Pierre-Etienne Flandin in 1914
The foreign minister opened the conversation, “I am beginning to have just one preoccupation: the Rhineland. The stream of warnings continues.”
The secretary-general responded, “We have thoroughly studied the situation. We can outline three scenarios.”
The foreign secretary nodded. “Let’s have them.”
Madame Bardoux handed a memorandum to the foreign minister.
The secretary-general explained, “In the first case, if Germany announces an intent to militarize the zone, we claim a breach of the Versailles Peace Treaty and take the issue to the League of Nations. The second case is similar. Here Germany denounces the treaty provisions. France then takes the issue to the League of Nations.”
The foreign secretary nodded his understanding at these obvious alternatives.
Léger then moved to the real issue, “If the German military enters the Rhineland, that would be a hostile act. France would inform the League.”
The foreign minister looked gravely at the secretary-general. “What then?”
Léger answered, “France would be free to take such military measures as appeared necessary. No treaty limits France’s ability to take independent action.”
Flandin asked, “Any qualifications?”
Léger replied, “France ought not to take military action without an understanding in advance with London.”
Flandin sighed. “Yes, the one thing I can never quite get out of the British.” He looked at Madame Bardoux and by way of self-justification said, “Neither could Laval.”
Flandin then turned businesslike and outlined his plan of action, “I am meeting with the ministers of War, Navy, and Air on Saturday. Afterwards the Council of Ministers meets. I am recommending the demilitarized zone not be subordinated to any outside condition. The French government will assume complete responsibility for any decisions it might make.”
Léger nodded in complete understanding.
Flandin concluded, “France must be seen as firm. I will make these resolutions public the following week. We must do this before the Chamber takes up the Franco-Russian Pact.”
Léger added, “Very sound. Strong continuity of policy.”
The foreign minister stood; the other two followed.
Thursday, February 13. The large touring car crawled along in traffic on rue de L’Universitié on the Left Bank. In the rear seat, snuggled up in a long fur coat, Geneviève Tabouis fretted about being late for lunch with one of her dearest friends, a feminist editor of long standing.
“I can’t get through,” the chauffeur called from the front seat.
Madame Tabouis peered out and saw the rowdy procession of right-wing marchers, some students, others simply ruffians from the Camelots du Roi. All were followers of the Action Française. The angry crowd was marching up boulevard Saint Germain in a funeral procession for Jacques Bainville, a writer for the group’s rabidly anti-Left and anti-Semitic newspaper.
“Isn’t that Monsieur Blum’s car ahead?” asked the chauffeur.
“Yes,” replied Madame Tabouis as she watched the car ahead slowly proceed. She could see that Georges Monnet, a Socialist deputy, was driving. Madame Monnet appeared to be in the rear seat with Blum.
As she watched, a cry went out from one of the marchers, “There’s Blum!” A crowd of ruffians descended on the car, surrounding it and rocking it. A short, stocky youth in a leather coat tore off the license plate and used it as a weapon to break the windows. Shattered glass flew inside the car. Madame Monnet moved to protect the 64-year old Socialist leader, placing herself over his lap.
The ruffians tore open the door and dragged the bleeding Blum out of the car. Madame Tabouis could see his head covered with blood, his broad brimmed floppy black hat knocked off in the melee. Blum staggered down the sidewalk.
“Madame,” the chauffeur cried out, “They’re trying to assassinate Monsieur Blum.”
Gaping in astonishment, Madame Tabouis saw some men working on a house open the gate and let Blum into a courtyard and then promptly slam the gate shut on the shouting pursuers.
Madame Tabouis exclaimed, “They’re bent on killing him.”
The chauffeur exclaimed, “Here come the police.”
“Thank God,” said Madame Tabouis with a heavy sigh of relief. She peered out into the crowds, her interests piqued: there was a bystander filming the entire episode with a small handheld movie camera. As she watched, a policeman came up to the cameraman and spoke with him. The cameraman nodded agreeably, the policeman handed the man a receipt and took the camera.
