Part 16
Also, “Mulai” was said to be furious because the Press had compared him unfavourably with Sisowath, the amazing ebony-black monarch of Cambodia. “Sisowath,” said the papers, was not only _rigolo_. When he came to Paris seven years ago he wore brilliant robes, a multitude of diamonds—as well as a battered old top-hat. And he laughed and laughed all day long. Not only did he kiss his great black hands at the Parisiennes, but he showered silver amongst the crowd. And he meant it kindly when he hugged bald, portly State officials. In a word, black, enormous Sisowath of Cambodia was an unsophisticated, affectionate, merry old soul. But, in “Mulai’s” estimation, Sisowath is a savage, and furious, as I have said, is the ex-Sultan that he should be mentioned in the same breath with him.
Socially, in fact, “Mulai’s” visit to France is anything but a success. He has been raging against French boots, because, after putting on a pair, they pinched him. He has been cursing French automobiles, because they travel so fast. And he has hurled a French suit of clothes (especially made for him) out of the window, because of the buttons.
“Ah non, c’est trop fort,” cries Hippolyte Durand, as he reads of “Mulai’s” outbursts in the papers. And still greater becomes his indignation, when he comes upon the following statement:—“The situation in Morocco continues serious. The Vled Bu Beker, of the Rehama tribe, is active. The attitude of the Vled Belghina and the Vled Amrane Fukania is threatening. The Hiania tribesmen are gathered at Safrata on the Wed Sebu. At Ben Guerie, Bab Aissa, Suk-el-Arba and——”
“I will read no more; I understand nothing, I am distracted!” cries M. Hippolyte Durand. “Ah, _nom d’un nom_, what a sinister country is this Morocco!”
Earlier in this paper, I observed that Royal visits to Paris never “vary,” but in one respect this statement requires correction. The most delicate, the most anxious duty of the French Government is to watch over the safety of her illustrious guests. Paris, rightly or wrongly, is alleged to abound with anarchists, fanatics and lunatics. Ask M. Guichard, one of the chiefs of the Criminal Investigation Department: and he will tell you that a Royal visit, if a delight to the public, is a misery and a nightmare to the detective police. The extent, the depth of the misery depends upon the nationality of the monarch. Of course, no fears as to old Sisowath’s safety; and peril for Mulai Hafid, who was nearly always in bed, caused even slighter apprehensions. The kings of Belgium, Sweden and Norway—well, the detective police, although watchful, “breathed” freely and slept of nights when their Majesties came to Paris. But the King of Italy, a hundred thousand precautions; the King of Spain—extraordinary vigilance: and even then a bomb fell within a few yards of the Royal carriage; the Tsar—a state of panic and siege that still haunts me after the interval of eighteen long years. Weeks before his Imperial Majesty’s arrival, Russian detectives descended upon Paris. Together with their French colleagues they searched for conspirators and bombs—even forcing their way into the rooms of the poor Russian girl students of the Latin Quarter, seizing their correspondence, subjecting them to offensive cross-examinations. Still rougher methods with the male students: with Russian plumbers, clerks and mechanics; many were arrested on no evidence as “revolutionaries” and imprisoned (without being allowed to communicate with their friends) until after the Imperial Visitor’s departure. Often, as a result of the raids of the detective police, the poorer Russian residents in Paris were given _congé_ by terrified concierges, and had to take refuge in stifling, common lodging-houses, or seek for shelter on the outskirts of Paris. Meanwhile, Paris was decking herself out with flowers and flags, rehearsing coloured electrical “effects,” setting the supports for the panoramic fireworks, buying up the photographs of the Tsar of All the Russias. But it was a pale, uneasy, harassed-looking Emperor that drove through the splendidly decorated thoroughfares; it was a beautiful, but a sad-faced, Consort who accompanied him; it was cheers all the way; but it was also a detective in plain clothes at one’s elbow, more detectives in corners and doorways, still more detectives on roofs and—I dare say—up chimneys; it was festoons and illuminations and fireworks: but it was also bayonets and sabres; it was the democratic _Marseillaise_ of France _and_ the National Anthem of despotic Russia; it was “Long live the Emperor”; and “Long live the Republic”—but it was an ironical, a pitiable spectacle: this Imperial guest, come on a visit to a friendly