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.
Other “incidents”? Well, for months there was incident after incident:
and when Émile Loubet drove to the Longchamps Races surrounded by
cavalry, it was stated that he feared assassination. At Longchamps up
rushed an elegant young aristocrat with a stick in his hand, and the
stick was aimed at the President’s head. It only smashed the President’s
hat: but the Nationalists rejoiced. And the elegant young aristocrat was
regarded as a hero, and caricaturists always portrayed Émile Loubet with
his hat smashed over his head. Came another message from Montélimar,
inviting him to accept the public verdict: but came, also, messages of
sympathy and esteem from all the Courts in Europe.
And here, passing over other incidents, let me arrive at once at the
day when the man in the street began to admire Émile Loubet’s patience,
tact, determination, and when he was delighted at the calm, kindly
smile; and when—day of days—he said: “Ce bon Loubet,” and then—moment
of moments—cried, “Vive Loubet.” A change, a change! Through the streets
drove the President, saluting, saluted. Parisians rejoiced to learn that
the Tsar had a veritable affection for Émile Loubet, and Parisians were
pleased to see him drive across Paris with the King of England, chatting,
smiling, laughing. Cordial the shouts of “Vive Loubet.” Cordial the
newspaper appreciations of Émile Loubet. And the streets lined to see him
take train to London.
In London, scores of journalists accompanying him, and also scores of
_camelots_. Yes, real Paris _camelots_ in Soho, and in the public-houses
and little restaurants of Soho, the _camelots_ loud in their praises of
Émile Loubet.
Here, there and everywhere the motto: “Entente Cordiale.”
I remember the King of the Camelots telling me in Soho that he and his
men had taken a great fancy to Englishmen.
His appreciation was worth having, for he was no enthusiast. Indeed, he
had done a great trade some time ago in Anti-English caricatures, toys
and post cards. He drank to the _entente_ in a bottle of Bass. He vowed
that Bass was better than _bock_. He paid tributes to roast beef, apple
tart and kippers; indeed, regretted with veritable emotion that there
were no kippers in France. So kind and affable and flattering was the
King of the Camelots that I could write of him for hours. However, I must
leave him on the kerbstone in Holborn, shouting: “Vive Loubet,” and
waving his hat and receiving (so, at least, he declared afterwards) a
special salute from the smiling, delighted President.
Everyone charmed with Émile Loubet, and Émile Loubet charmed with
everything. Of course, King and President held little private
conversations; it is certain that Lord Lansdowne and M. Delcassé met
often and talked long.
Then, Paris again—and crowds in the street once more to shout: “Vive
Loubet.” Heavens, what a change since the February afternoon four
years ago! To-day, nothing but sympathy and esteem for the President,
part author of the Anglo-French Agreement. To-day, nothing but sincere
pleasure at the Agreement, which brings together two naturally friendly
and sympathetic countries. “Perhaps the most important Treaty ever signed
in time of peace,” said an enthusiastic Parisian to me. And then, with
equal enthusiasm: “Vive Loubet!”
[9] M. Loubet was Premier and Minister of the Interior at the time of
the exposure of the Panama scandal. In November, 1892, he was forced
to resign, but retained his post of Minister of the Interior under M.
Ribot, the new Premier. Two months later, disgusted by the calumnies of
their adversaries in the Chamber, both M. Loubet and his colleague M. de
Freycinet (Minister of War) retired.
2. M. ARMAND FALLIÈRES. MOROCCO AND THE FLOODS
A day or two ago, in the Presidential palace of the Élysée, M. Armand
Fallières celebrated his seventy-second birthday. I do not know whether
there were gifts, flowers, a birthday cake, champagne and speeches: but,
according to an incorrigible gossip in a boulevard newspaper, M. le
Président stated that this was the blithest birthday he had known for
seven years. “I breathe again,” he is reported to have said. “This time
next year, I shall pass my anniversary, not in a frock coat and varnished
boots, but in a dressing-gown and carpet slippers.”
I believe this is the “mood” that would obsess anyone who had passed
seven years of his life as President of the French Republic. It was M.
Émile Loubet’s mood. Nothing in this world would have induced him to
accept a second Septennat; and to-day M. Loubet lives in a quiet little
flat on the Rive Gauche, where (in his slippers) he has often exclaimed:
“Ce pauvre Fallières!” And then gone to bed tranquilly and comfortably;
whilst his successor at the Élysée was in consultation with the Minister
of Foreign Affairs over the miseries of Morocco. President Casimir-Périer
endured just six months of Presidency. “On m’embête; je m’en vais,” said
he. He was too elegant to care for slippers. But a day or two after his
resignation he was discovered stretched in an easy-chair in the garden
of a Bois de Boulogne restaurant, in white duck trousers. “I breathe
again,” he stated—just as President Fallières has now declared on his
seventy-second birthday.
