A Climate of Fear

by Fred Vargas

  ‘I suppose it is,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Mind you, he was right about your hair.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  Adamsberg pulled a face. It was true that people wouldn’t forget Veyrenc when they saw him, with his heavy, handsome features and his two-tone hair, rather like leopard skin in reverse. He would be the last officer anyone would send on surveillance duty or into an eighteenth-century conspiracy. Some other boys had tortured him when he was a child, cutting his scalp with knives; the hair had grown back over the scars, but now it was auburn. It had happened back home, where both of them came from, in the high meadow at Laubazac, behind the vineyard. Adamsberg could never remember this without a pang piercing his chest.

  They emerged from staircase 4, and pushed the back door of the Tournée de la Tournelle, finding themselves in a rather grand restaurant, with white table linen, full of customers at this time of day. Danglard spotted Retancourt sitting in a corner, with a pink Alice band on her blonde hair and wearing a tailored suit to match. On the table in front of her was a magazine about baby clothes. The imposing lieutenant was knitting without looking at her needles, only stopping now and again to eat a mouthful from her plate, and pulling the white wool out of a large basket at her feet.

  ‘Retancourt knitting?’ whispered Veyrenc. ‘Who knew? Looks like an expert too.’

  ‘I didn’t know, I have to say.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think she was an assault tank in camouflage, would you? Impeccable. Her gun must be under the balls of wool.’

  ‘Our man’s over there,’ said Danglard, ‘by the coat stand. White shirt and grey waistcoat, cleaning his nails.’

  ‘Can’t be,’ said Veyrenc. ‘I don’t see President Château cleaning his fingernails in a restaurant.’

  ‘He’s picking up the magazine,’ Adamsberg said. ‘Motorbikes Past and Present. He’s looking over at us. And hesitating because there are three of us.’

  They went over to the table and the man half rose to shake hands.

  ‘Gentlemen. So you read my letter.’

  Adamsberg pulled open his jacket to show the envelope tucked in his inside pocket.

  ‘You are Commissaire Adamsberg, aren’t you?’ said François Château. ‘I think I recognise your face from the press. And these gentlemen are?’

  ‘Commandant Danglard and Lieutnant Veyrenc.’

  ‘We are pooling our expertise,’ said Danglard.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  Reassured, Château put away his polished steel nail file in his waistcoat pocket, and asked them to choose from the menu, recommending the mushroom and sorrel vol-au-vent, followed by liver Venetian-style. He was quite short and slim, with narrow shoulders, a round face and pink cheeks. His ash-blond hair was going thin on top, and his small blue eyes were inconspicuous. There was nothing striking about his appearance at all, except for the nail file and his upright posture, very deliberate, as though he were sitting in church. Adamsberg was quite disappointed, as if the president of the Robespierre association ought to have been more intimidating.

  ‘Will you have something to drink?’ said Danglard, who was looking at the wine list.

  ‘Just a little, but willingly in your company,’ said Château, with a more relaxed smile. ‘White for me, preferably.’

  ‘That’ll do me,’ said Danglard, ordering some immediately.

  ‘I do beg you once more to forgive me for this cloak-and-dagger stuff. But I am, alas, obliged to go in for it.’

  ‘You’ve been threatened?’ asked Veyrenc.

  ‘For a long time,’ said the little man, his lips tightening once more with tension. ‘And it’s getting worse. Please forgive me for cleaning my nails,’ he said, showing them his hands, with black under the fingernails. ‘I have to do this.’

  ‘You’re a gardener?’ asked Adamsberg.

  ‘I’ve just been planting three orange trees from Mexico, hoping for some good blossom. As for the threats, gentlemen, you need to know that managing an association centred on Robespierre is not like being in charge of a ship in the merchant navy, if I may say so. It’s more like commanding a destroyer, forced to face enemies and storms, because the mere name of Robespierre provokes passions which are always ready to rise up and overwhelm you. I confess that when I started this study group, I was not expecting it either to be so incredibly successful, or to trigger such strong feelings, both for and against. And sometimes, if I may say so,’ he added, playing with the tip of his knife on the plate, ‘I’m tempted to resign. Too many complicated reactions, hot tempers, people who either worship him or damn him, and in the end what was supposed to be a research association has become an arena for people’s fantasies. I deplore it.’

