Chapter 8

"Don't do that, Mr. Ambassador!" exclaimed the second Frenchman; "the real Government of the real French Republic is shut up in Paris. M. Jules Favre alone can officially receive your visit and your apologies."

"The Republic of Paris isn't worth more than the Republic of Tours," the third Frenchman then told me. "If we have a Republic in France, it will be neither the Republic of M. Gambetta nor the Republic of M. Jules Favre."

"And whose Republic then?"

"The Republic of M. Thiers--"

Whereupon the three Frenchmen began to dispute in earnest. They were very red, shouted loudly, and made violent gestures. The discussion about the three monarchies had been much gentler and much more agreeable than the discussion about the three republics.

During the evening these Frenchmen managed to slip into my ear, in turn, two or three little phrases of this kind:

"Don't listen," the first one said to me, "to that partisan of the Government of Paris; he is a lawyer who has come here with a commission from M. Jules Favre. So you see he has a big salary, and as he wishes to keep it--"

"Don't listen," the second one said to me, "to that partisan of the alleged Republic of M. Thiers; he is only a monarchist, a disguised Orleanist--"

"Don't listen," the third one said to me, "to that partisan of the Republic of Tours; he is a gentleman who has come to England to get a loan for the benefit of the Government of Tours; so, as he expects to get a lot of money--"

Thus I am, if I reckon correctly, face to face with six governments--three monarchies and three republics.

LONDON, _December 6, 1870_.

I think that his Excellency, M. de Bernstoff, Prussian Ambassador to England, takes pleasure in making fun of me. I never meet him but that he announces to me that Paris will capitulate the next day. The next day arrives and Paris does not capitulate. However, this evening his Excellency looked so perfectly sure of what he was saying that I think I can prepare to start for Paris.

PARIS, _February 20, 1871_.

I only left on the 10th of February. At last I am in Paris. I travelled slowly, by short stages. What a lot of burned villages! What a lot of sacked houses! What a lot of devastated forests, dug-up woods, and bridges and railroads destroyed! And these Europeans treat us as barbarians!

However, among all these ruins there is one the sight of which filled me with the keenest joy. The palace of Saint-Cloud was the summer palace of the Emperor Napoleon, and not a stone upon a stone remains. I contemplated curiously, eagerly, and for a long time the blackened ruins of this palace. Pieces of old Chinese vases were hidden in the heaps of rubbish among the wreck of marble and fragments of shell.

Where did those old Chinese vases come from? Perhaps from the summer palace of our Emperor, from that palace which was devastated, burned, and destroyed by those English and French soldiers who came to bring us civilization.

I was extremely well received by the English, who overwhelmed me with invitations and kindnesses; but none the less I hope that the palaces of Buckingham and Windsor will also have their turn.

PARIS, _February 25, 1871_.

I have written to M. Jules Favre to let him know that I have been waiting six months for the opportunity of presenting to him the compliments and apologies of the Emperor of China. M. Jules Favre answered me that he is obliged to start for Bordeaux. I shall have an audience in the beginning of March.

PARIS, _March 7, 1871_.

Another letter from M. Jules Favre. He is expected at Frankfort by M. de Bismarck. My audience is again put off.

PARIS, _March 17, 1871_.

At last, to-morrow, March 18th, at four o'clock, I am to be received by M. Jules Favre at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

PARIS, _March 18, 1871_.

We dressed ourselves, I and my two secretaries, in our official costumes, and departed at three o'clock, accompanied by an interpreter. We arrived. The court of the house was filled with people who appeared busy and hurried, and who came and went, carrying cases and packages. The interpreter, after having exchanged several words with an employee of the ministry, said to me:

"Something serious has happened--an insurrection. The Government is again obliged to change its capital!"

At that moment a door opened, and M. Jules Favre himself appeared with a large portfolio under his arm. He explained to the interpreter that I should have my audience at Versailles in several days, and having made me a profound bow, which I returned him, he ran away with his large portfolio.

VERSAILLES, _March 19, 1871_.

