in February next, nothing but holidays for the Chief of the State. For
February will see the end of M. Fallières’ seven years’ Presidency, and,
like his predecessor, he will not seek re-election. Like M. Loubet, too,
his next Paris residence will be a comfortable, bourgeois third-floor
_appartement_—its site, the Boulevard St Germain, within a few minutes’
walk of M. Émile Loubet’s flat in the rue Dante. No flunkeys, no
detectives in plain clothes—and no telephone. Moreover, no pianolas,
no gramophones, no parrots, no poodles, for M. Fallières (who owns the
building of flats in which he has decided to reside) has warned his
tenants that no such nuisance will be tolerated when he moves to his new
quarters. The simple, the ordinary life! Morocco, etc., etc., etc.—only
memories. Never ceremonious banquets, with Château Yquem, and Morton
Rothschild, and Lafite, and the finest of Extra Secs. Modest luncheons
and dinners _en famille_. And for wine, nothing but the sour, little
white grape of Loupillon.
It has been said that the best rulers are those who feel an extreme
disinclination to rule, and who only consent to accept authority under
a strong sense of duty. If this be true, then unquestionably M. Émile
Loubet and M. Armand Fallières were good and loyal presidents, who,
without personal ambition and at the cost of their own tastes, as well
as of their own interests, served the Republic—for seven years, each
of them—to the very best of their knowledge and power. And upon this
question of power one has to keep in mind that M. le Président, though
he holds the title of Chief of the State, is very much in the hands
of his ministers. He forms ministries? Yes; but here, too, it is not
always the most competent and disinterested men, in France particularly,
who are most eager for office. Nothing can be more unjust than to make
admirable M. Émile Loubet, excellent M. Armand Fallières, responsible for
everything that happened, and especially for everything that went wrong,
during the two periods of seven years these patriotic French citizens
devoted to the service of their country.
The difficulties of M. le Président, the impertinent disregard of his
rank in the State shown by the very men he has called to power, is a
favourite theme of playwrights and novelists. In _L’Habit Vert_, the
brilliant, satirical comedy by MM. de Flers and de Caillavet, just
produced at the Variétés theatre, a Cabinet Minister submits an important
political telegram for the President’s official approbation. “Yes, that
will do; send it off immediately,” says M. le Président. “That’s all
right; it was sent half-an-hour ago,” replies the Minister. Then, in
that famous comedy, _Le Roi_, which so rejoiced the heart of King Edward
the Seventh, the French Premier to one of his colleagues: “Cormeau, the
Minister of Commerce, has just resigned. Nearly a Ministerial Crisis,
but we have escaped it. Telephone the name of Cormeau’s successor, and
that all is well, to the Press, the Chamber, the Senate, the Palace of
Justice, and—ah yes, I forgot—to the President of the Republic.”
On the top of all this, M. le Président, although practically in the
hands of Messieurs les Ministres, is held responsible by the public
for the possible blunders and follies and sins of the Cabinet. Salary,
£40,000 a year, with all kinds of substantial “perquisites.” Residences:
the Palace of the Élysée and the Château de Rambouillet. Ironical
official title: Chief of the State. Result: Morocco, Floods, or the
Dreyfus Affair, helplessness and worry, collapse of the respiratory
organ. But, thank heaven! M. le Président recovereth his breath when the
time comes for another to take his place: and he himself may drift into
a dressing-gown and carpet slippers and exclaim of his successor, by the
tranquil, unofficial fireside: “Ce pauvre——!” Successor at the Élysée.
Who will he be? Of course, after the lofty and admirable statesmanship
he has exhibited throughout the Balkan conflict, M. Poincaré, the Prime
Minister, is hailed by the man in the street as the future Chief of the
State? But elegant M. Paul Deschanel, of the French Academy, President
of the Chamber of Deputies, and a would-be President of the Republic for
the last fourteen years, is also mentioned; and impetuous, despotic,
sallow-faced M. Georges Clemenceau, in spite of his recent delirious
ups and downs, has hosts of followers. Solid M. Ribot is stated to be
an eager candidate. M. Léon Bourgeois (who did such fine work at The
Hague Peace Conference) would probably be elected, were there a Madame
Bourgeois to “receive” officially at the Élysée. After that, M. Delcassé,
M. Lépine, M. Briand, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, M. Dranem the comic singer,
“Monte Carlo Wells.” But I am anticipating events. I am also in peril of
appearing incoherent; so let me hasten to declare that the last-named
candidates for the Presidency of the Third Republic are but the gay
“selections” of that inveterate gossip in a certain boulevard newspaper.
