Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads
Hoare-Laval – Saturday
Saturday afternoon, December 7. In the gray afternoon, the sky threatening rain, Dexter stood in his overcoat and muffler, his arm around Marcelle’s waist. She stood, prim in her overcoat, a warm winter hat on her head, holding a small overnight valise. The two of them watched the shiny black limousine come down rue Monsieur.
The limousine stopped and a gendarme got out and walked around the front of the car. Marcelle turned to Dexter, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him goodbye. “I’ll let you know when I’m free. Probably by Monday at the latest.” She walked around and got in the rear seat; the gendarme closed the door behind Marcelle and then got in the front seat next to the driver. The limousine slowly glided down the rain-soaked street.
Dexter watched the limousine depart. He held his chin in his hand, his fingers absently massaging the skin, and pondered. Premier Laval was meeting with the British today in the Quai d’Orsay. Normally Secretary-General Léger and his highly capable assistant Suzanne Bardoux would provide the diplomatic support. That would be normal, thought Dexter. What was Marcelle’s role? He guessed she too was going to the Quai d’Orsay to provide some type of support to Premier Laval. Why? What? And what about Geneviève and Pertinax?
The limousine drove slowly down the street in one of the new neighborhoods out in the Fifteenth and pulled up in front of double wooden doors. The gendarme got out and walked towards the doors, one of which suddenly opened and a young woman came out, a scarf over her head to ward off the cold. She turned and kissed a young man goodbye and then hurried across the sidewalk towards the limousine, the gendarme just getting in front of her to open the rear door as she scurried forward. Marcelle slid over and made room for her.
“Bonjour, Madame Lambert.”
“Bonjour, Sophie.”
“I’m so excited. To be selected for this assignment. Do you know what we will be doing?”
“No. The premier told me to bring our best typist. That’s you.”
“The Quay d’Orsay. Where do we stay?”
“They have guest apartments we will stay in. Quite proper.”
“This will be a new experience for me.”
“Yes. I can say that the strictest confidentiality must be observed about our work, now and later. That is why I really thought about you for this assignment.”
“I’m so pleased you feel that way.”
“Yes, discretion and confidentiality are our biggest assets, Sophie.”
“I understand.”
The limousine pulled up to the sentry station outside the Quay d’Orsay and was waved into the parking lot. The gendarme got out and opened the door and insisted on carrying the women’s valises into the anteroom. Inside the building, Suzanne Bardoux met them, “Good morning,” and turning to Sophie she asked, “Whom do we have here?”
Madame Lambert quickly replied, “Sophie Gambier, she is my most trusted commis.” Clerk.
“Enchantée, Sophie,” and Madame Bardoux held out her hand.
“Enchantée, Madame,” replied Sophie and shook hands.
“Let me show you to our apartments. This way.”
The three women started up the staircase.
Saturday afternoon. Dexter sat at a table out-of-the-way at the far end of the Café de la Paix. He wondered what Marcelle was doing. Several English and French newspapers were spread out on the table before him. The Hoare-Laval talks were scheduled to begin today; that was the top story in two languages. Commentators expected something “decisive” from the meeting. The belief was that something substantial in the way of an understanding between France and Britain would break the diplomatic deadlock. Newspapers love to break deadlocks, thought Dexter.
Other stories emphasized, and Dexter nodded in agreement as he read, that the talks were only to develop a framework of understanding. The framework would then serve as the basis for further negotiations at Geneva among Italy, Ethiopia, and the League of Nations itself. France and Britain were not dictating terms. Or so they would say.
Dexter sipped his coffee and pondered; he could see that the goal of the Hoare-Laval proposals was to draw the parties—Italy and Ethiopia—into settlement discussions. The two statesmen would present “a basis” upon which further discussions might begin. Nothing would be “decided.” But Dexter ruefully thought: of course I see it; I am a professional diplomat. Will the public? Will the press? They will see “a deal,” he ruefully concluded, a done deal.