I had to leave Paris at twelve o'clock in a great hurry. There really is a new Government at Paris. This Government is not one of the three monarchies, nor one of the three republics. It is a seventh arrangement, which is called the _Commune_. This morning an armed troop of men surrounded the house where I live. It seems that the new Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Paris of the Commune would have been charmed to receive a Chinese ambassador. They had come to carry me off. I had time to escape. It is not the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Paris that I ought to see, it is the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Versailles.

Good heavens, how complicated it all is! And when shall I be able to put my hand on this intangible person, who is now blockaded in Paris and now chased out of Paris?

VERSAILLES, _April 6, 1871_.

At last, yesterday, I had the honor of being received by his Excellency, and we discussed the events that had occurred in Paris.

"This insurrection," M. Jules Favre said to me, "is the most formidable and the most extraordinary that has ever broken out."

I could not allow such a great historical error to pass. I answered M. Jules Favre that we had had in China for millions of years socialists and socialistic uprisings; that the French Communists were but rough imitators of our Chinese Taipings; that we had had in 1230 a siege at Nankin which had lasted seven years, etc. In short, these Europeans are only beginning again our history with less grandeur and more barbarity.

VERSAILLES, _May 15, 1871_.

My mission is ended; I could return to China; but all that I see here interests me extremely. This civil war immediately succeeding a foreign war is a very curious occurrence. There is here, for a Chinaman, an excellent opportunity of study, on the spot and from life, of European civilization.

VERSAILLES, _May 24, 1871_.

Paris is burning, and on the terrace of the palace of Saint-Cloud, in the midst of the ruins of that palace, I passed my day looking at Paris burn. It is a dead, destroyed, and annihilated city.

PARIS, _June 10, 1871_.

Not at all. It is still the most beautiful city in Europe, and the most brilliant, and the most gay. I shall spend some time in Paris.

PARIS, _June 29, 1871_.

Yesterday M. Thiers, in the Bois de Boulogne, held a review of a hundred thousand men. Will there always be a France?

IN THE EXPRESS

"When one bears the name of Luynes or La Trémoille, I can readily understand the desire to continue the Luynes or the La Trémoilles; but really when one is named Chamblard, what possible object can there be in--Eh? Answer."

In this fashion young Raoul Chamblard talked while comfortably settled back in a large red velvet arm-chair. This happened on the 26th of March, 1892, in one of the parlor-cars of the express to Marseilles, which had left Paris at 8.50 that morning. It was now five minutes past nine. The train with much racket was crossing the bridge of Charentin. Young Chamblard was talking to his friend, Maurice Révoille, who, after a six weeks' leave, was going to join his regiment in Algeria.

The lieutenant of light cavalry responded to his friend's question with a vague gesture. Raoul Chamblard continued:

"However, it's my father's fixed idea. There must be Chamblards after me. And as papa has but one son, it's to me he looks to do what is necessary."

"Well, do what is necessary."

"But I am only twenty-four, my dear fellow, and to marry at twenty-four is hard. It seems to me that I'm still entitled to a little more fun, and even a good deal."

"Well, have your fun."

"That's just what I've done up to now. I have had a first-rate time! But I've taste only for expensive amusements. I don't know how to enjoy myself without money, and I haven't a cent. Do you understand? Not a cent!"

"You? You are very rich."

"A great mistake! Upon coming of age, three years ago, I spent what was left me by my mother. Mother wasn't very rich; she was worth six hundred thousand francs, not more. Papa made almost a love-match. The six hundred thousand francs vanished in three years, and could I decently do anything else as the son of my father? He is powerfully rich!"

"That's what's said."

