Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads

by Paul A. Myers

Hoare-Laval – Maneuverings

  Early afternoon, Friday, November 29, Whitehall, London. Sir Robert Vansittart came into the office of the foreign secretary, Sir Samuel Hoare. Hoare waved him into one of the chairs. “I will meet with Laval in Paris at the end of next week on my way to Geneva. Let’s review our situation.”

  Vansittart crisply asked, “Are you prepared to go to war?”

  “Of course not,” replied Hoare.

  “Then you have to negotiate.”

  “I made that exact point to our ambassador in Ethiopia. The large majority we won in the election two weeks ago,” the Conservatives had won 432 seats in the November 14 elections, “showed that Great Britain is strongly behind the Government up to the point of collective economic sanctions, but it will not go an inch further. The public does not want a war with Italy.”

  “Drummond in Rome says that Mussolini also understands this.”

  “Yes,” Hoare sighed. Then he took on a warning tone. “There is a point beyond which I cannot go. The prime minister has been clear.”

  Hoare shifted his thoughts and drummed his fingers on his desktop. “The Committee of Imperial Defense reports serious deficiencies in our military strength in the Mediterranean.” The annoyance with the military was palpable.

  Vansittart agreed. “It is unpardonable that we should be so handicapped particularly since it was plain to see the crisis coming. People who don’t rearm force themselves by their own logic into negotiations.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “As usual, the public has overlooked Germany.”

  “Yes, Germany, Phipps,” as Hoare brought up Ambassador Edward Phipps in Berlin, “reports that Germany will expand and that the present Ethiopian imbroglio is mere child’s play compared to the problems that will in some not very distant future confront His Majesty’s Government.”

  “Yes, Phipps said earlier this week that Ethiopia was not the only pebble on the beach. Hitler is watching, waiting, rearming,” warned Vansittart. Both men knew that Phipps meant the Rhineland. Both knew the Rhineland was Laval’s major concern, the reason he was so eager to settle with Italy.

  “But Germany is not next week’s problem. Italy is,” Hoare said while pondering his options. “There is an accumulation of evidence that Signor Mussolini is beginning to realize the full difficulties of his position. He may be ready to make terms. We should test the reality.”

  “You will find Laval very receptive to this approach. In particular he wants to avoid imposing the oil sanction on Italy at this time.”

  Hoare said, thinking about the future as he spoke, “Yes, keep the threat of an oil sanction out in front of Mussolini. Easy to do. The Americans are the key and they can’t decide anything until mid-January when Congress returns. We have breathing space for these negotiations…with the embargo hanging over Mussolini’s head he is more likely to be reasonable.”

  “Precisely,” summed up Vansittart.

  Hoare concluded, “We intend to use the next several weeks for a serious attempt to bring about a settlement.”

  Vansittart stood up nodding in agreement.

  Hoare instructed, “It would be best, Van, if you went to Paris next week and prepared the ground.”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  Late afternoon, Friday, November 29, Paris. Geneviève Tabouis sat next to Dexter Jones in the first row of the diplomatic gallery overlooking the Chamber of Deputies. She pointed down towards the President of the Chamber sitting high above the vacant speaker’s tribune and said, “President Fernand Bouisson will start the finance debate by calling on the most articulate of the opposition, former finance minister Paul Reynaud.”

  As they watched, short, peppery Paul Reynaud ascended to the speaker’s tribune and began to speak, “We, the Netherlands and Switzerland are like beleaguered garrisons waiting for the relief army of general stabilization, which never comes, or for some miraculous intervention of a rise in world prices.” The polite applause of agreement rippled across the benches.

  “For four years we have practiced the policy of trying to balance our budget by economy, and each successive finance minister has announced in his turn, ‘This time I have caught up with the deficit.’” Laughter spread among the deputies sitting on the benches as the truth of the joke hit home. “The government has been chasing a mirage.”

  Reynaud then drove home his point. “But each time the deficit has been repeated and increased, because it comes from the same cause, an overvalued money. The devaluation of the franc is the only sound and only possible solution of the present crisis. The gold bloc is dead; artificial respiration will not revive it.” The deputies erupted in applause and cheers—the truth of the current malaise was spoken clearly, a truth they all knew but many feared.