Thus it would miraculously appear that one stops breathing upon being
appointed President of the French Republic, and doesn’t regain one’s
breath until one’s martyrdom at the Élysée has expired. Certain it is
that the President of the French Republic, living as he does in the
most amazing city in the world, must experience and endure amazing
tribulations and adventures. President Loubet went through the Dreyfus
Affair; President Fallières through the Floods. Up and down the Seine in
a barge sailed M. Fallières, and because of his bulk and lest the barge
might capsize, the boatmen had to implore M. le Président not to move.
He was a heroic, but not a dignified, figure as he sat, massive and
motionless, in that barge. Nor could he ever look other than bulky in the
Presidential carriage (which, when he entered it, nearly tilted over)
as he drove forth to meet foreign sovereigns, or to attend the great
military review or gala performances at the Français and Opéra. That vast
bulk has always been against him. Not a Parisian that has not commented
on it, not an illustrated newspaper that has not depicted it, not a
theatrical revue that has not exaggerated it.
Although M. Armand Fallières has left Paris for his country residence
at Rambouillet, the French “Presidential Holiday” has not yet begun. To
start with, Rambouillet is a State château, almost another Élysée, in
that Cabinet meetings are held there, the Ministers motoring down from
Paris with their portfolios and wearing their official, inscrutable
expressions. Outside in the park, flowers, birds, winding paths, shady
trees, hidden, tranquil corners; but within the Council Chamber, the old,
eternal complications and miseries of politics.
No doubt, when the Ministers have left, M. le Président seeks to lead the
simple, the ordinary life. But, as Rambouillet is a State residence,
flunkeys abound, and not only gardeners, but detectives, haunt the
park. Impossible, to put it vulgarly, to be “on one’s own.” Worse than
that, how the majestic, powdered flunkeys wink and grin when M. Armand
Fallières has turned his back upon them in his slippers, alpaca jacket
and vast gardening hat! For M. le Président is burly, with a formidable
_embonpoint_; and when he enters a carriage, it tilts; and when he steps
into a rowing boat, it very nearly capsizes, and when——
“I am the most inelegant of Presidents,” M. Armand Fallières himself has
admitted. “Heavens, how my servants despise me!”
At Rambouillet M. Fallières’ predecessor, most admirable M. Loubet, also
aroused the disdain of the flunkeys by reason of his simplicity—and
his real holiday did not begin until he had reached his native town of
Montélimar, where he was treated—and liked to be treated—as _un enfant
du pays_—a son of the soil. Because Montélimar is famous for its nougat,
M. Loubet was dubbed by fierce, lurid old Henri Rochefort—“Nougat the
First.” But Republican France liked to hear of her President hobnobbing
with the people of Montélimar and gossiping with the peasantry of
neighbouring villages, and leading forth on his arm a little brown-faced
and wrinkled old lady, in the dress and cap of a peasant woman—his mother.
But those are all memories. We have nothing to do with Montélimar; we
are only concerned with the wine-growing districts of Loupillon, where
M. Fallières (released from official Rambouillet) will be amiable,
pottering and peering about amidst his vineyards in a few days. Behold,
just as last year, M. le Président, not only in slippers, but in his
shirt-sleeves; and behold, too, the peasantry stretched over hedges and
perched high up in trees, that they may view the burly Chief of the State
inspecting and admiring his grapes. They are his hobby, his pride, his
exquisite joy: and yet it is notorious that they are a very sour, a very
inferior, one might almost say, a very terrible little grape.
Ask the Loupillon peasants and they will exclaim: “It is extraordinary,
it is unheard-of that a Son of this Soil, and a President of the
President, should produce such a grape! Look at it! _Cré nom d’un nom_,
what a sad little thing!”
Ask those privileged, intimate friends who lunch _en famille_ at the
Élysée, and they will cry: “Ah, the white wine of Fallières! Ah, the
Presidential grape from Loupillon! It makes one shudder to mention it.”
But, M. le Président ignores these criticisms and mockeries. After
Morocco and Proportional Representation, his dear little grapes! In spite
of their smallness, their sourness, how he loves them!