Part 15

Upon the occasion of my first visit to the innocent maisonnette, there was no cause for agitation. The toy lamb was the attraction. A tube was attached to it, and at the end of the tube was a bulb which, when pressed, made the lamb leap. Again and again, Rochefort the Lurid set the lamb leaping. I too lost my heart to the lamb, and also made it frisk. Amidst all this irresponsibility, my host was pleased to pronounce me “sympathetic” and “charming,” not like the “traditional” Englishman with the bull-dog, the aggressive side-whiskers and long, glistening teeth. Rochefort saw me to the garden door; Rochefort actually plucked me a rose; Rochefort’s parting words were a cordial invitation to visit him and his lamb again soon. So was I amazed to find myself described in his very next article as “a sinister brigand, in the pay of the Jews; in fact, one of those diabolical bandits who are devastating our beloved France.”

... A week later I approached him, and mildly protested, as he was sitting on the terrace of the Café de la Paix, drinking milk and Vichy water, sucking his eternal lozenges—and still playing with the lamb.

“Bah, that was only print,” came the reply. “Let us resume our game with the lamb.” As he made it leap about deftly amongst the glasses on the marble-topped table, passers-by, recognising his Luridness, stopped, stared and smiled at the spectacle. “That’s the great Rochefort,” said the _maître d’hôtel_ to an American tourist: and stupefaction of the States. Rising at last, and stuffing the lamb into his pocket, Rochefort remarked: “I must go off and do my article, but you sha’n’t be the brigand. I feel amiable to-night.”

Next morning appeared the notorious, atrocious article demanding that walnut shells—containing long, hairy spiders—should be strapped to the eyes of Captain Dreyfus.

What was the reason of Rochefort’s abominable campaign against the martyr from the Devil’s Island? Since he styled himself a democrat, the champion of liberty and justice, the enemy of tyranny, one would have expected to see the fierce old journalist fighting vigorously for Dreyfus. The fact is, Rochefort was a mass of contradictions: an imp of perversity: at once brutal and humane; gentle and bloodthirsty; simple and vain; the most chaotic Frenchman that ever died. Search his autobiography, in three portly volumes: not once do you find him resting, smiling or reflecting—he is all thunder and lightning, an everlasting storm. Exile, duels, fines and imprisonment—wild, delirious attacks upon the Government of the day. No one escaped; for fifty years, in the columns of the _Figaro_, the _Lanterne_, the _Intransigeant_, and finally, in the _Patrie_, Rochefort pursued presidents and politicians with his unique, extravagant vocabulary. M. Jaurès, the Socialist leader, was “a decayed turnip”; M. Georges Clemenceau, “a loathsome leper”; M. Briand, “a moulting vulture.” As for M. Combes, to the guillotine with him, and into the Seine with M. Delcassé, and a rope and a boulevard lamp-post for M. Pelletan. Then President Loubet was “the foulest of assassins”; President Fallières, “the fat old satyr of the Élysée”; and Madame Marguerite Steinheil, “the Black Panther.”

For the life of me I could trace nothing of the “panther” in Madame Steinheil during the ten terrible days that she sat in the dock of the dim, oak-panelled Paris Assize Court. As for her “blackness,” Rochefort was referring to her clothes.

“Heavy crape bands round the accused woman’s black dress, stiff crape bows in the widow’s cap, a deep sombre border to the handkerchief which she clenched tightly, convulsively, in her black-gloved hand... under her eyes, dark, dark shadows, which turned green as the trial tragically wore on.”[7] Impossible, one might have thought, not to sympathise with this prisoner who, with all her follies and faults, was certainly not the murderess of her husband and mother.