country, protected and surrounded by an illimitable, armed bodyguard, as though he were entering—not Paris—but the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Numbers of Russian decorations for the Paris detective police, when the Tsar had departed in safety! Out of prison came the perfectly innocent “revolutionaries”: the Russian girls were permitted to resume their studies in the Latin Quarter... not the silliest little bomb had spluttered, not a seditious cry had been raised... and a high police official of my acquaintance was granted by a grateful Government a prolonged holiday on increased pay. He deserved it. Dark shadows under his eyes, hectic spots in his cheeks, dyspepsia, insomnia, acute neurasthenia: such was his plight after the glorious visit to Paris of the Tsar of All the Russias. To-day, eighteen years later, my detective friend has risen to one of the highest positions at the Sûreté, and he can produce many a decoration or gift awarded him by foreign Royalty, and is particularly proud of a gold watch presented to him by King Edward the Seventh. The late King was so popular in Paris that he was known familiarly and affectionately as “Edouard.” Nevertheless, he was watched over by the private detective police. “_Mais oui_, we had even to attend to the safety of ‘Edouard,’ the most admirable of kings; he often gave me cigars, and you have already seen the gold watch,” my detective friend recently told me. “We were concerned about the Indians in Paris. Oh, nobody else would have assailed Edouard. As for the Indians, they were kept under observation day and night.” The detective was alluding to the notorious Krishnavarna, who “ran” a scurrilous little newspaper in a house off the Champs Élysées. Odd, sinister-looking Indians (I am still quoting my police friend) called frequently at the place. They remained there for hours and hours: what were they doing? But the police have their eye on them—especially closely and keenly fixed on them now that King George and Queen Mary are about to make their entrance into Paris. Also—so I am informed by the same high detective official—the police have been instructed to beware of the militant Suffragettes. Miss Christabel Pankhurst “under observation”; the comings and goings of her visitors watched and recorded; the lady passengers on the Havre, Dieppe and Calais steamers carefully scrutinised on their arrival; the police actually taught to shout “Votes for Women” in order that they may promptly distinguish that cry in the event of its being uttered! Dear Paris—dear, excitable, incoherent, wonderful, incomparable Paris—into what difficulties as well as delights, into what a whirl of pleasure and confusion, does a Royal visit plunge you!
But, never mind the difficulties, _tant pis_ for the confusion; _vivent_ the more than compensating thrills of emotion and delight. This evening, as I close this paper, Paris is once again shouting: “Vive le Roi” and “Vive la Reine”—shouting herself “hoarse,” so the French and English Press unanimously declare; and the decorations and illuminations of the past have been triumphantly eclipsed, and the State banquets, the reception at the Hôtel de Ville, the gala performance at the Opera, the race-meeting and the military review have surpassed in brilliancy and splendour even the golden ceremonies that solemnised the visit of the Tsar of All the Russias. Very remarkable, too, the State speeches delivered by the President of the Republic and the King of England in the banqueting-hall of the Élysée. Both speeches of unusual length: the old, banal, stilted phrases superseded by a note of eloquent and vigorous sincerity.
As a matter of fact, the reception of his son has excited even higher and livelier enthusiasm than did the official visit of King Edward the Seventh—because he _is_ his son: because, since the year 1904, the _entente cordiale_ has matured and strengthened. At all events, unprecedented things have happened. Until to-day, the French newspapers could scarcely contrive to publish an English word, or name, or sentence without misspelling, mangling or otherwise distorting it. Our Prime Minister used to be “Sir Askit,” whilst our ex-Home Secretary, Mr “Winsy Churkil,” was frequently and severally described as Chief of the Police and—Prefect of the Thames. Vanished, to-day, all those inexactitudes and incoherencies of recent times. Before me, almost surrounding me, spread and bulge a mass of French newspapers of all opinions. But every one of them has become “correct,” impeccable in its English, and right across the top of the front page of _Gil Blas_, in gigantic characters, the familiar, cordial invitation:
“Shake hands, King George.”