After several minutes, an ambulance got through the traffic and a heavily bandaged Blum was led out and put in the rear with several attendants. The ambulance drove off.
Madame Tabouis leaned forward and said to the chauffeur, “The Palais Bourbon is just ahead. Take me to the Chamber of Deputies.” She leaned back and thought. The law passed just weeks ago outlawing the armed leagues also carried heavy penalties for incitement to riot. Would the government enforce this sanction against the Action Française? Just the month before, Charles Maurras had called for death to Blum and over a hundred other deputies for supporting sanctions against Italy. As always, Maurras couched his attack with vicious Jew baiting.
Late in the afternoon, Madame Tabouis came out of the Chamber of Deputies and stood on the sidewalk, holding her long fur coat close against the winter cold. Her car slowly came up the street and stopped. A policeman graciously opened the door for her. She had watched this afternoon as Premier Sarraut promised the deputies that not only those who took a direct part in the outrage but those who “have prepared and premeditated these incessant provocations to assassination would be harshly dealt with.”
Sarraut was also minister of interior; he could make good on his promises. Madame Tabouis had watched as he walked out of the Chamber to order a police raid on the headquarters of Action Française. Sarraut had seemed uncharacteristically decisive today, thought Madame Tabouis.
As the car pulled away, Madame Tabouis leaned forward, “Across the river. To the Cours la Reine,” mentioning the broad boulevard running along the Right Bank of the Seine. “I want to go to Duchesse de Cosse Brissac’s reception,” speaking of the young daughter of one of France’s wealthiest industrialists. Madame Tabouis always enjoyed “Thursdays” with the charming young duchesse and her wide circle of friends—senators, deputies, aristocrats, foreign princesses, and members of France’s oldest families, nearly all of whom were intimate friends of Madame Tabouis’s distinguished family.
Arriving on the second floor of the grand townhouse, Madame Tabouis was announced. She walked into the salon and took the young duchesse’s hand in both of hers and bade a warm hello. Madame Tabouis looked around the large room where clusters of people were talking, the attempted assassination creating an intense buzz among the guests.
Madame Tabouis walked over towards a group in the corner as one gentleman, justifying the assault, pronounced, “André of Compagnie du Nord saw the whole thing. Blum was giving the Communist salute. This was more than the crowd could stand and they fell upon him.”
Not bothering to contradict this “eyewitness” account, Madame Tabouis asked, “Does anyone know how Blum is?”
“Who cares?” came a reply. “It’s a pity they didn’t kill the swine. Then we’d be rid his reforms,” a major concern among the moneyed class.
A young princess in the group added, “And be rid of his warmongering.” The young ladies by her side complimented her on her spirit, oblivious to the irony of describing one of France’s leading pacifists as a warmonger. Madame Tabouis smiled indulgently.
A well-known writer came up and, amid a flutter of expectation from the young society women, spoke, “All our troubles are due to the fact that the Republic was born of hate. Only the monarchy can grasp the whole of France in its embrace.” The lovely creatures were delighted at the wisdom. Visions of grand balls held under glittering chandeliers danced in the
ir imaginations. Yes, by all means, the Royalists.
Another young man, known to be “too close” to Berlin in Madame Tabouis’s estimation, said, “If France goes ahead with the Franco-Russian pact, it means war! This pact is the greatest obstacle in the way of our coming to an understanding with Hitler and Mussolini. If we encourage it, we are committing a crime.” He was doing his work rather well, thought Madame Tabouis, and to a good reception.
Another gentleman, looking sternly at Madame Tabouis—she was known to be on good terms with Russian diplomats in Geneva—said, “Could anything be more absurd than the idea of our going to war to help Russia?”
Madame Tabouis, realizing the small circle was socially distinguished but politically unsophisticated, dryly replied, “If we do not set about resisting Hitler, he will soon have all of Europe.” Understanding that illusion was the basis of aristocratic sentiment, Madame Tabouis nodded at the group and took her departure. As she descended the beautiful white marble staircase, she ruminated: only events shatter illusion, never argument. She tapped the marble handrail with her knuckles. Events it will be.