  ‘That bad, is it?’ asked Dangard, filling all the glasses except Adamsberg’s.

  ‘I anticipated your suspicions, because of course it’s absolutely understandable. Look, I’ve brought with me two recent letters, which prove that the threats, so to speak, are not light-hearted. I have plenty more back in my office. Here’s one that arrived about a month ago.’

  You think yourself a great man, and you believe you have already triumphed. But will you be able to predict, will you be able to avoid the blow from my hand? Yes, we are determined to take your life, and to deliver France from the serpent seeking to tear her apart.

  ‘And here’s another,’ Château went on. ‘Posted on 10 April. Just after the murders of Alice Gauthier and Henri Masfauré, if I’m not mistaken. As you see, the paper’s ordinary, the text has been printed from a computer. Nothing to give away the writer, except that it was posted in Le Mans, which doesn’t help us in any way.’

  Danglard pounced eagerly on the second letter.

  Every day I am beside you, I see you every day. At every hour, my arm is raised to strike your breast. Oh, most wicked of men, live a few more days to think about me, sleep so as to dream of me! Farewell. This very day, as I watch you, I shall enjoy your terror.

  ‘Unusual, wouldn’t you say?’ said Château, with a nervous laugh. ‘But, gentlemen, please eat up.’

  ‘Very unusual,’ said Danglard seriously, ‘and all the more so because these two texts are exact copies of actual letters sent to Maximilien Robespierre, after the vote of the terrible law of 22 Prairial, 10 June 1794, the one that extended the powers of the Revolutionary Tribunal and became the instrument of the Great Terror.’

  ‘Who are you?’ exclaimed Château, pushing back his chair. ‘You’re not policemen at all! Who are you?’

  Adamsberg held the man back by the arm and looked at his pale face. Château was breathing rapidly, but seemed to calm down a little on seeing the expression of the commissaire – if he really was a commissaire.

  ‘Yes, we are, we’re all cops,’ he reassured him. ‘Danglard, show him your badge, discreetly. The commandant just happens to know a lot about the revolutionary period.’

  “I don’t know anyone,’ said Château dully, and still on the defensive, ‘who would know the text of those letters, except historians.’

  ‘Well, he does,’ said Veyrenc, pointing at the commandant with his fork.

  ‘Commandant Danglard’s memory,’ Adamsberg confirmed, ‘is a supernatural chasm, into which it would be unwise to venture.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Danglard, shaking his large and unthreatening head, ‘but these letters are actually fairly well known. Do you think that if I was one of the people threatening you, I would have revealed myself so stupidly?’

  ‘Well, yes of course, you’re right,’ said Château, pulling his chair back in, and looking somewhat reassured. ‘But all the same . . .’

  Danglard served more wine, and gave a slight nod to Château, indicating reconciliation.

  ‘Who were these letters addressed to?’ he asked. ‘On the envelope, I mean.’

  ‘Believe it or not, to “Monsieur Maximilien Robespierre”. As if he were still alive! As if he were still threatening people. That’s what I told you, some really crazy people are coming t
o our assemblies, and now attacking our members. With the aim, or at any rate that is what I believe, of creating a climate of terror, which will reach me in the end. You read that sentence: “This very day, as I watch you, I shall enjoy your terror.” I created the association, it was my concept, and as such I’ve been its president for twelve years. So it would be logical, wouldn’t it, if the writer of these letters, or some other maniac, ended up aiming for the head, don’t you think?’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone else alongside you?’ asked Adamsberg.

  ‘Yes, we have a treasurer and a secretary, who also act as my bodyguards. The names listed in the Journal Officiel are not their real ones. Mine is genuine. Because at first, I wasn’t on my guard.’

  ‘And there’s a financial backer.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘A wealthy patron, indeed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Henri Masfauré.’