And, that made clear, let us for the moment leave the emptiness of
political ambition and share in the dressing-gown and carpet-slipper mood
of M. Armand Fallières.
3. M. RAYMOND POINCARÉ AND THE RECORD OF M. LÉPINE
Last February (1913) must be accounted an important month in the history
of the Third French Republic. Away, after his seven years’ official
tenancy of the Élysée, went M. Armand Fallières to a comfortable
bourgeois _appartement_, there, no doubt, to recall, in dressing-gown
and carpet slippers, the rare joys and successes and the many shocks and
miseries of his Septennat, and to speculate upon the destiny reserved for
his successor, ninth President of the Republic, M. Raymond Poincaré.
No commonplace destiny—that was certain. M. Fallières took possession
of the Élysée amidst general indifference; M. Émile Loubet assumed
office amongst eggs, threats, vegetable stalks, shouts of “traitor” and
“bandit”: but M. Poincaré found Paris _en fête_—flags flying, hats and
handkerchiefs whirling, the crowd in its Sunday best—on the day that _he_
became Chief of the State.
A vast popularity, M. Poincaré’s! Exclaimed M. le Bourgeois: “At last we
have got a strong man for a President! For the first time, there will
be a master at the Élysée.” On all sides, indeed, it was agreed that
M. Poincaré’s election to the Presidency signified the collapse of the
tradition that the Chief of the State should be a figure-head, a mere
signer of documents, placed, none too ceremoniously, before him by his
Ministers.
Thus, a new régime had dawned. Poincaré was “going to wake things up”;
Poincaré was also “going to do things”; what precisely Poincaré was going
to do nobody could explain; but “Vive Poincaré,” was the cry of the
hour; and not only in luxurious, radiant Paris, but in grim, industrial
centres, dull, provincial towns, and remote, obscure hamlets. Such a
popularity that into the shop windows came Poincaré Pipes, Poincaré
Braces, Poincaré Walking Sticks, the Poincaré Safety Razor. Then, on
restaurant menus: Consommé Poincaré—Poulet Poincaré—Omelette Poincaré.
More Poincaré, smiling and bowing, on dizzy kinematograph films and in
the music hall revues; and imagine, if you can, the sale of Poincaré
photographs in the flashy arcade of the rue de Rivoli! “Poincaré and
Gaby Deslys—that’s what we are selling,” the shopkeepers stated. “But
Poincaré is surpassing the blonde, elegant Gaby.”
In a word, nothing but Poincaré, only Poincaré, until the announcement
that M. Lépine, Chief of the Paris Police, had tendered his resignation,
that his decision to retire was “irrevocable.” Then M. Lépine leading in
the photographic commerce of the rue de Rivoli: and M. Poincaré a poor
second, and the blonde Mademoiselle Deslys a remote third. Elsewhere and
everywhere, M. Lépine and his resignation superseded M. Poincaré and the
New Régime, as the one and only topic of conversation. For twenty years
the Chief of the Police had governed his own departments of Paris with
extraordinary skill. Throughout that period he had practically lived in
the streets: repressing riots, scattering criminals, dispersing Royalist
conspirators, controlling fires, directing all manner of grim or poignant
or delirious operations—a short, slender, insignificant-looking figure,
in ill-fitting clothes, a dusty “bowler” hat, and square, creaking boots.
With him, a shabby umbrella or a stout, common walking-stick, the latter
the only weapon he ever carried. Never more than four or five hours’
sleep: even then the telephone placed at his bedside.
It was all work with M. Lépine—all energy, all courage. The most familiar
figure in the streets, he soon became the most famous and most popular
of State servants. Cried M. le Bourgeois, whilst out walking with his
small son: “_Voilà—regarde bien—voilà_ Lépine!”
Everyone “saluted” him, all political parties (except the United
Socialists, who admire no one) applauded him. There was (with the same
solitary exception) general rejoicing when the dusty, intrepid little
Chief of the Police received the supreme distinction of the Grand Cross
of the Legion of Honour.