XV
AT THE ÉLYSÉE. MESSIEURS LES PRÉSIDENTS
1. M. LOUBET AND PAUL DÉROULÈDE
On 16th February 1899, President Faure (known familiarly and gaily in Paris as “Félix”) died suddenly. Two days later the Upper and Lower Chambers, solemnly assembled at Versailles, proclaimed M. Émile Loubet his successor. And now, after seven years in the Élysée, M. Loubet makes way for the eighth President of the Third French Republic and retires into a tranquil, simple _appartement_.
Seven years ago! But it seems only yesterday that I found myself, one cold, misty afternoon, before the St-Lazare station, where the newly elected President was to arrive. I was eager to witness his début in Paris as Chief of the State. Eager, too, to “receive him” were thousands of Parisians.
But as I surveyed the dense, excited crowd, I gathered at a glance that the reception it reserved for M. Loubet was to be very far from friendly. Here, there and everywhere chattered and whispered the followers of MM. Edouard Drumont, Lucien Millevoye, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin. In full force, too, were the paid hirelings of those notorious agitators; collarless, shabby, unshaven fellows, “Messieurs les Quarante-Sous.” And present again was the “Emperor of the Camelots,” a striking-looking man with long hair, bold, brilliant eyes and a humorous expression; not only the composer and seller of “topical” songs, not only the indefatigable electioneering agent and the ironical pamphleteer, but the ingenious, the illustrious, the incomparable organiser of “popular demonstrations.”
Often did agitators say to the “Emperor”: “I want So-and-so hissed,” or “I want So-and-so cheered.” Obligingly and genially the “Emperor” replied: “Nothing is easier.” And in truth, the operation was simple. The agitator provided the money: and the “Emperor” called together a fine army of manifestants.
Thus the crowd before the St-Lazare station looked threatening on that memorable winter’s afternoon. Of course those garrulous, gesticulating bodies, the “Ligue de la Patrie Française” and M. Paul Déroulède’s “League of the Patriots,” were strongly represented. Inevitably, too, the little, nervous, impetuous policemen of Paris figured conspicuously in the scene. And everyone was restless, everyone was impatient, save the “Emperor of the Camelots,” who, making his way urbanely and imperturbably through the crowd, occasionally spoke a word to his subjects, his army: the shabby, unshaven fellows, Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. No doubt he was asking them whether their voices were in good condition, and whether their whistles were handy. And most probably he was instructing them how to keep out of the clutches of the alert, watchful police.
“À bas Loubet!”
The cry came from the interior of the station. No sooner had it been uttered than the crowd excitedly exclaimed: “He has arrived.”
And then, what a din of shouting, of hissing, of hooting! And then, what a blowing of shrill, piercing whistles! And then, as the Presidential carriage drove away (with M. Loubet seated by the window, pale, grave, dignified, venerable), what a hoarse, violent uproar of “À bas Loubet!” and “Mort aux traîtres!” and “Panama! Panama! Panama!”[9] Not one hat raised to him. Not one cheer given him. Not one courtesy paid him. It was to the ear-splitting notes of whistles, it was to a chorus of calumny and abuse, it was in the midst of a howling, hostile mob, that the new Chief of the State made his début in Paris.
What, it may be asked, was the reason of M. Loubet’s unpopularity? Well, the Dreyfus days had begun: those wild, frenzied days of feuds, duels and hatreds; of frauds, riots and conspiracies, when Parisians allowed themselves to be governed and blinded by their passions and prejudices. M. Loubet was notoriously in favour of granting the unhappy prisoner on the Devil’s Island a new trial. Paris, on the other hand, misled, intimidated, deceived by the Nationalists, was Anti-Dreyfusard. And hence the tempestuous reception—at once spontaneous and “organised”—accorded the new President on his return from Versailles.
However, in the present paper, it is not my intention to examine the political situation in France during the tumultuous winter, summer and autumn of 1899. My aim is to portray certain scenes and to record certain incidents which may convey an idea of the state of Paris in that epoch, and of her attitude towards M. Loubet. And here let me return without further ado to the crowd before the St-Lazare station, where, after the President’s departure, there appeared yet another amazing agitator in the person of M. Déroulède.