The practical difficulty, it seemed to Dexter, was to give an ocean port to landlocked Ethiopia in exchange for land that could be annexed to one of the adjacent Italian colonies. And make it seem fair. A hard sell to world opinion. Always a tricky game, Dexter well knew, to have some international commission go about changing borders. They would call it “rectifying” borders as if correcting some previous mistake. One party always felt shortchanged. Then came grievance, possibly a revanchist movement, a festering trouble spot on the world map. Didn’t we have enough of those already from the Versailles Treaty?
He looked up and saw Geneviève Tabouis and Pertinax enter the café. He pulled up a paper and buried himself in the news, trying to appear inconspicuous. He watched as they slid into a booth at the far end of the lounge. He kept his head down and continued reading the papers. Normally, on a big news weekend like this, the two journalists would be trying to out-compete each other for a scoop, the inside angle, a unique slant on the big meeting. But then he had felt that something else had been going on with Geneviève all week. Dexter remembered the American reporter telling him that he had noticed her whispering to Pertinax. Since when did Geneviève whisper?
Dexter looked over at the barman and gave a nod. He brought over a snifter of cognac. Dexter turned to a profile article on Anthony Eden from one of American dailies published in Paris; the article would hit the parent paper in New York tomorrow. The dashing Eden, described by the Paris papers as the best-dressed diplomat in Europe, was the advocate of a new British policy of engagement on the Continent. Departing from the old ideal of splendid isolation, Eden advocated a policy where Britain played an active, leading and responsible role in assuring collective security through the League of Nations.
Dexter laid the paper down and thought: well, yes, that is just what the French had wanted from the British since the end of the war—commitment. Now that they had it, would they be able to keep it?
The picture of the well-dressed Eden stared out at Dexter from the paper. He knew that Eden was regarded as a man-in-waiting to the incumbent foreign secretary. Was it principle waiting for expediency to falter? If Hoare went down, would Eden do better? Dexter thought not. He had never seen such a tough international situation as Europe faced in 1935. He glanced down the lounge towards the two journalists. Did Geneviève understand that? He wondered.
Dexter drained his cognac, picked up the papers, and walked down the lounge, arching his eyebrows in greeting as he saw Geneviève and Pertinax. He walked over. “Good afternoon. What has you two about?”
“Our offices are just across the street,” said Pertinax as he discreetly closed his notebook.
Geneviève smiled. “Nice to see you, Dexter.” She turned her notebook to a blank page. “You are a long way from the embassy.” Neither journalist made a hint of an invitation for Dexter to stay.
Dexter replied, “I was just returning. Need to get a cable off to Washington.” He tipped his hand to his hat, turned, and walked towards the entrance.
The two journalists watched Dexter walk out of the café. Geneviève said, “Where were we?”
“You were at lunch with the marquise.”
“Oh, yes, I was at the house of the Marquise de Ludre this afternoon. She seated me between the British and French experts on Ethiopia.”
“What information did you get about the Italian special economic zone? That’s the heart of the land swap.”
“That will be the territory below eight degrees North and east of thirty-five degrees East.”
“They confirme
d that?”
“They indicated it by their manner.”
“We’ll have to nail that down before we can publish it.”
“How will you do that, André?” asked Geneviève, referring to Pertinax by his first name.
“I have a source at Havas Agency,” referring to the official French news agency. “Let’s see what he comes up with.”
“I was at the Quai d’Orsay last night. They have decreed a news blackout on all reports, even hints, about the Hoare-Laval plan. That’s why I called you. This might be our chance.”
“You said you were going to London tomorrow?”
“Yes, I will be staying at the Carlton.”
“Call me tomorrow night at nine-thirty,” said Pertinax. “We can confirm the details. We’ll go with the story Monday morning.”
“I’m sure we will have public opinion with us,” Geneviève said as she closed her notebook, her face mirroring deep conviction in the correctness of her beliefs. She stood up and Pertinax followed. The two left the café.