  ‘Yes, that is the case,’ said Château. ‘Who has just been murdered. He paid the rent for the hall. When he joined us nine years ago, our finances were not in good order, and he took charge. By killing him, the murderer has cut off the sinews of war, money.’

  Adamsberg watched as the little man carefully sliced up his vol-au-vent with his earth-stained hands, searching for some kind of explanation for this contrast in such a well-mannered person. The soil of the earth makes hands noble, dirt cheapens them. Or something like that.

  ‘If Masfauré was enthusiastic enough to finance you, why didn’t he attend more often? You said in the letter that he, like the other two victims, turned up only occasionally.’

  ‘Henri was engaged on a famous scientific project – revolutionary in fact, that isn’t putting it too strongly – and his work was what absorbed his time entirely. He chose not to risk being too closely identified with the association. It wouldn’t have pleased some of his collaborators, I gather. And indeed the same problem does arise for all of us. I am the chief accountant of the Grand Hôtel des Gaules, 122 rooms. You know it perhaps?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Veyrenc. ‘But I thought you were a gardener.’

  ‘Well, if you want to put it like that,’ said Château in a weary voice, looking at his dirty fingernails. ‘I look after the hotel gardens, because nobody else knows how to. That said, if the manager were to find out that I am president of this association, I would be out on my neck. Because anyone with anything to do with Robespierre is immediately suspect, it’s as simple as that in most people’s minds. Henri was just satisfied that the association could continue existing. He came along twice a year.’

  ‘In your view,’ asked Adamsberg, ‘was it Masfauré who invited Alice Gauthier, the murdered woman, to come to some of your sessions?’

  ‘Yes, quite probably. Because they often sat next to each other. I must have seen this Madame Gauthier, and the other man, Monsieur Breuguel, about twenty times, not more. I recognised them from your photos, because they didn’t wear any disguise. They attended sessions from behind the barrier, standing back from the deputies.’

  ‘Disguise?’ asked Adamsberg.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Veyrenc interrupted. ‘There are other groups in France who do research on Robespierre, actual historians who study archives, read texts, analyse them and publish their results in scholarly journals. But your association provokes troubles, passions and hatred.’

  ‘Yes, true,’ said Château, sitting up straight to allow the waiter to serve the liver Venetian-style.

  ‘There is a reason for that,’ Danglard said. ‘Monsieur Château has told us of his concept, which required a large building to be hired, at some expense. With exceptional sessions. I would think this takes us to the heart of the matter. Your society doesn’t spend its time leafing through the archives, does it?’

  ‘You are quite right, commandant, and I have brought along some photos which may help you more than my description. Because I realise,’ he said, reaching into a briefcase to take out some documents, ‘that on account of listening to eighteenth-century rhetoric for years on end, I have acquired the tiresome habit of expressing myself in a pompous fashion, which does not always communicate itself easily to others. Even at the hotel, would you believe.’

  A dozen photographs now went round the table. In a very large hall, lit by chandeliers with false candles, about three or four hundred people, dressed in the costume of the late eighteenth century, were gathered round a rostrum, some in the centre, others on the steps, some sitting, others standing or striding forward with raised hands and outstretched arms, seeming to shout at or applaud the orator on his platform. Around them, in side galleries, were about a hundred other men and women, in modern clothes but discreetly dressed, so that they melted into the shadow, some of them leaning over the balustrade. Tricolour flags were draped here and there. But one could almost hear the sounds in the room, the voice of the orator, the murmurs, the bursts of clamour, the insults.

  ‘Amazing!’ said Danglard.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Château, with a genuine smile, and a hint of pride.

  ‘It’s a theatrical performance?’ Adamsberg asked. ‘A production?’

  ‘No,’ said Danglard, passing from one photo to another. ‘It’s a very faithful re-enactment of the sessions of the National Assembly during the Revolution. Am I right?’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Château, his smile even broader.

  ‘I presume that the speeches being declaimed by the orators and the other deputies are the actual historical texts?’

  ‘Of course. Every member receives a full text of the session for that evening ahead of time, with his own interventions marked, depending on who he is playing. It’s done via a website that you need a code to access.’