He has been likened to—Don Quixote. And it has also been good-humouredly agreed that in his devoted lieutenant, M. Marcel Habert, he possesses an admirable Sancho Panza. For M. Déroulède is an _exalté_. M. Déroulède is extravagant, theatrical, often absurd: yet with a noble sincerity in him and an attachment to the idea. And as he stood in the thick of the St-Lazare crowd, with his official Deputy’s sash, with his decoration in his button-hole, with fire in his eye, with a flush on his cheeks and with burning “patriotic” utterances on his lips—as he stood there haranguing and gesticulating, M. Paul Déroulède held everyone’s attention. At that moment, he was passionately inviting his hearers to follow him to Joan of Arc’s statue, there to hold a “patriotic” demonstration. Often, he made such a pilgrimage. Often, too, he made pilgrimages to the Strasbourg monument on the Place de la Concorde: and to the cemeteries where rest the “heroic victims” of Germany. There were many who laughed at him, but his courage and honesty no one, not even his adversaries, doubted. He had fought valiantly in the Franco-Prussian War, and ever since that appalling campaign he had looked after the interests of the scrubby little soldier—_le pioupiou_—and composed songs and poems in his honour. “Vive l’Armée!” and “Vive la France!” were the eternal, emotional cries of M. Déroulède. At his bidding, Paris echoed those cries. And Paris also “supported” him enthusiastically when he made his pilgrimages to the Place de la Concorde, and the cemeteries, and Joan of Arc’s statue; for in what is essential and fine in him, his noble sincerity and devotion to the idea, even when in the wrong, M. Déroulède stands as the outward and visible type of a quality that belongs to the soul and the genius of France.
Well, upon the present occasion, M. Déroulède’s audience was particularly responsive. “Then follow me!” he shouted triumphantly. And so, behold him leading a long, animated procession from the St-Lazare station to the rue de Rivoli. And behold him again, a few minutes later, standing against the railing that encircles “La Pucelle” astride of her horse. And behold his followers—hundreds of them—closely surrounding him, and the police—scores of them—ready to “charge” the crowd at the first outbreak of disorder. But M. Déroulède, unlike the Anti-Semitic Jules Guérin, was no lover of brawls. He wished only to “defend” the “honour of the Army” (which, by the way, had never been assailed). He desired only to point out that France was governed by a number of men who dreamt day and night, dreamt night and day, dreamt always and always of “selling their country to the enemy.” Ah, these abominable, these infamous traitors! Even as he, Paul Déroulède, stood there, at the foot of Joan of Arc’s statue, this sinister, this diabolical Government was plotting the “réhabilitation” of a man—no, a scoundrel—convicted by his own colleagues of treason.
“Citizens, our France, our beloved France, is in danger. Citizens, do your duty. Citizens, drive away the traitors who govern you. Citizens, show your execration of these traitors by crying with me: “Vive l’Armée!” “Vive la France!” “Vive la patrie!”
And again the crowd was responsive. This time, indeed, there were shouts of “Vive Déroulède!” Parisians came running up from neighbouring streets, so that the crowd grew and expanded. On the tops of the omnibuses passengers cheered encouragingly. At every window and on every doorstep stood spectators. In fine, much animation around Joan of Arc’s statue.
“En avant!” cried, martially, our Don Quixote. Warned by the police to be “prudent,” he replied that he was a “patriot,” and hotly demanded that his Deputy’s sash should be respected. Then, placing himself at the head of his followers, he led them triumphantly towards the _grands boulevards_. Again, “patriotic” cries. Again, fierce denunciations of the “Government of Traitors.”
And, in M. Déroulède’s organ, _Le Drapeau_, next morning, what an exultant account of M. Loubet’s tempestuous début in Paris, and what a glowing recital of the “grandiose” and “glorious” manifestation held at the foot of Joan of Arc’s gilded statue.
After this we had daily, almost hourly, manifestations. Very _affairé_, but always urbane and imperturbable, was the “Emperor of the Camelots.” Very active and zealous were Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. And very garrulous, excited and nervous were the Parisians. In cafés they emotionally agreed that the situation was “grave.” In cafés, also, they whispered of plots against the President and the Republic—sensational plots that greatly agitated the Chief of the Police. Yes, M. Lépine was alarmed; M. Lépine had lost his appetite; M. Lépine could not rest at night for thinking of the shoals and shoals of conspirators then present in Paris. A veritable plague of conspirators!
