A War of Whispers

I never developed a fondness for the taste of coffee, nor sweets and pastries. In fact there were few culinary items that I would suffer the presence of others for in public, yet the Cafe du Croissant was where I was instructed to wait. I sat alone at a small table along the wall. It was evening now and the shift to night allowed me to wait in the shadows. I was offered soup, but couldn’t eat at a time like this. My heart was pounding. In my pocket, a vial of poison and a strip of paper with the address of a journalist, followed by her handwriting. Bring me his ear.

It was a gruesome request for a woman to make. Madame Dalou, burdened me with this task because in her words, I had an unsuspecting face and a heart of darkness. I can’t speak to my lack of expression, but as for my hatred, that was reserved entirely for Madame Dalou. She seemed quite amused by it. I had spent most of my life as a coachman in the service of Parisian socialites like her and in truth, had grown to despise them all. Men like myself were not to be seen or heard. As servants, we were nothing more than manure to our employers, a necessary resource for life and survival, but revolting. Little do they acknowledge, everything essential in life grows from the dirt. The wealthy want to be far removed from that truth.

I had moved to the city for work at the age of twelve and by 1914, tension had been growing in Paris between the elite and the working class. A war of whispers had begun. Newspapers were publishing scandals that toppled empires and brought shame and spectacle to mighty households. Alliances between the servants on the front lines and the men armed with ink were proving to be a powerful foe. A new French revolution was brewing.

High society had their own allies of course. Just days ago, the infamous socialite Henriette Caillaux was acquitted of the murder of a newspaper editor who had secret letters in his possession that would reveal her infidelities. Madame Caillaux shot the man at his own desk - in front of witnesses - and was set free. The courts settled on a crime of passion, something women were believed to be prone to, but in truth, the wealthy get away with everything. I believe this inspired Madame Dalou to be more bold in her own dealings with the press and her request for a vulgar souvenir spoke to her assuredness that such an act would go unpunished.

My employers were obsessed with their reputations and the judgement of their peers, but not enough so to alter their behaviour or embrace a character of virtue. Affairs were the least of their sins, but that was exactly what Madame Dalou was being blackmailed for. Being her driver, I knew first hand the charge was more than salacious gossip.

Madame Dalou was aware of my financial difficulties, the kind that led men to the bottom of rivers. She was willing to pay me handsomely for an evening’s work and enough so that I could retire from her service if that was what I wished. She gave me the semblance of freedom and yet I knew I would wake from this forever indebted to her and tied, heart to heart with a wicked secret. Shamefully, that bond was what I was seeking. I wanted her indebted to me. Thus I found myself compromised, playing both sides of the coin.

The act would be simple, if I followed her directions. I was to meet the journalist at 9:45pm at his private residence and I was to offer more scandalous information. I would ask for payment to not raise suspicion, then celebrate our exchange with a bottle of wine. I would do what needed to be done and return with the proof. As the meeting time grew closer my nerves were having the best of me and I decided to step into this cafe first and have a drink to steady my nerves.

Shortly after I had arrived, a group of gentlemen entered the Cafe for dinner and took a table nearest to the window. Each man looked fine and proper in derby hats and tailored suits. Wealthy men had striking silhouettes. It was a reminder that the world itself was made for them, whereas working men like myself wore poor fabrics that were often loose and mismatched. Suspenders and belts were a necessity because we had to work with what we had, which was often the tattered threads of our deceased fathers. I noticed these things. My keen eye was likely the cause of my deep resentment and unhappiness, yet I was also able to see beyond the surface of things. There was something peculiar about these gentlemen. I could tell they were educated, secure in their position, likely of high status in law or politics, and yet each possessed what I can only describe as a comfort among the common folk. Their eyes scanned the room, searching for connection, not rising above our heads with their noses held high. This was unusual.

One particular gentleman held my gaze. In his twilight, he was holding court with the glee and enthusiasm of a much younger man. His eyes sparkled as he gave an impassioned speech to his peers. I noted how others in the cafe had paused their conversations to eavesdrop. More men still were openly gathering around in thrilled anticipation of what he would say next, this man called Jaurès.

Time passed and by each minute, I became more spellbound by this orator and the way he leaned forward with his fist clenched, as though his idea was the tail of a bird he had grasped and he wasn’t letting go until he had his fill of it. He spoke of the struggle of our society and the actions that arise from fear and desperation. I listened as he detailed how the perpetual uncertainty of our time was creating divisions and even hatred between men - men who do not know each other, but are made enemies by greater forces. Wasn’t that the truth of my predicament? I leaned in closer, cradling my drink and turning my ear to not lose another word.

He then began to talk of war, one our country was pushing for. He declared himself a pacifist, travelling far and wide to speak with other men and pull them back from choices with dire consequences that could not be revoked. I thought about the truth of that statement. The wealthy declare war, yet men like myself face the brunt of it. For what reason? For what progress?

I pulled myself back from my own thoughts to return to his wisdom once more and in spite of all the worldly clamour around us, his voice suddenly rang clear above the noise like a bell.

“There is no justification for violence of any kind,” he said. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

Was this how the spirits intervened? By directing our attention to these shining vessels of truth and rationality right at the moment of a grand departure from the knowing in our heart? I was preparing to kill a man I didn’t know for a hope of freedom, but from what exactly? The reality of my circumstances? To become a channel for the evils of the ruling elite? To remove a receptive ear of a man who was more like myself? Only he was willing to risk his life and expose the true enemy that made our lives so miserable.

The man continued. “Awakening of the mind of the working-class is our hope for our future.” He then looked in my direction and nodded. This man welcomed my attention. He raised his glass to me. I stared back, motionless, my mouth open in awe.

I was dumbfounded. In this little cafe, men of every creed were gathering for drink and philosophical conversation and there was a feeling of common humanity and equality. I was not a poor man here, I was a man. I felt a stirring inside that lightened all that darkness in me, the very stuff Madame Dalou recognized in herself. I felt a pull towards this gentleman and a desire to learn, to understand and to be truly free. I found myself standing with my drink in my hand, moved by an unknowable force from my table and toward the beacon who smiled brightly and motioned me forward to the empty chair at his table.

Suddenly, my eyes were drawn to a young man outside the cafe on rue Montmartre. In his eyes I recognized an anguish that drives us to madness. He lifted a gun to the window. I thought perhaps I yelled out - No! Stop! Perhaps I froze and didn’t speak at all.

Two shots rang out. One bullet found a home in the wooden base of the bar, the next into the back of the philosopher’s skull.

Days later, the assassination at the Cafe du Croissiant would be in all the newspapers and the world would be at war. Yet in this moment, as a great man lay dead before me, slumped into the first bites of his dinner, I fixated on his ear. How strange this part of the human body is. How essential, yet revolting. It reminded me of a strange mushroom, growing up in the dark.

I realized then I didn’t have the stomach for murder, and though my decision may have sentenced me to a life of poverty, sniffing out for crumbs and scraps, I was no longer the obedient dog of Madame Dalou.