"And it's very true. He has a dozen millions which are quite his own, and can't be hurt by an accident; and his bank still goes on, and brings him in, one year with another, besides the interest on his dozen millions, three or four hundred thousand francs more. Nothing is more solid than the Chamblard bank; it's honest, it's venerable. Papa isn't fair to me, but I'm fair to him. When you have a father in business, it's a good thing when you go out not to be exposed to meet eyes which seem to say to you, 'My dear fellow, your father has swindled me.' Papa has but one passion: from five to seven every day he plays piquet at his club, at ten sous a point, and as he is an excellent player, he wins seven times out of ten. He keeps an account of his games with the same scrupulous exactitude he has in all things, and he was telling the day before yesterday that piquet this year had brought him in six thousand five hundred francs over and above the cost of the cards. He has a seat in the orchestra at the opera, not for the ballet, but for the music only; he never goes on the stage--neither do I, for that matter. Dancers don't attract me at all; they live in Batignolles, in Montmartre; they always walk with their mothers; they completely lack charm. In short, my father is what one calls a good man. You see I continue to be fair to him. Besides, I'm always right. Yes, it's a very good thing to have an honorable father, and Papa Chamblard is a model of all virtues, and he accumulates for me with a zeal! but I think, just at present, he accumulates a little too much. He has cut off my income. No marriage, no money. That's brief and decisive. That's his programme. And he has hunted up a wife for me--when I say one, I should say three."

"Three wives!"

"Yes. One morning he came to me and said: 'This must end. Look, here's a list--three splendid matches.' There were the names, the relations, the dowries--it was even arranged in the order of the dowries. I had to yield and consent to an interview with Number One. That took place at the Salon in the Champs Elysées. Ah, my boy, Number One--dry, flat, bony, sallow!"

"Then why did your father--"

"Why? Because she was the daughter, and only daughter, of a wealthy manufacturer from Roubaix. It was splendid! We each started with a hundred thousand francs income, and that was to be, in the course of time, after realized expectations, a shower of millions! It made papa supremely happy--the thought that all his millions in Paris would one day make an enormous heap with all those Roubaix millions. Millions don't frighten me, but on the condition that they surround a pretty, a very pretty and stylish woman--a great deal of style! That's _my_ programme. I want to be able to take my wife to the theatres without having to blush before the box-openers."

"What do you mean? Before the box-openers?"

"Why, certainly. I am known, and I've a reputation to keep up. You see, the openers are always the same--always; and of course they know me. They've been in the habit of seeing me, during the last three or four years, come with the best-known and best-dressed women in Paris. Which is to say, that I should never dare present myself before them with that creature from Roubaix. They would think I had married for money. I tried to explain that delicately to papa, but one can't make him hear reason. There are things which he doesn't understand, which he can't understand. I have no grudge against him; he's of his time, I'm of mine. In short, I declared resolutely that I would never marry Number One. Notice that I discoursed most sensibly with papa. I said to him: 'You want me to have a home' (home is his word), 'but when I should have placed in that home a fright such as to scare the sparrows, my home would be a horror to me, and I should be forced, absolutely forced, to arrange a home outside. Thus I should have a household at home and a household outside, and it's then that the money would fly!' But papa won't listen to anything! He doesn't understand that I must have a little wife who is pretty, Parisian pretty--that is to say, original, gay, jolly, who is looked at on the street, and stared at through opera-glasses at the theatre, who will do me honor, and who will set me off well. I must be able to continue my bachelor life with her, and as long as possible. And then there's another thing that I can't tell papa. His name is Chamblard--it isn't his fault; only, in consequence, I too am named Chamblard, and it's not very agreeable, with a name like that, to try to get on in society. And a pretty, a very pretty, woman is the best passport. There, look at Robineau. He has just been received into the little club of the Rue Royale. And why? It's not the Union or the Jockey; but never mind, one doesn't get in there as into a hotel. And why was Robineau received?"

"I don't know."

"It's because he has married a charming woman, and this charming woman is a skater of the first rank. She had a tremendous success on the ice at the Bois de Boulogne. In the society columns of all the papers there was mention of the exquisite, delightful, and ideal Mme. Robineau. She was in the swim at one stroke. And Robineau, he too was in the swim. He was a member of the little club six weeks later! Papa, he doesn't understand the importance of these things; one can't reason with him about it; it's all Greek to him. However, as he had absolutely cut off my supplies, I had to submit, and consent to an interview with Number Two."

"And what was Number Two like?"