But what cared Rochefort for evidence and arguments? Leaning forward in his seat in the Press-box, his sallow face distorted with fury, he fixed the “Tragic Widow” with his steely, cruel eyes. (“I think he was trying to hypnotise me—certainly to terrify me,” relates Madame Steinheil in her _Memoirs_.) Again and again he cracked his lozenges, gesticulated angrily with his large yellow hands. During the adjournments, he held forth violently in the corridors of the Law Courts. Not only was Madame Steinheil the murderess of her mother and husband, but she was also the assassin of President Félix Faure. She poisoned him in the Élysée, at the instigation of the Jews, who knew that so long as Faure remained President there would be no revision of the Dreyfus affair. So, a triple murderess—and “crack, crack” went the lozenges. Later, when it became certain that Madame Steinheil would be acquitted, Rochefort declared that judge and jury had been “bought,” and that the Government had all along protected the “Black Panther.” His hands were trembling, the sallow face had turned livid, when at one o’clock in the morning the jury filed into the dim, stifling court and delivered their verdict: “Not Guilty” on all counts. How Rochefort scowled at the cries of “Vive Madame Steinheil!” and “Vive la Justice!” How he sneered when the barristers cheered, applauded and flung their black _képis_ into the air! With what disgust he listened to the bravoes from the journalists and the public at the back of the court. When Madame Steinheil fainted, and was being carried out of the dock by the Municipal Guards, Rochefort’s ruthless hatred made the compassion of the public loathsome to him. Shaking, speechless with rage, he roughly pushed his way out of court, cracking his lozenges with such savagery that he must have very nearly broken his teeth.

But there were two Henri Rocheforts, and the virtues of the second almost made amends for the vices of the first.

The second Rochefort revealed himself at the age of twenty. He was a medical student. Shortly after the adoption of these studies young Rochefort harangued the surgeon and his fellow-students upon the “iniquities” of vivisection: and _that_ ended his short medical career. Another outburst at the Hôtel de Ville, when Rochefort next accepted a petty clerkship at a pound a week. His colleagues were underpaid and overworked; a scarcity of light and utter lack of ventilation in the dusty, shabby office-rooms resulted in cases of acute anæmia and consumption. “We must have light—floods of it. We must have air—great, healthy draughts of it,” shouted youthful Rochefort to a high official. “I’m strong enough myself and don’t care; but look at your clerks. Martyrs, victims! _De l’air, de la lumière, nom de Dieu!_”

The high official, a pompous, apoplectic soul, was struck dumb by Rochefort’s invasion of his private sanctum. At last he gasped: “If you were not the son of a marquis——” But Rochefort interrupted: “My father died a fortnight ago. But I have no predilection for titles. My name is Henri Rochefort.”

Rochefort nevertheless was an aristocrat—“_la race_” remained, in spite of his assumption of democracy. He was, in fine, a democrat-aristocrat—most chaotic of combinations. Therein lay the secret of his turbulence and incoherency. Like all French aristocrats, he was a militarist at heart. He was the ally of Boulanger. He was the hottest champion of Paul Déroulède when that well-meaning but impossible “patriot” attempted his celebrated _coup d’état_, on the morning of President Félix Faure’s funeral, by establishing General Roget as a military dictator in the Élysée. He was, furthermore, an Anti-Semite. “Pale, white blood,” he cried disdainfully of the French _noblesse_. His own blood was vigorously red, but tinged indelibly with blue. Yes; “_la race_” remained, persisted—clashed inevitably with the true spirit of democracy. And hence the chaos, the thunder and lightning; from out of which there nevertheless shone tenderness, chivalry and a love of beautiful things. He loved music, sculpture, pictures: and whilst urging on France to declare war against England over the Fashoda Affair, announced in my hearing that he would rather annex a portrait by Reynolds than a province in the Sudan. He loved animals: and animals loved him. Wild fury of Rochefort when a bull-fight was advertised to take place at Enghien-les-Bains.

When the Government declined to forbid it, down to Enghien went Rochefort and a number of friends. Sallow-faced old Rochefort seized hold of the “impresario” who was organising the bull-fight and shook him. “I and my friends are going to wreck your arena,” he shouted. Nor did he release the “impresario” until the latter had promised that the bull-fight should not take place.

If Rochefort had been all vindictiveness and luridness, how did it come to pass that he was the guest of the great-hearted Victor Hugo, when both of them were exiles in Brussels? And if the hoarse-voiced, steely-eyed old journalist had been all venom, how did it come about that he was the devoted, admiring friend of that very noble, if disconcerting apostle of humanity, Louise Michel, “the Red Virgin.”