  Geneviève leaned over and whispered into Dexter’s ear, “How many do you think applauded?”

  “Oh, about seventy percent.”

  She nodded in agreement and smiled slyly. “We will see.”

  Another deputy stepped up to the tribune. “Orthodox methods of solving the present economic crisis are inadequate and outmoded. Deflation has not succeeded in any country, and why should it succeed here?”

  The speaker continued his argument, “Deflation should bring down the cost of living. Here the cost of living has increased with every successive effort to deflate.” Deputies murmured in assent; all understood the public frustration with rising prices.

  Looking out at the seated deputies, the speaker concluded, “If any businessman had done what you have done in your efforts to balance expenditure and income, he would have been hauled into police court.”

  The speaker then looked over at the government bench and Premier Laval. “I do not mean to detract from your efforts. Your mission was to save the franc. That of your successors will be to save France from the economic crisis that has been produced and to save her too from the political division that has been created and that threatens the regime.” The deputies gave the speaker warm applause as he returned to the benches.

  Geneviève whispered to Dexter, “Now watch.”

  Premier Laval advanced to the tribune and made an appeal to the deputies’ patriotism explaining that last summer he came to the defense of the country’s interests at the behest of this very same Chamber, that he had accepted the charge only after so many others had refused. A wave of sympathy spread across the seated deputies. All knew what they had done.

  Laval admitted that the tide was in the direction of devaluation. He then set up his parliamentary strategy: “It seemed to me when Mr. Reynaud was speaking that there were many devaluationists in this house. I call upon you to show yourselves by voting against the government.” Some of the deputies gasped, most simply understood.

  Then Laval turned to the Radical benches and paid tribute to Édouard Herriot’s loyalty and that of the moderate wing of the Radical party.

  Geneviève spoke to Dexter, “The Chamber is still not in a mood to face the responsibility of voting devaluation. There is no party or government ready to take the leadership. Herriot has personally ruled out forming a new government. So watch the vote. The Radicals are staying with the government.”

  Dexter nodded; Marcelle had already come to the same conclusion.

  The clock above the benches ticked eight o’clock in the evening; the vote of confidence in the government carried 324 to 247. The defense of the franc was to continue. No devaluation.

  In the ensuing tumult of congratulations, Geneviève turned to Dexter. “The Left extracted a price for its support. It wants the Far Right leagues disarmed; their guns taken away. Laval made the deal.”

  “When does this take place?” asked Dexter.

  Geneviève replied, “Next week. Surprisingly, it seems Colonel de La Rocque of the Croix-de-Feu is amenable to this. He fears violence might lead to civil war rather than next May’s election.”

  “Very statesmanlike,” said Dexter.

  “Yes, isn’t it,” Geneviève wryly added.

  Friday,
December 6. Dexter Jones worked his way down the steep steps of the diplomatic gallery overlooking the Chamber of Deputies searching for a familiar face. He spotted his friend Phil, the correspondent for the big New York daily. He walked over and sidestepped down a row of seats and plopped down. The reporter wisecracked, “So you’ve come to see Premier Laval save the franc, save the Republic, and save Mussolini.”

  Dexter laughed. “Good morning to you, too, Phil.”

  “What’s got you here?”

  “Officially. The ambassador plans to meet with Premier Laval, possibly tomorrow. He wants the latest dope.”

  “Unofficially?”

  “Geneviève thinks something’s cooking. She thinks Laval got support for the budget by promising to disarm the leagues.”

  “She may be right.” The reporter added, “Well, I’m glad she got off her high horse and nosed around.”

  “She’s well connected.”

  “Yeah, I saw her with Pertinax yesterday. Whispering no less,” said the reporter, mentioning André Géraud, who wrote a well-read political column in the Echo de Paris under the pen name Pertinax.

  “Well he’s the best political reporter in France,” said Dexter.

