"Justice! Justice!"

A grave ceremony is the opening of the autumn term of France's law courts. Since time out of mind, France's Supreme Court, the Judges of the Cow de cassation, have solemnly paraded in their porkpie hats and fur-trimmed gowns through respectful lines of black-gowned lawyers to the Palais de Justice. The Minister of Justice, formally called Keeper of the Seals, has always been there to make a speech.

Autumn term began last week. For the first time anyone could remember, perhaps for the first time in history, the Minister of Justice was not there. Gone too was the academic calm. Young lawyers waved their long black sleeves and roared: "Justice! Justice! Justice! Pfui Cheron'. A has les Assassins!" To the base of a memorial to all French judges who have died for their country the young lawyers dragged a huge wreath. It was marked: IN MEMORY OF JUDGE PRINCE--MURDERED.

Last February when the first crisis of the Stavisky case had Frenchmen rioting in the streets, Gaston Doumergue picked white-chinned old Henry Cheron for his Minister of Justice with the reputed remark, "He is a funny old bore, but at least he is absolutely honest."

Henry Cheron was more than that. He is one of the few men in the world who was an intimate friend of a famed saint. In his native Normandy many years ago Papa Cheron used to play the guitar while the "Little Flower," St. Therese of Lisieux, sang hymns. As Finance Minister in the successive ministries of Poincare, Briand, Tardieu, he helped to keep the franc stabilized after the crucial days of 1926-27, and left with a budget surplus of 19,000,000,000 francs. But ending inflation was a simple matter compared with cleaning up l'Affaire Stavisky. Frenchmen have forgotten about St. Therese and the budget of 1930. They only remember that the greatest political scandal since the War has not been explained nor have its perpetrators been caught, and, rightly or wrongly, they hold responsible the same kindly old Henry Cheron, Minister of Justice, who last week dared not appear at the Palais de Justice.

Case of Judge Prince. Within the fortnight Papa Cheron had played in bad luck. Weeks of shouting by the opposition Press finally forced the release, against his orders, of the long-suppressed official report on the murder of Judge Albert Prince at Dijon. It filled 180 pages and proved nothing at all beyond the ability of the Gallic mind to confuse an issue.

Last February, the clay before he was to have testified at the Stavisky inquiry, Albert Prince, a member of France's highest court, was found on a railroad track in the wild and rocky country outside Dijon. He had been called from Paris by a false message that his mother was dangerously ill. When found, he had been doped, one ankle tied to the rails and his body mangled by a passing train. The music roll that he used for a briefcase was found about 30 yards away, rifled of its contents, together with his keys, his money, and a scattered flurry of visiting cards. There was also a big clasp knife, stained with his blood. Chemical analysis showed that it was the thickened blood of a person already several hours dead.

All 180 pages of the report tried to give the impression that he had committed suicide. French doctors publicly damned it for bunk.

Hardly had the French public finished reading resumes of this strange document when the Case of Paul Mariani, "the second Stavisky," and the mysterious death of Fong Wang Dong burst all over the nation's headlines.

For years Corsican-born Police Inspector Paul Mariani ruled the underworld of the northern manufacturing city of Lille in a manner that can only be compared to Broadway's Tenderloin in the days of the notorious Police Lieutenant Becker. Fortnight ago he was arrested on a simple charge, but quickly the accusations mounted: Mariani and his gang of Corsican relatives ran a secret printing press in Paris for forging automobile licenses. They operated a number of fences for stolen goods. They were embroiled in white slavery and drug peddling. Then came the first suspicion of murder. One of Mariani's dope peddlers was a mysterious Chinese known to the citizens of Lille as Fong Wang Dong. He died, apparently of tuberculosis, a few days before Mariani's arrest, blurting out at the end: "Mariani got me, but I shall be avenged."

Over & over right-wing newspapers kept demanding how these things could have gone on without official protection. Stavisky parallels were easy to find. Chief Inspector Fressard of the Lille police received threats of violent death unless he dropped the case. Two Paris shopkeepers, wanted by the police to tell what they knew about Paul Mariani & friends, were found shot dead in a compartment aboard the Paris-Mediterranean Express.

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