Londoners may remember the frail, thin, shabby little Woman who denounced social injustices in a dingy hall in a back street off Tottenham Court Road some ten years ago. In appearance she was nothing—until she spoke. And when Louise Michel spoke, ah dear me, how one realised the miseries grimly and heroically endured by the poor of this topsy-turvy world! The shabby, frail little figure, with the big, inspired eyes, became galvanised. From London to Paris, from Paris to every European capital, travelled the “Red Virgin”—incomparably eloquent—the woes and sufferings of her fellow-creatures at once crushing and supporting her. Herself, she cared nothing for. The same old threadbare black dress; eternal dim attics and meagre food; the same old self-sacrifice, the pity to the verge of despair, the same old breakdowns from weakness and exhaustion.

Rochefort—Victor Henri Marquis de Rochefort-Luçay—sought her out in her attic. When the “Red Virgin” was travelling and lecturing abroad, Rochefort instructed his foreign correspondents to look after her. He bought her a country house: which she promptly sold; he gave her an annuity: which she mortgaged; he arranged that his tradespeople should serve her in his name; but house, annuity, provisions—everything went to the poor.

“I can do nothing with her,” Rochefort once told me. “She is at once sublime and adorable and ridiculous! When I tell her she is killing herself, she replies: ‘Tant pis, mon petit Henri. But you yourself will die one of these days.’”

A week later Louise Michel expired suddenly, from exhaustion, at Marseilles.[8] Sallow-faced, white-headed, red-eyed old Rochefort was the chief mourner at the funeral. As he walked, bent, trembling, behind the hearse of the “Red Virgin”—crack, crack went the lozenges.

The month of June, 1912. Rochefort’s daily article in the _Patrie_ missing; and again missing the next day, and the day after that—the first time octogenarian Rochefort had “missed” his daily lurid article for fifty-two years!

On the fourth day there appears in the _Patrie_ the following intimation:—“I shall soon reach my eighty-second year, and it is now half-a-century since I have worked without a rest even in prison or in exile, at the hard trade of a journalist, which is the first and the most noble of all professions—when it is not the lowest. I think I have earned the right to a rest. But it will only be a short one. My old teeth can still bite.”

However, the “rest” in the country is prolonged: and the teeth don’t “bite” again. Eyesight becomes misty. Hearing next fails. Behold Rochefort in a dressing-gown, stretched on an invalid’s chair in a drowsy country garden, whence he is transported, as a last hope, to Aix-les-Bains,—where he dies.

The 30th June 1913. Day of Rochefort’s funeral. All Paris lining the boulevards and streets as the cortège, half-a-mile long, passes by. A crowd of all kinds and conditions of Parisians. Here is M. Jaurès, “the decayed turnip.” There is M. Clemenceau, “the loathsome leper.” Over there, M. Briand, “the moulting vulture.” And their heads are uncovered; there is not the faintest resentment in their minds as the remains of lurid, yet not always unkind, old Rochefort are borne away round the corner under a magnificent purple pall.

Round the corner and up the steep hill to the vast, rambling Montmartre Cemetery. Tombs, shadows, silence, mystery within the cemetery walls; but, beyond them, the hectic arms of the Moulin Rouge, and the lurid lights of night restaurants. In this mixed atmosphere Henri Rochefort has an appropriate resting-place.

[6] He died on 27th June 1913.

[7] See page 196.

[8] 19th January 1905.

XIV

ROYAL VISITS TO PARIS

Whenever France is shaken by a scandal, convulsed by a crisis, the voice of the undiscerning prophet is to be heard proclaiming the doom of the Republic. The Affair of the Decorations in President Grévy’s time, the Panama Affair, the Dreyfus Affair, the Steinheil Affair, yesterday’s Rochette-Caillaux-Calmette Affair; each of these delirious dramas excited the assertion that the French people, disgusted and indignant at so much political corruption, were ready and eager for the restoration of the old régime. True, these five scandals—and many other smaller ones—shocked, saddened, humiliated the French nation. But at no time have they caused the average Frenchman—most intelligent and reasonable of beings—to lose faith in the Republic. Invariably he has maintained that it is not the Republic that is at fault, but the Republicans behind her; emphatically, he has insisted that the remedy lies, not in the overthrow, but in the _reform_, of the Republic—in the honest enforcement of the principles and doctrines of the Rights of Man. No Kings, no Emperors for Twentieth-Century France! Imagine, if you can do it, Philippe, Duke of Orleans, the handsomest, the most brilliant, the most irresistible of Pretenders. Suppose Prince Victor Napoleon endowed with some of the military and administrative genius of the Petit Caporal, instead of having married and settled down in comfortable, bourgeois little Belgium. Picture a modern General Boulanger on a new black charger—France would, nevertheless, remain true to the Republican régime. “Ah non, mon vieux, pas de ça,” one can hear the average Frenchman say to the would-be monarch. “We have had you before. We know better than to try you again. Bonsoir.”