  “Did you know he also writes a column for the Daily Telegraph. He’s big in London, too.”

  “I was only vaguely aware of that,” said Dexter. Some pieces of a possible puzzle were beginning to form in his mind.

  The reporter said, “Look down at the tribune. Colonel de La Rocque’s mouthpiece is about to speak,” he said referring to Jean Ybarnegaray, the deputy that represented the views of the Croix-de-Feu in the Chamber.

  As they watched, the Chamber seemed moved by what the conservative deputy was saying. Speaking about the armed paramilitary leagues, Ybarnegaray pleaded, “Is there anyone here who can wish that France should feel upon her face the breath of civil war?”

  Deputies across the Chamber chanted, “No, no, no!”

  Ybarnegaray answered, “I now speak for the Croix-de-Feu.”

  The deputies hushed in tense expectation.

  Like a revivalist preacher, Ybarnegaray thundered out his proposal, “Messieurs, we are ready! We propose that everybody should be disarmed. What has the Left to say?”

  The deputies all cheered, heads nodding affirmatively.

  “Every bench is cheering,” said the reporter, a little incredulously, “Something’s going on.”

  Ybarnegaray continued, “Then Monsieur le Minister of the Interior, I propose that you issue at once this decree that every citizen found in the street carrying arms forbidden by law shall be immediately arrested.” He then listed the punishments.

  Pandemonium broke out among the deputies, delighted at the breakthrough.

  The Socialist leader Léon Blum jumped to his feet to speak. “We are ready to disarm our paramilitary formations, to dissolve them, if you are.”

  A cry arose from the body of the Chamber. “Do you speak for the Communists?”

  Surprised by the turn of the debate, the reporter turned his head towards the Communist benches and mumbled, “Let’s see what that bull-necked, bull-voiced party boss says now?”

  From the Far Left benches, Communist party boss Maurice Thorez stood and roared, “The Communist party associates itself with Mr. Blum’s declaration in so far as its self-defense group is concerned.”

  Premier Laval picked up some papers and hurried to the tribune, “Here are three short bills to implement what the Chamber is about to approve, to vote for the suppression of armed politics which violates every republican tradition of our great country.” Premier Laval presented the bills and then stepped down.

  The debate continued, many of the deputies simply complaining why Laval and his government had taken so long to get to this day.

  Premier Laval strode back to the tribune and spoke, “The government has been accused of having said nothing. I say: today, the government has acted.”

  The premier explained that he was soon to meet with the British on Ethiopia, a matter of the gravest import. He concluded his appeal to the deputies. “I love my country and I want to serve her. I am passionately attached to peace and want only to defend it. Tomorrow I shall have more courage with your confidence and the authority it will give me.” The premier returned to the government bench.

  The president of the Chamber called for the vote; the votes were tallied: 351 to 219 in favor of the government.

  The reporter turned to Dexter and said, a touch of pleasure in his voice, “Geneviève was right. That was a cooked goose if I ever saw one.”

  Dexter looked down at the well of the Chamber as Premier Laval accepted congratulations on his second major parliamentary victory in two weeks, shaking hands all around. He heard Laval say to his colleagues, “Let’s go out and eat a dozen oysters. Tomorrow I have to work for peace. I am meeting Sir Samuel Hoare.”

  The taxicab pulled up in front of the open gate leading into the courtyard of an hôtel particulier in the heart of the Sixth Arrondisement. Geneviève Tabouis alighted from the cab, paid the driver, and walked in, her long fur coat swaying with her slender hips, a tall hat pointed both to the front and rear like the prow of a clipper ship. She sailed forward serene in her confidence, the essence of her charm.

  Entering the foyer, she handed her card to a butler, who called out her name. The hostess waved her hand, smiled, and came walking over. “How nice you could make it, Geneviève.”

  “Delighted, Madame la Marquise. Your invitation is most intriguing.”

  “Well, the dinner last Wednesday night at Madame Becker’s was fascinating. The way you got information out of Sir Robert Vansittart. Why it’s a wonder any diplomat ever speaks with you.”

