The Conspiracy. Paul Nizan

gatherings. It was 25 November, the weather was grey, the women were feeling none too warm with that little wind round their legs, under their coats. A voice was raised behind them:

      — Proper All Saints’ Day weather.

      Another voice replied:

      — It’s the month, isn’t it . . . Funeral weather, you might say. It must have been finer the day Jaurès died, in July ’14 . . .

      By and large, people were fairly content with this apposite climate, since it was a death parade that was about to take place, starting from the Palais-Bourbon and finishing in the frozen crypts of the Panthéon in a clutter of standards and immortelles, and people do not like contradictions between the heavens and humanity – funerals in spring when the cemeteries are flowering, or weddings beneath the rain.

      The crowd was dense on the pavements all the way from the Law Faculty to Rue de Bourgogne: with crowd-like decorum, coughing and stamping its feet, it waited patiently for the great men in the cortège and for the communists, who had assembled around noon all along the Champs-Elysées as far back as the Marbeuf Métro station, so people were saying.

      The boulevard was as empty as a dried-up riverbed. From time to time a dark police vehicle would pass slowly by, its tyres crunching over the sand. At last a noise was heard coming from the West, then a swelling tide of shouts in which were intermingled relief, anger and joy.

      — If it’s another instalment of last night, said Rosenthal, it’s going to be a really trashy affair.

      — Can’t tell, said Laforgue. Let’s not forget the people who were calling for Jaurès last night outside the Chamber, as if they had the power to raise him from the dead – and who weren’t looking any too happy . . .

      The mobile catafalque arrived, a strange scarlet-and-gold platform recalling the civic displays of the French Revolution, its draped daises, its baroque floats celebrating the harvest, youth, war, patriotism and death. The cortège followed: it was a narrow ribbon of men in mourning, and magistrates, professors, military officers, in which there were peaked caps, top-hats, white starched shirtfronts, sashes worn across chests and around bellies, ermines, taffeta robes, pale-blue masonic ribbons, medals, sabres, famous faces casting furtive glances to right and left, all along that petrified stream, at the two moving ridges of chests, heads, legs and shouts that were perhaps about to surge onto the carriageway. People were thinking, of course, about the crossing of the Red Sea: and the Prime Minister was doubtless not much prouder than Moses – with that Pharaoh and his war chariots galloping at his heels, and the two liquid walls growing impatient at being miraculous for so long – and was in a hurry to reach the shore of the Panthéon.

      An empty space opened up, then voices in the ranks of the crowd said:

      — There they are!

      The boulevard filled up: it was the workers from the outlying districts, the masses from the city’s densely populated eastern and northern neighbourhoods; they held the carriageway from one bank to the other bank, the river had finally begun to flow. The people in the first cortège, who were respectable people, did not sing, but these ones were singing, and since they were singing the Internationale, the tenants in Rue Soufflot and Boulevard Saint-Michel, who had never seen anything like it and who were beginning to feel rather small behind their looped drapes and their half-curtains, started shouting out insults and shaking their fists – but since no one heard their shouts, these demonstrations by the residents were of no particular importance.

      The spectators on the pavements opened their eyes wide and craned their necks to read the inscriptions on the banners, which were along the lines of: ‘Jaurès, a victim of war, is being glorified by his murderers’, and which protested against the Dawes Plan, the Left Cartel, fascism and war, and called for Revolution and the arraignment before a revolutionary Tribunal of those responsible for the War: perhaps these were slightly Utopian slogans, but no doubt could be entertained as to the fresh truth of these rallying cries when people told themselves how the socialist deputies had just voted through the Interior Ministry’s secret budget.

      One could not help thinking of vigorous forces, of sap, a river, the flow of blood. The boulevard suddenly merited the appellation ‘artery’. The men and women on the pavements had perhaps from the outset wanted to remain calm, because they had come here with their families, out of curiosity, or out of gratitude, or to see famous people pass by, or out of loyalty to the sentimental images Paris retained of Jean Jaurès and his boater and his old tailcoat and his fists uplifted against war, there beneath the wide skies of the Pré Saint-Gervais: but there was no way of remaining calm. It is of no avail being a Parisian and accustomed to great funerals – what with all the ministers and cardinals and academicians and generals who die – and to parades and cortèges; there is no fever that spreads faster than the flames of great processions, and since it had never crossed the minds of the demonstrators coming from the Champs-Elysées to assume suitable expressions, those on the pavements told themselves that if Jaurès were all at once to return, he would probably be rather pleased to see people happy at being two hundred thousand in his honour, and that the crowd filling the carriageway was in the right: this is why the pavements allowed themselves, after hesitating for a moment, to be seduced. The motionless men no longer resisted the moving men, nor the spectators the spectacle, nor the silent ones the singers; they stepped down to experience the river’s movement. Laforgue, Rosenthal and Bloyé lost what deference to convention they had left, they too plunged in and began to sing.

      Later, the Prime Minister slowly climbed the steps of the Panthéon, between two lines of miners who were still playing a decorative and symbolic role, and began to speak: he could be seen extending his arms, puffing out his chest, laying his hand on his heart, but not a word of his speech could be heard amid all the bursts of cheering and booing that were erupting from all sides on the black-and-grey square. The demonstrators, moving forward as slowly as lava, threw their placards against the railings; and the Thinker, who had never looked greener or more hungry, gazed vaguely with his eyes of bronze at that pyre of wood, calico, cardboard and everlasting flowers that rose up before Jaurès’s coffin, like the crutches, votive offerings and sticks before a miraculous site. The whole crowd was drifting away via Rue Valette, Rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, Rue Clovis and Rue de l’Estrapade: darkness began to fall and yellow lamps were lit over its dispersal.

      Between the Hôtel des Grands Hommes and the corner of Rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques, Laforgue said with a sigh:

      — No question about it. One knows which side one should be on.

      — That second cortège was needed, replied Rosenthal who was feeling a bit drunk, to cleanse us of our night of dissimulation . . .

      Nothing is more difficult than the systematic exploitation of an event of the heart, nothing more swiftly damped than the reverberations of love at first sight. Examinations, laziness, literature, curiosity about women, all the false manoeuvres in which the arduous life of adolescents is dissipated, long prevented Laforgue and his friends from drawing from those violent memories of 24 and 25 November all the practical consequences they should have implied: for years, it was merely something they held in reserve.

      It might be thought odd that they were not shaken by certain events in the years ’25, ’26, ’27 and ’28: but that would be to take insufficient account of the diversions into which so many young men are enticed, when at a stroke they discover books and women. In July ’25, Laforgue was going for Sunday excursions out of Paris, and taking out dancing at Saint-Cloud and Nogent-sur-Marne a little salesgirl from the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, who seemed to him the most important thing in the world. In May ’26, Rosenthal forgot everything in favour of the revelations in the Ethics. The war in Morocco, the Canton rising, the English general strike were barely anything more to them than great opportunities for a few days of political enthusiasm: they signed manifestos that committed them far less than their parents thought. The interest they took in the world lacked specificity. The Sacco and Vanzetti affair, with all those heads broken in Paris, might have played a role in their lives that would have marked them more severely than the Jaurès ceremonies; but it was the holiday period, none of them was in Paris, the whole business was simply an item of news that they read in the papers, with a forty-eight