Still, in spite of their confirmed Republicanism, the French people love Royalty—the Royalty of other nations. How often, outside national buildings that bear the democratic motto of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, have I heard shouts of: “Vive le Roi” and “Vive la Reine,” and admiring exclamations of: “Il est beau” and “Elle est gentille,” when a foreign monarch and his consort have visited Paris! How brilliantly has the city been adorned and illuminated; what a special shine on the helmets and breast-plates of the Republican Guard, and on the boots of the little, nervous boulevard policemen; what a constant playing of the august visitor’s own national anthem! In all countries a neighbouring sovereign is received cordially, elaborately. But it is in Republican France that a Royal visit is marked with the greatest pomp, circumstance and excitement. For the fact is that France, more than any other country, loves a fête—and the arrival in Paris of a King means flags, fairy lamps, festoons of paper flowers, fireworks. (The mere ascent of a rocket, the smallest shower of “golden rain” will throw the Parisian into ecstasies.) Also it delights the Frenchman to behold the uniforms, and the Stars and Orders of foreign nations—and he will stand about for hours to catch only a glimpse of the monarch.

“Je l’ai vu, moi,” M. le Bourgeois declares proudly. Probably he has discerned no more than the nose, or the ear or the eyebrow of his Majesty. But he “salutes” the ear and the nose, he cheers the eyebrow: and the newspapers are full of the “distinction” and “graciousness” and “wit” of the visiting sovereign. Modern French novels and plays also call attention to the homage paid by Parisians to foreign Royalty. In that brilliant comedy, _Le Roi_, the mythical King of Cerdagne thus addresses a Parisienne: “Le séjour à Paris, c’est une chose qui nous délecte, nous autres pauvres rois, pauvres rois de province! On est si riant pour nous, ici! Pour aimer les rois, il n’y a vraiment plus que la France.” And the lady replies: “Mais elle est sincère, sire. Elle est amoureuse de vous. Elle flirte, elle fait la coquette—elle aime ça. La France est une Parisienne.” Most indisputably, France “flirts” with Foreign Royalty. Vast quantities of flowers, fresh and artificial, here, there and everywhere. All official buildings blazing and glittering with huge electrical devices. About ten o’clock at night—amidst what murmurs, exclamations, rapture!—fireworks on the ghost-haunted Ile de France. Then Republican and Municipal Guards massed on the Place de l’Opéra; and a dense crowd assembled to witness the arrival of his Majesty, M. le Président, MM. les Ambassadeurs, and hosts of distinguished personages, for the gala performance. All Paris turns out: stout M. le Bourgeois, students from the Latin Quarter, _midinettes_ in their best hats (I prefer them at noon, when Mesdemoiselles Marie and Yvonne are bareheaded), workmen in their Sunday suits, small clerks in pink shirts, obscure, dim-eyed old Government officials, Apaches on their good behaviour, cabmen and chauffeurs (off their boxes), conscripts with permits, concierges hastened from their lodges in slippers, street gamins—Victor Hugo’s Gavroche—with his inimitable sarcasms and repartee—all turn out to behold the Royal guest of Republican France pay his State visit to the Opera. But what with the police and the troops and the closed carriage of the sovereign, all these kinds and conditions of Parisians do not behold even so much as the eyebrow of his Majesty. They remain there until the performance is over, but with no happier success. Away goes the Royal carriage, without affording the crowd the view of an ear-tip, a chin or the nape of the neck. Still, in spite of the crowd having seen nothing, what cheers! I have heard them raised for the Tsar; for the Kings of Greece, Belgium, Sweden, Norway and Italy; for the late ruler of Portugal; for the highly popular Alfonso of Spain; for the greatest favourite of all, the idol of the Parisians—King Edward the Seventh. King Edward’s State visit took place eleven years ago. The result of it, twelve months later, was the consummation of the _Entente_. Thus the present month of April will see Paris celebrating a “double” event: the visit of King George and Queen Mary, and the tenth anniversary of the Cordial Understanding. And it is safe to affirm that when the cheers break out afresh in honour of their Majesties, they will not fail to surpass in spontaneity and enthusiasm all the cheers of the past.