  “The unguarded moment is my most valuable ally.”

  “Men used to say that about me,” the marquise added, laughing, and then she continued, “Oh, my yes. I simply did not believe Van would say that it’s too bad about Ethiopia, that it can’t be helped.” Amazement lingered in the marquise’s voice.

  Geneviève pulled the marquise over to one side and whispered, “Since then, I have heard that Sir Samuel Hoare is coming to Paris today to work out a preliminary agreement with Premier Laval, possibly with the back channel agreement of Mussolini, to partition Ethiopia.”

  The marquise gasped, “That would present the League of Nations with a virtual fait accompli.”

  Nodding in vigorous agreement, indignation rising in her voice, Geneviève said, “Yes, the public might storm, the League might protest, and the press use all its powers of rebuke—but all to no avail. The thing would be as good as done.”

  “And too bad for Ethiopia,” said the marquise reflectively.

  “Yes, Mussolini would have put something over on the League and its most fundamental principles. The integrity of the fifty-four member states would be negated.”

  The marquise nodded as the full consequences of what Geneviève had just said sunk in. She turned to Geneviève. “You said you were working on an important story?”

  “Yes, I only have a few gaps to fill in.”

  “Well, I am seating you right between the two gentlemen—just as you asked.”

  “Good,” said Geneviève with a twinkle in her eye.

  A maid appeared at the entrance to the dining room and made a wave to the marquise.

  “Excuse me, Geneviève,” and the marquise took several steps towards the center of the room and announced, “Luncheon will be served in the dining room.”

  The guests paraded towards the dining room, Geneviève right in the middle. She walked down the table peering at the placement cards, found her name, and stood behind her chair. A French diplomat came up to the chair on her right, saw her and was momentarily taken aback, like he had seen a snake. He quickly regained his composure. “Geneviève, how nice to see you again.”

  A British gentleman, a diplomat, came up to the chair on the left. The French diplomat quickly leaned in front of Geneviève and said to his British coll
eague, “Let me present Geneviève Tabouis. She is journalist,” the venom barely concealed.

  “Why yes, I have read your column with interest. We all do.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” replied Geneviève.

  The French diplomat held her chair and Geneviève sat down, as did the other women at the table, followed by the gentlemen.

  The butler and the maid worked their way around the table serving a crystal clear chilled white wine.

  Geneviève began, looking at the British diplomat, “Why just Wednesday evening, at the house of one of my friends, we had dinner with Sir Robert Vansittart. He seemed to say it was too bad about Ethiopia but that it can’t be helped.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I’m here in Paris working on technical details, maps and such,” and he applied himself with single-minded intent to the oyster sitting in its shell on the small plate before him, working his knife and fork to separate the oyster from its shell.

  Geneviève turned to the French diplomat. “My sources say that Sir Samuel Hoare is meeting with Premier Laval later today to concert a preliminary agreement before going on to Geneva.”

  “Yes, I read that in the papers this morning, too.” The French diplomat smiled dryly.

  Geneviève turned back to the British diplomat. “Maps and such, you say,” as she watched him work with obvious delight at the next course, a most excellent American lobster sitting on his plate. She asked, “Is Mussolini going to try to reach the thirty-fifth degree of longitude in Ethiopia?”

  The Englishman kept at his lobster, head down and diligent. Geneviève repeated the question again in French and then tried several variations in English.

  The Englishman turned to her, his countenance in a broad smile, putting a big piece of lobster in his mouth, and looked at her with big bright eyes. He chewed. Geneviève sighed: the old boy was in his glory. They must learn this in boarding school, she thought.

  Always persistent, she turned back to her other side and started in again on the French diplomat who was now struggling with a chicken leg. He kept the knife and fork on the attack; the chicken leg began to give way. He looked up now and again under Geneviève’s incessant questioning. Then Geneviève caught a glimmer in his expression, that slightly patronizing look that experts give to the unexpert when the tentative sally is so obviously the right answer.

  Geneviève turned back to the table, looked across at the marquise, and let a small smile of triumph cross her face. She had what she wanted. Confirmation.