  ‘Depending on who he’s playing?’ asked Adamsberg.

  What was the point of playing at the Revolution?

  ‘Yes, necessarily,’ replied Château. ‘One member will play Danton, another Brissot, Billaud-Varenne, Robespierre, Hébert, Couthon, Saint-Just, Fouché, Barère and so on, all the leading politicians of the time. He has to learn by heart the speech he will deliver. We function over two-year cycles, from the sessions of the Constituent Assembly of 1789 to the Convention of 1793–1794. We don’t do them all of course! Or the cycles would last five years, would they not? We choose particularly representative or memorable dates. In short, we are scrupulously reproducing history. The result is rather impressive.’

  ‘So what do you describe as “exceptional” sessions?’ asked Adamsberg. ‘One like tonight’s?’

  ‘Sessions where Robespierre is present. Those evenings attract a large crowd. He only attends twice a month, because his part is very long and exhausting. And he can’t be replaced. But at the moment, he’s on every week, because we’ve fallen a bit behind.’

  Château looked anxious again.

  ‘There’s a “but” about this success,’ he said.

  ‘Uncontrollable passions,’ suggested Danglard.

  ‘It was something we hadn’t foreseen at all,’ Château agreed. ‘It wasn’t in the plan, don’t you see? Is there a little wine left, commandant? At first, we assigned roles according to the physiognomy and temperament of our members. We had a splendid Danton, very ugly, with a stentorian voice. And we had excellent talents for Couthon, he’s the one confined to a wheelchair, for Saint-Just, the exterminating angel, and for Hébert, the crude journalist. But by the end of the first year, all of the deputies, even those in very minor roles, had become totally committed to their character, and to the cause of their group – whether they were the centrists in the so-called “Plain”, the moderate Girondins, the radical members of “The Mountain”, the Dantonists, the Robespierrists, the Enraged or the Extremists – it was a real free-for-all. Members didn’t stick to their texts any more, they shouted at each other, or insulted each other during the sessions: “Who do you think you are, citizen, to dare to cheapen the Republic with your hypocritical words?” that kind of thing. We had to put an end to it.’

&nb
sp; Château shook his head sadly, the wine making his cheeks rosier.

  ‘How did you do that?’ Danglard asked.

  ‘Every four months now, we insist that members change their political group: a centrist has to join the Mountain, an enragé has to become a moderate and so on. And believe me, these compulsory conversions don’t always take place calmly.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Veyrenc.

  ‘So interesting, actually, that we have embarked on some innovative research. To explore a phenomenon that no historian has yet explained: how was it that Robespierre, with his pale face and his glacial manner, totally lacking in charisma and empathy, with a high-pitched voice and an insignificant physique – how was it that he inspired such adoration? With his serious expression, and his blank eyes blinking behind his spectacles? Well, we observe this and we take notes.’

  ‘And how long have you been conducting this research?’ asked Danglard, who now seemed more fascinated by this association than with the investigation in progress.

  ‘About six years.’

  ‘With any results?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, we already have thousands of pages of notes, observations and analysis. Our secretary is in charge of the project. Take women, for instance, the thousands of women who were such fervent admirers of Robespierre, in love with him indeed, whereas he wasn’t interested. We have women members who are allowed in the public galleries, commandant. And they do seem to fall for him, you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘I’d like to stretch my legs,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Can we take a turn along the embankment?’

  ‘Willingly, gentlemen, I have been too long sitting here.’

  The four men walked along the bank of the Seine, ending up by way of contrast near the equestrian statue of King Henri IV. They sat down on a bench in the sun, in the little park named after him, the Square du Vert-Galant on the Ile de la Cité.

  ‘These photos,’ Adamsberg said, ‘do you have any close-ups?’

  ‘No, our rules forbid that,’ said Château, who was busy cleaning his fingernails again. ‘Our members enrol anonymously, and all snapshots are forbidden. For reasons of confidentiality, as I mentioned earlier. And everyone has to leave their mobile in the cloakroom, switched off.’