Royal visits to Paris never vary. They last four or five days, and during that brief period the foreign sovereign, the French President, the Cabinet Ministers, the array of high State officials, the troops, the police, the Press and the greater part of Paris public have so much to do and to see that at the end of the whirl they cannot but confess to a condition of exhaustion. Both the Royal visitor and the President hold brilliant State banquets. Most probably there is a third banquet at the Quai d’Orsay. The gala at the Opera (or sometimes at the Français), a Military Review, an expedition to Versailles, a reception at the Hôtel de Ville, a special race-meeting, presentations of Addresses: such are the traditional items in the strenuous “programme.” Then, speeches to make; and since they are eminently “official,” they must be carefully considered, and thoroughly mastered, beforehand. As, on the other score, the “official” toasts and speeches are invariably stereotyped in substance and sentiment, they cannot demand much inventiveness or exertion. They must be mutually polite and complimentary—a repetition of one another.

However, in spite of the polite and amusing banality of the “official” speeches, Royal visits to France can have far-reaching consequences. Eighteen years ago the arrival in Paris of the Tsar resulted in the Franco-Russian Alliance. After that, King Edward and the _Entente_; and since then the visits of the kings of Spain and Italy have undoubtedly promoted a mutual friendly feeling between those two countries and Republican France. Then there have also taken place, during the last five or six years, odd, amazing Royal visits: that have caused the punctilious French Protocol no end of _ennuis_ and perplexities. Behold black-faced and burly old Sisowath, King of Cambodia, descending most indecorously upon Paris, in a battered top-hat and gorgeous silken robes: and with a party of bejewelled native dancing-girls! Impossible to separate Sisowath from his monstrous top-hat (which came from heaven knows where) and his dancers; impossible, therefore, to entertain his Cambodian Majesty ceremoniously. Nor would he have tolerated State banquets, the Hôtel de Ville, Versailles, the Opera. No pomp for black Sisowath. A great deal of his time he spent in going up and down lifts; and in listening to gay songs from the gramophone. When he drove through the streets he kissed his great ebony hands at the Parisiennes. He was, as a matter of fact, for kissing everybody: even capacious President Fallières, even sallow, petulant M. Clemenceau. As he did his embracing, he hugged his victims in his huge, massive arms. Still, he was a King—and so official France had to overlook his eccentricities. As for the Parisians, they revelled in Bohemian Sisowath. Ecstatic, gay cries of “_Vive le roi!_” and “_Vivent les petites danseuses_”:—to which his merry old Majesty responded by standing up in his carriage, and waving the disgraceful top-hat; and blowing forth more and more kisses; and shouting out messages in his own incomprehensible language.... Then, after Sisowath, Mulai Hafid, the ex-Sultan of Morocco, who before coming to Paris passed a few days at Vichy. Nobody, however, had reason to cheer or rejoice over this Royal visitor: for his behaviour was intolerable. Sisowath was expansive, affectionate, _rigolo_; Mulai Hafid was violent, insolent, offensive.

“Grotesque, horrible machines” was “Mulai’s” comment on the hats of the fashionable Frenchwomen. The military bands, “they drive me mad.” The actresses, “shameless and shocking”—they should be veiled like the ladies of Morocco. “Where is your sun?” demanded the ex-Sultan, looking up at the grey skies. “I am so bored that I am going to bed. What a people, what a country!” All this, and more, the Yellow journalists gleefully repeated in their newspapers. Then, photographs of “Mulai” scowling, of “Mulai” disdainful, of “Mulai” contemptuous. So that when “Mulai” came to Paris, still scowling, the Hippolyte Durands were indignant at his bad manners. In France, you mustn’t speak ill of anything French: especially when you are in receipt of a pension of 350,000 francs a year.

But “Mulai” didn’t care. He was for ever taking the Paris journalists into his confidence, and more and more unflattering became his comments on French life. As it rained every day, his temper was detestable; and he has been seen to shake his fist at the French skies. Then he omitted to salute the French flag: he described the French language as ridiculous; he yawned in the Louvre: and he retired to bed through sheer boredom a dozen times a day.