Yes; a popularity even vaster than M. Poincaré’s. Gossips remarked that
it was curious that the Presidency of the one should synchronise with
the resignation of the other. Critics agreed that if France had gained
a strong Chief of the State she had lost an incomparable Chief of the
Police. Alarm of M. le Bourgeois, who had got to regard M. Lépine as his
special protector. Once again, and for the hundredth time, M. Lépine
became the hero of the hour. And, as I have already recorded, there was
a rush for Lépine photographs—Lépine side and full face, Lépine gay or
severe, Lépine with Grand Cross or shabby umbrella, and a decided “slump”
in Poincarés and blonde, bejewelled Gaby Deslys’ in the rue de Rivoli
arcade.
Impossible, in the space at my disposal, to give more than an idea of M.
Lépine’s amazing record. Born at Lyons in 1846, he is now sixty-seven
years of age—a mere nothing for a Frenchman of genius. At thirty he was
already Under-Prefect of the Department of the Indre. Successively he
was Prefect of the Seine-et-Oise, General Secretary of the Préfecture
de Police, Governor-General of Algeria, and Chief of the Police. From a
biographical dictionary that devotes pages and pages to Louis Lépine, I
take the following passages:—“Actif et ferme, il parvint à rétablir les
relations rompues entre le Conseil Municipal de Paris et la Préfecture
de Police, et opéra d’importantes réformes.... Nommé Gouverneur-Général
de l’Algérie, il apporta en plan de grands travaux publics et de
réformes.... Nommé Conseiller d’État, il prit de nouveau la direction de
la Préfecture de Police. Il s’est occupé de refondre tous les règlements
administratifs relatifs au service de la navigation et de la circulation
dans Paris, et un vaste Répertoire de Police a paru sous sa direction.”
Thus it will be seen that M. Lépine was always “reforming,” for ever
reorganising, unfailingly “active” and “firm.” He it was who “reformed”
the nervous, excitable Paris police in the delirious Dreyfus days of
1899. To their astonishment he preached calm.
“Mais oui, mais oui, mais oui, du calme, nom d’un nom,” he expostulated.
“You charge the crowd for no reason. You thump the innocent bourgeois on
the back and tear off his collar. You exasperate the Latin Quarter. You
are making an inferno of the boulevards. You are bringing ridicule and
discredit on the force. In future, I myself shall direct operations.”
Dreyfus riots every day and every night, and M. Lépine in the thick of
them. Short and slender, he was swept about and almost submerged by the
Anti-Dreyfus mob. He lost his hat, his umbrella, but never his temper.
He was to be seen swarming up lamp-posts, that he might discover the
extent of the crowd and whether reinforcements of agitators were coming
up side streets, and from which particular windows stones, bottles and
lighted fusées were being hurled. His orders he issued by prearranged
gesticulations. Not only the police, but the Municipal and Republican
Guards, had been taught to understand the significance of his signals.
A wave of the arm, and it meant “charge.” But it was only in desperate
extremities that M. Lépine sent the crowd flying, battered and wounded.
Pressure was his policy; six or seven rows of policemen advancing slowly
yet heavily upon the manifestants, truncheon in hand and the formidable
horses and shining helmets of the Republican Guard in the rear. When,
upon a particularly tumultuous occasion, the “pressure” was resisted, and
a number of boulevard kiosks were blazing and heads, too, were on fire,
M. Lépine implored assistance—from Above.
“Send me rain,” he begged audibly of the heavens, “send me torrents of
rain.” And the heavens responded, so people affirmed. A few minutes
later the heavens sent M. Lépine thunder, lightning and a deluge that
reduced the blazing kiosks to hissing, sodden ruins; cleared the frantic
boulevards; allowed police, soldiers and even M. Lépine to go to bed.
But, on the other hand, caused Jules Guérin and his fellow outlaws and
conspirators against the Republic to exult wildly and grotesquely on the
roof of Fort Chabrol. For Guérin was short of water. The supply had been
cut off and Guérin’s only salvation was surrender or rain. And it rained,
and it poured and it thundered. The heavens were equally kind to Rebel,
and Chief of the Police. Up there on the roof of conspiring Fort Chabrol
assembled Guérin and his companions with baths, buckets and basins; with
jugs, glasses and mugs; all of which speedily overflowed with the rain.