"Ah, my dear fellow, what was she like! She was the daughter of a rich merchant of Antwerp. A Belgian article! First a provincial, and then a foreigner! Papa doesn't like Parisians. Mamma was from Châtellerault, and she was indeed a saint. Number Two happened to be in Paris; so last night, at the Opéra Comique, they showed me a Fleming, who was very blond, very insipid, very masculine--a Rubens, a true Rubens; a giantess, a colossal woman, a head taller than I, which is to say that materially one could not take her in a lower stage-box, and those are the only boxes I like. On leaving the theatre I told papa that I wouldn't have Number Two any more than Number One, and that I had had enough, and that I wouldn't see Number Three. The discussion was heated. Papa went off banging doors and repeating, 'No more money!' I saw that it was serious. I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep--I thought; but I could think of nothing to save me from the fat hands of the Antwerp girl. Suddenly, towards three in the morning, I had an inspiration--I had an idea that I can call, if you'll permit it, a stroke of genius."

"I'll permit it."

"Yes, genius. I knew that you left to-day for Marseilles, and this morning I departed, English fashion, without explanation, and in a little while, at the first stop, at Laroche--I have looked at the time-table, I have thought of everything--I shall send the following despatch to my father," and Raoul triumphantly pulled a paper out of his pocket. "It's all ready. Listen. 'M. Chamblard, 8 Rue Rougemont, Paris, Laroche station. I left on the express for Marseilles with Maurice. I am going to make a voyage around the world. I sha'n't be more than six months. I have engaged by telegraph a state-room on the _Traonaddy_ which leaves to-morrow for Singapore. Anything rather than a Flemish alliance! Farewell. With regrets for leaving you, your affectionate son, Raoul Chamblard.' My telegram's all right, isn't it?"

"It isn't bad, but do you seriously mean--"

"Yes, I shall go if, before I reach Marseilles, I haven't an answer from papa; but I shall have one, for two reasons. In the first place, Papa Chamblard knows how to reason, and he will say to himself: 'What shall I gain by it? Instead of fooling round with little white women in Paris, he will fool round with little yellow ones at Singapore.' And then another reason, the best one, is that Papa Chamblard adores me, and he can't do without me, and the little sentimental phrase at the end of my despatch will appeal to his heart. You'll see how it will turn out. At 11.20 my telegram will leave Laroche; papa will receive it at half-past twelve. And I'll bet you ten louis that at Dijon or Mâcon I'll find in the wire screen of the station a telegram addressed to me, and worded thus: 'Return; no longer question of Antwerp marriage.' Papa's telegram will be brief, because he is saving and suppresses unnecessary words. Will you take the bet?"

"No, I should lose."

"I think so. Have you the papers?"

"Yes."

They read three or four papers, Parisian papers, and read them like true Parisians. It took a short fifteen minutes. While reading they exchanged short remarks about the new ministry, the races at Auteuil, and Yvette Guilbert--particularly about Yvette Guilbert. Young Chamblard had been to hear her the day before, and he hummed the refrain:

"Un fiacre allait trottinant Cahin-caha Hu dia! Hop là! Un fiacre allait trottinant Jaune avec un cocher blanc."

And as the light cavalryman had never heard Yvette Guilbert sing the "Fiacre," young Chamblard threw up his arms and exclaimed: "You never heard the 'Fiacre,' and you had three months' leave! What did you do in Paris? _I_ know the 'Fiacre' by heart."

Upon which Raoul began to hum again, and while humming in a voice which became more and more slow, and more and more feeble, he settled back into his arm-chair, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber, like the big baby that he was.

All at once he was waked up with a start by the stepping of the train, and by the voice of the conductor, who cried, "Ouah! Ouah! Ouah!" The cry is the same for all stations. This time it was meant for Laroche. And now for the telegram. Young Chamblard ran to the telegraph-office. The immovable operator counted the sixty-seven words of that queer despatch. "All aboard, all aboard!"

Young Chamblard had scarcely time to jump on the step of his car.

"Ouf! that's done," he said to the cavalryman. "Suppose we lunch."

So they both started on their way to the dining-car. It was quite a journey, for two parlor-cars separated them from the restaurant-car, and those two cars were crowded. It was the season for the great pilgrimage of a few Parisians and a good many English towards Nice, Cannes, and Monte Carlo. The express was running very fast, and was pitching violently. One needed sea-legs. Then a furious wind beat against the train, and wrapped it in clouds of dust, making the crossing of the platforms particularly disagreeable.

