A table had been set up in the foyer with the types of political books a president would have been expected to read. But I saw him as more of a detective fiction type. I was already an aficionado of Simenon and I decided that would be my opening gambit:

“I’m sure you’d prefer the exploits of Inspector Maigret,” I would say.

I was practicing my pronunciation of that line and Doumer was alone at the table waiting for the photographer to adjust his lens. Doumer would laugh at my impudence and confess that he was indeed a crime novel fan. Leap forward five months and we’d be at his gentleman’s club sorting out troubles in the Far East fairly and sensibly with not a shot fired.

I took a step forward but it seemed that by doing so, I broke some invisible thread and threw the ordered world into chaos. A shout came from the kitchen. It was a foreign language, but I wasn’t alert enough to say which. A plate smashed. The kitchen doors flew open and a ruddy-faced man ran into the reception area. He had the build of a pasta chef and wore a suit so tight that it could only have been a relic from his slimmer past. A large serviette covered his right hand and forearm. It made him look like a waiter and perhaps it was that image: the head waiter emerging angrily from the kitchen after some unforgivable culinary incident that prevented the security detail from moving. We were a still photograph with only the man in the tight suit animated. He looked around the room, caught sight of Doumer, and staggered toward him.

He shouted again. This time I recognized his language as Russian. Then in French he said, “I do this in the name of the miserable ones who wait in Russia.”

Then, like a birthday party magician, he pulled back the serviette to reveal an FN1910 pistol. I recall that he fired five shots, but I still don’t know how many hit Doumer. Enough to make him dead, I could see that. He fell backward onto the book display and his blood ruined a number of first editions. By the time everyone realized what had happened, it was too late. I looked back at the security man behind the pillar. He had his gun drawn and aimed at the assassin, but he hadn’t fired. In fact, I saw him look left and right, then return his pistol to his inside pocket. He watched the gendarmes tackle the gunman to the ground. He observed as the President’s waistcoat changed from grey to crimson. And I couldn’t be sure amid the chaos, but I fancied I saw the young man smile. I remember he had almost perfect teeth, which was quite unusual in those days.