Down there in the street, the soldiers in occupation of the besieged
thoroughfare stared upwards, open-mouthed, at the amazing spectacle on
the roof—Guérin and Company joining hands and dancing with glee amidst
their multitudinous rain-catching vessels; Guérin bending perilously over
the parapet and roaring forth between the explosions of thunder and the
flashes of lightning: “We have got enough water for months. Tell Lépine
we defy him.” Another jig from Guérin et Cie. Guérin once again at the
edge of the parapet, mockingly drinking the health of the soldiers below,
and then emptying baths full of water into the street and bellowing:
“Voilà de l’eau,” and performing such delirious, dangerous antics that it
was deemed necessary to telephone an account of the scene to the Chief of
the Police. “Let him dance his jigs all night in the rain; it will cool
him,” replied M. Lépine. “Je le connais: he is too clever to fall over
the parapet.”
Nor did Guérin capsize. Nor yet did M. Lépine put an end to the jigs
on the roof—to the rest of the Fort Chabrol farce—until Paris had been
appeased by the Rennes Court Martial verdict, and the acutest stage of
the Anti-Dreyfusard agitation died out amidst exclamations of: “C’est
fini! Quelle sacrée affaire! Quel cauchemar! Enfin, n’en parlons plus.”
After the lurid autumn of 1899 came a particularly bleak, cheerless
winter. So bitter was the weather that fond mothers kept their children
indoors, and thus Edouard and Yvonne yawned with boredom in their
nurseries, and quarrelled, and exchanged blows, and gave way to tears.
“Toys are not what they used to be,” complained a mother to M. Lépine.
“They are stupid or vulgar, and children get tired of them.”
This set M. Lépine thinking. Like all Frenchmen, a lover of children,
the Chief of the Police realised that the arrival of winter was a grief
and a blow to Edouard and Yvonne. If they couldn’t rejoice in the open,
they must be enabled to rejoice in their homes; and the way of rejoicing
at home is with toys. But toys, so said that mother, had deteriorated:
and this grave state of affairs M. Lépine resolved to investigate.
Behold him, therefore, gazing critically—officially—into the windows of
toy-shops, and hear him declaring, as the result of his inspections, that
the toys, truly enough, were old-fashioned, and vapid, and banal—poor
things to play with in the nursery after the Guignol and roundabouts
of the Luxembourg Gardens, and the other delights and surprises to be
enjoyed in summer _en plein air_. Thus “reforms” were imperative.
In a long, official circular M. Lépine informed the toy manufacturers of
Paris that, with the consent of the Government and with the approval of
the President of the Republic, an annual Toy Exhibition was to be held,
and that prizes and diplomas would be awarded to those manufacturers who
displayed the greatest originality in their work. However, not ungainly,
ugly originality. “Pas de golliwogs.” Messieurs les Apaches also
prohibited; and a stern, official reprimand to the toy-maker in whose
window M. Lépine had discovered a miniature guillotine.
“Des choses amiables, gaies, pratiques, douces, humaines, humoristiques.”
Toys to amuse and also to quicken Edouard and Yvonne’s imagination
and intellect. Well, the Paris toy-makers responded brilliantly. The
first exhibition was an overwhelming success, and to-day it has become
a State Institution. Not only is there the “Prize of the President of
the Republic,” but M. le Président himself visits the show. Then prizes
from the Presidents of the Chamber and Senate, prizes from every Cabinet
Minister, prizes from the Judges of the Paris Law Courts, and more prizes
from scientists, men of letters, the leading newspapers, the _haute
bourgeoisie_, the _grand monde_. Thus, what an inducement for the toy
manufacturers to do their utmost! This winter’s Exhibition I missed, but
a letter from a French father of five informed me that it had “surpassed”
itself. Continued my friend: “Des choses épatantes, merveilleuses,
inouïes! I confess, _mon vieux_, that I go there all by myself; yes,
without my five children.” Thus M. le Bourgeois (to which excellent
category of society my friend belongs) goes to the Lépine Exhibition
“on his own.” Surely only a Frenchman could find pleasure in that? And
surely only a French Chief of the Police—fancy suggesting such a thing
to Scotland Yard!—could, in the midst of his grim, poignant or delirious
duties, evince so charming and tender a consideration for children as to
realise that it is a question of interest to public order that children
shall have toys “original” enough to marvel at and rejoice over, during
the bleak months of winter. But, inevitably, as in all admirable works,
in all excellent reforms, there are drawbacks; and in this particular
case they are obvious. For instance, a whole “set” of the First Act of
_Chantecler_: innumerable chicks and chickens, the Blackbird in his cage,
the dog Patou in his kennel, proud, majestic Chantecler on the hedge of
the farm-yard, the radiant Hen Pheasant, the lurid-eyed Night Birds,
trees, haystacks, a pump... price 300 francs.
