddenly erupted into loud bangs and a flurry of incoherent sounds, mixed with static. Nohain's voice had gone off air and so, it seemed, had the whole Elysée Palace. Amidst the confusion of noises, they could hear, however faintly, several voices that seemed far away, uttering fragments of phrases that seemed carried by the wind over a great distance.
“..
.bulance! Now! ….Is he is he is dead? …..Bon Dieu de m… has been hit! Take him inside! Inside, quick!….have been shot!… Here ! We’ve got two more !“
Abetz, who had been serving himself a generous portion of oysters, had frozen in mid-gesture, one mollusc still in hand, eyes fixed on the floor as his brain raced to catch up with his ears. Looking up in shock, he saw Campbell and Bush staring at him in disbelief. To his horror, it seemed the whole room was looking at him.
“What?” he asked, nervously. “
WHAT?”
Game effects :
The PSF seems poised to win the presidential elections, and win a majority of
députés to carry on its programs. I'll give the composition of the French government in the next update, since, as you can see, there's some confusion as to who's still alive and who's not.
Writer's notes :
Paule Pignet is a historical character. In 1933, she became France's first bâtonnier (a senior position among lawyers, arbitrating professional disputes). I figured she would make a nice addition to the Interior Minister's senior staff, as France had very few women in powerful positions in the 1930s.
The city of Marseille had been placed under a trusteeship in 1938 after a disastrous fire had destroyed a large shopping mall called the Nouvelles Galeries, killing 73. Mismanagement of rescue efforts by the mayor, Henri Tasso, and suspicions of corruption at the highest levels of the City Hall led to his being deposed by the government (several very high ranking politicians were in Marseille for a political convention when the fire occurred, and were direct witnesses to the event, which kinda drove the last nails in Tasso's coffin). In 1939, the trusteeship was still in place. Mr Frédéric Surleau did head the trusteeship, and Paul Boüet was the Préfet of the département (yes I'm that fixated on historical detail sometimes).
The
Préfecture de Police is an odd heritage from Napoleon's love-hate relationship with Paris. Every French département has a Préfecture, housing the Préfet who is the local delegate of the government at the local level. In Paris, the Préfecture de Police has authority on law and order services, as well as other forms of law enforcement (delivering papers to foreign visitors, policing bars and restaurants, etc).
La chose publique is a French way of talking about public life, public service, and the République. It is a translation of the Roman Res Publica.
Of André Tardieu, I already talked at the beginning of Crossfires. A career diplomat and real statesman, he lamented the fragility of the Third Republic institutions. He published several books about the urgent necessity to reform, including 'The Reform of the State', in 1934 (and, in OTL, 'The necessary Revolution in 1937'). In the Crossfires ATL, Tardieu is the inspirator of the Fourth Republic and the main author of the 1935 Constitution.
The
INSEE, France's National Statistics Institute, was created after WW2 in OTL. I used it here as part of the modernization of the French Republic, but know that ever since 1833 there was a statistics bureau operating in France, in some form or another. In OTL, pre-1946 statistics were compiled by the Bureau of the Statistique Générale de la France (SGF), which I totally would have used in Crossfires had I discovered its existence before I fast-forwarded the INSEE into existence !
The
French Communist Party (PCF) has been banned in this ATL as a result of a game event, and also since I don't think its legal existence would have survived the demise of Soviet Spain at the hands of French soldiers. I banned the Fascist Parties as well, but in France they never got very far in terms of membership or votes (I'm talking about truly Fascist parties here, not the Action Française which was a hodgepodge of Royalism, Boulangism, and Fascism). With the PCF gone clandestine, a boulevard has opened for Jacques Doriot's Parti Populaire Français, which is probably what is closest to a French Fascist Party, composed of disenfranchised Communists, Croix de Feu (though, obviously less so in this ATL) and Action Française. The Social-Radical alliance of Blum and Daladier also stand to gain from the disparition of Communist candidates, while the PSF can hope to steal some of the Social-Radical thunder as France's economy improves.
Pierre Celor was one of the PCF leaders with Maurice Thorez, Jacques Duclos and Henri Barbé. In OTL, he and Barbé (who then joined Doriot's PPF) fell in disgrace with the Soviet-dominated Komintern and were evicted. In my ATL, Celor is still a member of the PCF Political Bureau, but disagreements with Thorez are starting to show.
Monsignor Jean de Mayol de Lupé was a Roman Catholic priest and WW1 veteran, who belonged to the military and religious Constantinian Order of St George. An avowed enemy of the French Republic, in OTL he joined the
Légion des Volontaires Français contre le bolchévisme which was deployed against the Russians, as the unit's chaplain. He earned the Iron Cross under German uniform for his stint with the LVF. When the remnants of the LVF were versed into the Charlemagne SS Division, Mayol de Lupé again became the unit's chaplain. In this TL, his hatred for the Republic has not abated, and he has become an active part in a SD plot, with the help of “lost soldiers” from the Action Française and other extremist groups. The Saint Roch church is sometimes used by the Constantinian Order of St George (yet another sign of my fixations on small details, which I hope will allow me to commit much bigger historical blunders)
Jean-Marie Bouvyers was a young member of the Cagoule who in OTL took part in the assassination, in 1937, of two Italian exiles who had fled Mussolini's regime, the Rosselli brothers. Bouvyers, then under twenty, was also a good friend of a like-minded young student named François Mitterrand, who like other Cagoule members joined the Resistance in 1943, after being disillusioned by the Vichy régime, and eventually became President of the French Republic forty years later. In this TL, with a staunchly Conservative government in Paris, the Cagoule never became more than a minor – yet active - terrorist group, whose militants eventually fled France in 1937 for the relative security of Fascist Italy. As we saw waaaaaaay earlier, the group has been manipulated by French intelligence into assassinating Mussolini, and its members have for the most part been killed after the deed as neither French and Italian services wanted to leave loose ends behind. Young Bouvyers therefore hasn't committed any crime, but he remains a Cagoule sympathizer and a hothead. As such, he is a nice pawn for others, like Monsignor Mayol de Lupé to play.
Aristide de Sousa Mendes was Portugal's consul in Bordeaux in OTL, a role that earned him the gratitude of many French Jews as he delivered them passports to escape to Portugal, twisting the instructions of his government to allow for more emigration. As it seems his once-promising career ran into some snags in OTL, I chose to honour his memory by giving him the advancement he could have enjoyed earlier, and make him the Estado Novo's full ambassador to the French Republic.
Sir Ronald Hugh Campbell was a British career diplomat. In OTL, he went from envoy to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia to ambassador in France, a somewhat uncommonly quick promotion apparently fully justified by his professional qualities. He arrived in Paris in July, 1939. I have no idea what his positions regarding Germany were, but I suppose that in that last summer of peace time had finally run out for appeasement partisans. Also, I have no idea when he was knighted, and you wouldn't believe how much that bothered me.
Jean Nohain was a French radio journalist, and in OTL a Free French soldier who took part to the Liberation of Paris (and earned a German bullet in the face for his trouble).