Here, there and everywhere, a conspirator. Who knew: perhaps one’s very neighbour in cafés, trains, omnibuses and trams was a dangerous conspirator? And so, when we spoke of conspirators and conspiracies, we lowered our voices and glanced apprehensively over our shoulders, and were altogether very uneasy, suspicious and mysterious. Heavens, what rumours! And mercy, what an effervescence! Now it was the “agents” of the Bonapartists who were “active.” Anon it was the Orleanists who were “at work.” Next it was the Clericals who were conspiring. And, finally, it was the Militarists, who had actually appointed the day and the hour when they would give a Dictator to France. Already it had been arranged that the Dictator should appear in Paris on a splendid black charger, surrounded by a brilliant, dashing staff. And the Dictator, from his saddle, was eloquently to address the populace. And when the Dictator spoke the sacred name “France,” he was to draw and flourish his sword. And the brilliant staff was to cheer. And the dashing staff was to cry—— No matter: the approaching arrival in Paris of the Dictator and retinue was a secret; only whispered timidly and fearfully amongst us when we felt ourselves secure from conspiring eavesdroppers. Such was the gossip; such was the nervousness. Little wonder, then, that the Chief of the Police passed restless, unhappy nights. Never a moment’s peace, never a moment’s leisure for poor M. Lépine. All around him, conspirators. And before him, at the same time, the task of making preparations for M. Félix Faure’s funeral, which was to be solemn, imposing and magnificent.
And magnificent it was. Almost interminable was the procession that left the Élysée for Notre Dame, to the tragic strains of Chopin’s _Funeral March_. All along the route, soldiers and policemen. And behind the soldiers and policemen, the people of Paris—men, women and even children—who murmured their admiration at the plumes, at the flowers and at the brilliant uniforms in the cortège. Each foreign Power was imposingly represented. But most imposing of them all were the Emperor William’s envoys: three Prussian officers, veritable giants. Then, mourners from the French Army; mourners from the Chambers; mourners from the Corps Diplomatique; mourners from the Academy and Institute; mourners from every distinguished official, social and artistic sphere. And at the head of all these grand mourners the homely, plainly dressed figure of M. Émile Loubet.
However, one mourner was missing: a friend of the late M. Faure: none other than M. Paul Déroulède. And yet he had deeply deplored the death of the late President, and fiercely denounced the advent of his successor.
But—M. Déroulède was busy. Think: at that moment the Élysée had no master. So, what an opportunity. And as the funeral procession proceeded slowly and solemnly from Notre Dame to the cemetery, M. Déroulède might have been seen in a distant quarter of Paris with his hand on the bridle of General Roget’s horse.
“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.”
Only think of it. There was General Roget with soldiers under his command, who would follow him wherever he led them. And the Élysée—practically—was empty. And thus it was the moment of moments to achieve a brilliant _coup d’état_.
“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.”
But General Roget refused to turn his horse’s head in the direction of the Élysée. He preferred to return to the barracks with his men, and therefore begged M. Déroulède to release his hold of the bridle.
_Manqué_, M. Déroulède’s conspiracy. In vain, his tremendous _coup d’état_. Behold our Don Quixote and his devoted Sancho Panza, in dismay and despair. Behold them some time later on their trial for conspiracy. But behold them acquitted by the jury amidst a scene of the wildest enthusiasm. And hear the joyous, triumphant proclamations that their acquittal was yet another bitter humiliation for M. Loubet.
What insults and what calumnies followed! Every Nationalist organ began a fierce campaign against M. Loubet, accused him of corruption, of every conceivable meanness and crime, and exultantly related how his name was constantly being _conspué_ in Paris. Since it was “seditious” to cry “À bas Loubet,” they cried “Vive l’Armée!” and “Mort aux traîtres,” which M. Lucien Millevoye, Édouard Drumont, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin declared to be the same thing.
Those were the only cries that greeted M. Loubet when he drove out in the Presidential carriage—pale, grave, dignified, venerable. From his native place, the village of Montélimar, came a message imploring him to resign. More hissing and hooting in the streets, but always a calm smile on the President’s kindly face; always that determined, imperturbable expression.