“Papa, do please buy me all this, immediately,” demands Yvonne
tremulously, passionately, her eyes shining, her cheeks aflame.
“Papa, I want all this,” shouts Edouard, pointing to a vast array
of soldiers, cannon, ambulances, aeroplanes and air-ships engaged in
military manœuvres. Price 420 francs.
“But you have only five francs each to spend. For the love of heaven, be
reasonable. Ah, _nom d’un nom_, all the world is looking and laughing at
us,” cries the unfortunate father.
Scowls and sulkiness from Edouard; tears and shrill hysterics from
Yvonne. When informed of these tragic scenes, M. Lépine exclaims: “Poor
little dears! But what can I do? Impossible to buy a whole farm-yard or
an army with a piece of five francs.”
After toys, let me take pictures—the incomparable Monna Lisa, who, when
She vanished, disturbed even the proverbial calm of M. Lépine. All France
sent him “clues.” Every post brought him shoals of letters that strangely
and severally denounced a Woman in a Shawl, Three Men in Blue Aprons,
a Man with a Sack, a Negro with a Diamond Ring, a Turk in a Fez, and
a Man Dressed as a Woman, as Monna Lisa’s base abductor. In each case
these singular beings were said to have been seen carrying an object
of the exact dimensions of the stolen picture. Also, their demeanour
“was excited,” their “hands trembled” as they clutched the precious
masterpiece, and they jumped into a passing cab or hurled themselves into
a train just as it was steaming out of the station. “Believe me, M. le
Préfet,” concluded M. Lépine’s incoherent informants, “believe me, I have
given you an exact description of the culprit.” Then, letters of abuse,
threatening letters, letters from practical jokers, letters demanding
interviews—all of which had (under French law) to be considered and
classified. Again, telegram upon telegram, and the telephone bell always
ringing.
“If I cannot speak to M. Lépine himself, I won’t speak to anyone. And
then the picture will be lost for ever,” stated a voice through the
telephone.
“Well, what is it?” demanded M. Lépine, at last coming to the machine.
“_Ecoutez-moi bien_, M. le Préfet. My name is Charles Henri Durand. I am
forty-seven years of age. I am a papermaker by profession. And I live on
the third floor of No. 16 rue de Rome,” related the voice through the
telephone.
“After that, after that! Quickly! _Au galop!_” cried M. Lépine.
“Monsieur le Préfet, my information is grave and I must not be hurried,”
continued the voice. “At the very hour of the theft of the picture I was
passing the Louvre. Suddenly, a man jostled me. He was carrying what was
undoubtedly a picture in a sack. He hastened down a side street, casting
suspicious glances about him. He was a Man with a Squint and——”
“Ah, zut,” cried the Chief of the Police, hanging up the receiver.
And on the top of all this incoherency, light-headedness. Always
and always, when Paris is shaken by a sensational _affaire_, some
light-headed soul loses what remains of his reason. On to the Place
de la Concorde came a pale-faced, wild-eyed man, with a chair. After
mounting the chair, he folded his arms across his chest and broke out
into a fixed, ghastly grin. As he stood motionless on his chair, always
grinning, a crowd inevitably assembled, and M. Lépine appeared.
“What are you doing there?” demanded the latter.
“Hush! I am Monna Lisa,” replied the Man with the Grin.
“Then at last we have found you!” exclaimed the Chief of the Police. “All
France has been mourning your loss. Come with me quickly. You must return
immediately to the Louvre.”
“Yes, yes,” assented the light-headed one, descending from his chair and
confidently passing his arm under the arm of M. Lépine. “Take me home to
the Louvre.”
A wonderful spectacle, the Man with the Grin disappearing on the arm of
the Chief of the Police, relating, as he went, that he had escaped from
his frame in the Louvre in the dead of the night.