Madame Lambert stood discreetly behind Secretary-General Alexis Léger and René St. Quentin, the Quai d’Orsay’s expert on Ethiopia, in the center of the carpet in front of the large official desk in the office of the French foreign minister. Outside the windows, the winter darkness had set in. A formally attired usher opened the large wooden door to the office and Premier Laval stepped through, turning and extending his arm to Foreign Secretary Sir Samuel Hoare to enter the office. Next came Sir Robert Vansittart, permanent secretary of the British foreign office, then British ambassador Sir George Clerk, and finally Maurice Peterson, the British expert on Ethiopia.
Premier Laval said, “Gentlemen, I believe you all know one another.” The premier nodded in the direction of Madame Lambert and said, “Madame Lambert is on the permanent staff at the Matignon and will assist us with paperwork.” The men all nodded a greeting at Madame Lambert.
“Let us go into my study for our meeting. It is warm and comfortable,” and the premier pointed with his hand to an open door at the far side of the official office. The men trooped in, Madame Lambert following. She took up a chair at a small desk just behind the premier and Alexis Léger.
Premier Laval prefaced the talks, a minor trace of irritation in his voice. “Signor Mussolini’s speech to the Italian Chamber this morning did not seem to signal the conciliatory posture that the Italian ambassador has been assuring me is the Italian government’s intent.”
Sir Samuel Hoare listened to this declaration with polite interest while Sir Robert Vansittart displayed a “what-did-you-expect” look.
Laval then opened the meeting more formally. “This afternoon our two governments should come to agreement on determining the bases that might be proposed to the two parties for a friendly settlement of the Italo-Ethiopian dispute. Our experts have shown the way,” and Laval nodded at Peterson and St. Quentin.
Léger spoke, “We must continually stress that these are bases of discussion between Italy, Ethiopia, and the League of Nations. Not dictates from Paris and London.” Heads all around the table nodded.
Vansittart interjected, “There can be no question of publishing these formulas.”
“Agreed,” replied Laval. “We must stress that the formulas, though not published, are preliminary and tentative.”
Vansittart changed topics. “The oil sanction is scheduled for action Thursday at Geneva.”
Laval replied, “An oil embargo could lead to dramatic and unforeseen consequences. It would be better to conciliate before applying sanctions. Sanctions are deeply unpopular in France. I dislike this talk of a fixed date.”
Hoare now entered the conversation, nodding agreeably. “As long as negotiations are fruitful, everyone would understand the wisdom of a delay in the oil sanction.”
Laval looked at Hoare hopefully. Laval was pretty sure he could get Mussolini to make the right gesture.
Hoare said, “Then, we should get some serious signal from Mussolini before Thursday. His Majesty’s Government is not disposed to ask for a postponement of Thursday’s meeting in Geneva of the Sanctions Committee without it.”
Laval replied, “Then time is of the essence. I am sure Mussolini is ready to negotiate. To give a meaningful signal.”
Hoare responded, “Good, with that in mind, I have decided to put off going to Switzerland tonight. I will stay in Paris tomorrow and we can complete our talks.”
Laval smiled. “Excellent. Let’s leave drafting a communiqué on today’s meeting to Messieurs Vansittart and Léger.”
“I quite agree.” Hoare turned to Vansittart and said, “We want to stress the complete agreement between our two governments for continuation of the policy of close collaboration. We don’t want to let the press find any daylight between the two governments on this.”
Madame Lambert carefully wrote this down, capturing the exact words in their sequence.
Laval silently nodded in agreement. He was close to achieving with the British what no other French minister had achieved since the war—strong agreement.
Léger leaned forward. “I believe we want to stress in the communiqué that this meeting is not taking any position on implementing the oil sanction at Thursday’s meeting.”
Vansittart looked at his French compatriot and nodded in agreement. “Yes. Let Rome understand they must make a positive step.”
Hoare nodded his assent and added, summing up the British position, “London is very concerned that any proposals do not give the appearance of rewarding aggression.” All present knew that Anthony Eden was in London at the foreign office that weekend. He was a concern.
Laval looked inward and gave a faint smile of appreciation for Hoare’s situation, if not predicament. Then he stood up and the others followed. Laval turned to Léger. “Monsieur le Secretary, to your capable hands.” He nodded and then smiled a “thank you” to Madame Lambert.