They advanced, walking with difficulty through the first car, over the first crossing, and encountering the first squall, then through the second car; but Chamblard, who went ahead, had difficulty in opening the door to the second platform. It resisted on account of the force of the wind; finally it yielded, and Raoul received at the same time in his eyes a cloud of dust, and in his arms a young blonde, who exclaimed, "Oh, excuse me!" while he, too, exclaimed, "Oh, excuse me!" and at the same time he received the cavalryman on his back, who, also blinded by the dust, was saying, "Go on, Raoul, go on."

The two doors of the cars had shut, and they were all three crowded in the little passage in the wind--young Raoul, young Maurice, and the young blonde.

The "Oh, excuse me" was immediately followed by a "M. Maurice!" which was replied to by a "Mlle. Martha!" The little blonde knew the cavalryman, and perceiving that she was almost in the arms of a stranger, Mlle. Martha disengaged herself, and backed cleverly towards the platform of the car, saying to Maurice, "You're on the train, and you're going?"

"To Algeria."

"We to Marseilles. I am getting a shawl for mamma, who is cold. Mamma will be delighted to see you. You will find her in the dining-car. I'll see you later."

"But I will accompany you?"

"If you like."

She walked on, but not without first having slightly bowed to young Chamblard, who had remained there astounded, contemplating Mlle. Martha with eyes filled with admiration.

She had time before going to notice that he was a good-looking young fellow, that he wore a neat little suit, and that he looked at her with staring eyes; but in those staring eyes a thought could be clearly read that could not displease her: "Oh, how pretty you are!"

Raoul was, in fact, saying to himself: "My type, exactly my type! And what style--what style in the simplicity of that costume! And the little toque, a little on one side over the ear--it's a masterpiece! How well she knows how to dress! What an effect she would make in an audience! And that little English accent!"

For she had a little English accent; she had even taken a good deal of trouble for several years to acquire that little accent. She used to say to her governess, Miss Butler:

"Yes, of course I want to know English, but I wish especially to speak French with an English accent." She had worked for nothing else. She had been, fortunately, rewarded for her perseverance; her little Anglo-Parisian gibberish was at times quite original.

While Maurice was retracing his steps with Mlle. Martha, Raoul placed himself at a table in the dining-car. He soon saw them come back with mamma's shawl. Maurice lingered for a few minutes at the table where the mother and the young brother of the little blonde were lunching. Then he came back to Raoul, who said as soon as he approached:

"Who is she--quick, tell me, who is she? Whenever one pleases I will marry her--now, on getting down from the train. In my arms! I held her in my arms! Such a waist! A dream! There are, as you must know, slim waists and slim waists. There are waists which are slim, hard, harsh, stiff, bony, or mechanically made by odious artifices in the corsets. I have thoroughly studied the corset question. It's so important! And then there's the true slim waist, which is easy, natural, supple. Supple isn't sufficient for what just slid through my hands a short time ago. Slippery--yes, that's the word. Slippery just expresses my thought--a slippery waist!"

Raoul was quite charmed with what he said.

"Yes," he continued, "slippery; and that little pug-nose! and her little eyes have quite a--a Chinese air! But who is she, who is she?"

"The daughter of one of my mother's friends."

"Is she rich?"

"Very rich."

"It's on account of papa that I asked you that, because I would marry her without a dowry. It's the first time I've ever said such a thing on meeting a young girl. And now the name."

"Mlle. Martha Derame."

"Derame, did you say?"

"Yes."

"Isn't the father a wealthy merchant who has business in Japan and China?"

"The same."

"Ah, my dear fellow--no; one only sees such things in the comic plays of the minor theatres, at Cluny or Dejazet."

"What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me? She's papa's Number Three--yes, Number Three. The father of that little marvel is one of papa's piquet players at the club. And I wouldn't see Number Three, and she falls into my arms on the platform between Paris and Lyons. You will present me after lunch, and I shall speak to the mother and tell her all."

"How, all?"