Léger turned to Vansittart. “Let us go over to Madame Lambert’s office and work on the communiqué. She has a typist who can prepare the communiqué. It is just on the other side of foreign minister’s official office.”
The two men walked out with Madame Lambert picking up her papers and following.
Madame Lambert and Sophie stood at the rear of one of the Quai d’Orsay’s beautiful meeting rooms. In the front of the room, Sir Robert Vansittart and Alexis Léger took questions from the reporters seated in rows of chairs before them. To one side stood Suzanne Bardoux, holding extra copies of the communiqué.
A reporter, an American from a big New York daily—Madame Lambert recognized Dexter’s friend Phil—looked over his notes, glanced again at the communiqué, and asked, “One more thing. There’s no mention of the German situation in the communiqué. Is that an oversight or intentional?” The reporter was disbelieving that top French and British diplomats could meet and not talk about Germany.
Vansittart answered in his beautifully modulated upper crust voice, itself dismissive to the street English of the New York reporter, “One thing at a time is plenty” He smiled.
The reporter came back. “So at tomorrow’s meeting the ministers and their advisers will discuss how slowly to apply the ‘strangle hold’ on Italy?”
Vansittart winced and said, “You Americans—‘strangle hold’—really now.”
The American shot back. “Those are Mussolini’s words, not mine.”
Vansittart quickly took a verbal step backwards. “Right you are.”
Léger moved forward to end the press conference. “Madame Bardoux can take any other inquiries you might have.”
The reporters stood up and headed for the door; deadlines were waiting. Madame Bardoux smiled as she watched them leave.
Madame Bardoux came back to where Madame Lambert and Sophie were standing. “Thank you for your patience.”
Sophie exclaimed, eyes wide, “That was fascinating.” She turned to Madame Lambert, “And Madame, the way you worked with Messieurs Vansittart and Léger on the communiqu
é. And in two languages, too.”
Madame Lambert smiled. “Thank you. That is what we are trained to do.”
Madame Bardoux said, “Good news. Monsieur Léger has arranged for us to have dinner in his private dining room. This way.”
A formally attired waiter met the three ladies at the entrance to the small private dining room near the secretary-general’s office. He ushered them in and held their chairs as each took her seat in turn.
Madame Lambert turned to Madame Bardoux and said, “The American reporter from New York is one of Dexter’s friends.”
Madame Bardoux replied, a wistful tone in her voice, “He has a knack for taking official words and putting them back into his questions and then sending them forth to the podium in ways which, shall we say, are inconvenient to the overall message the government is trying to put forth. The Americans seem obsessively fact conscious.”
Madame Lambert laughed and then said somewhat ruefully, “Dexter keeps hold of the inconvenient fact for what seems forever. Doesn’t let it go.”
Madame Bardoux now turned wistful. “There are a lot of inconvenient facts this weekend.”
Madame Lambert nodded in silent understanding.
Madame Bardoux moved to change the subject; she turned to Sophie and politely inquired, “And you, my dear, you seem young to be a commis at the Matignon?”
Sophie enthused, “Yes. My ministry seconded me there. I keep hoping to sit for the concours to become a redactrice, or at least get on the list. But the budget cuts keep pushing the exam off into the future. The ministry felt that time at the Matignon would help my future promotion.”
Madame Lambert added, “Sophie has her bac from a lycée outside of Paris.”
Sophie said, almost apologetically, “I would have continued, but the depression and my younger sisters’ educations…”
Madame Bardoux quickly cut in sympathetically. “Yes, I understand. But the Matignon itself is a grande école.”
A waiter began placing small plates with appetizers in front of each woman. Another held a bottle of chilled white wine for Madame Bardoux’s inspection and she nodded in affirmation at the choice. “Excellent.”
She turned and smiled at Madame Lambert and Sophie as the wine was poured. Then she picked up her glass and held it out in salute. “To your future promotion, Madame Gambier.”
Sophie beamed at the approval of the two older women.