The news of the battle of Weissenburg on August 4th was a trouble, but
this chiefly manifested itself in profound astonishment. What? They had
suffered a defeat? But one did not begin to be victorious at once;
victory would soon follow now. And, indeed, next morning, the news of a
victory ran like lightning about the town. It had been so confidently
expected that people quite neglected to make enquiries as to how and to
what extent it was authenticated. There was bunting everywhere; all the
horses had flags on their heads, people went about with little flags in
their hats. As the day wore on it turned out to be all a false report,
and the depression was great.
Next evening, as I came out of the _Théâtre Français_, there stood the
Emperor's awful telegram to read, several copies of it posted up on the
columns of the porch: "Macmahon has lost a battle. Frossard is
retreating. Put Paris in a condition of defence as expeditiously as
possible!" Then, like everyone else, I understood the extent of the
misfortune. Napoleon had apparently lost his head; it was very
unnecessary to publish the conclusion of the telegram.
Immediately afterwards was issued the Empress' proclamation, which was
almost silly. "I am with you," it ran--a charming consolation for the
Parisians.
Astonishment produced a kind of paralysis; anger looked round for an
object on which to vent itself, but hardly knew whom to select.
Besides, people had really insufficient information as to what had
happened. The _Siècle_ printed a fairly turbulent article at once, but
no exciting language in the papers was required. Even a foreigner could
perceive that if it became necessary to defend Paris after a second
defeat, the Empire would be at an end.
The exasperation which had to vent itself was directed at first against
the Ministers, and ridiculously enough the silence imposed on the Press
concerning the movements of the troops (_le mutisme_) was blamed for
the defeat at Weissenburg; then the exasperation swung back and was
directed against the generals, who were dubbed negligent and incapable,
until, ponderously and slowly, it turned against the Emperor himself.
But with the haste that characterises French emotion, and the rapidity
with which events succeeded one another, even this exasperation was of
short duration. It raged for a few days, and then subsided for want of
contradiction of its own accord, for the conviction spread that the
Emperor's day was irrevocably over and that he continued to exist only
in name. A witness to the rapidity of this _volte face_ were three
consecutive articles by Edmond About in _Le Soir_. The first, written
from his estate in Saverne, near Strassburg. was extremely bitter
against the Emperor; it began: "_Napoleone tertio feliciter regnante_,
as people said in the olden days, I have seen with my own eyes, what I
never thought to see: Alsace overrun by the enemy's troops." The next
article, written some days later, in the middle of August, when About
had come to Paris, called the Emperor, without more ado, "The last
Bonaparte," and began: "I see that I have been writing like a true
provincial; in the provinces at the moment people have two curses on
their lips, one for the Prussians, and one for those who began the war;
in Paris, they have got much farther; there they have only one curse on
their lips, one thought, and one wish; there are names that are no more
mentioned in Paris than if they belonged to the twelfth century."
What he wrote was, at the moment, true and correct. I was frequently
asked in letters what the French now said about the government and the
Emperor. The only answer was that all that side of the question was
antiquated in Paris. If I were to say to one of my acquaintances: _"Eh!
bien, que dites-vous de l'empereur_?" the reply would be: _"Mais, mon
cher, je ne dis rien de lui. Vous voyez si bien que moi, qu'il ne
compte plus. C'est un homme par terre. Tout le monde le sait; la gauche
même ne l'attaque plus."_ Even General Trochu, the Governor of the
capital, did not mention Napoleon's name in his proclamation to Paris.
He himself hardly dared to send any messages. After having been obliged
to surrender the supreme command, he followed the army, like a mock
emperor, a kind of onlooker, a superfluous piece on the board. People
said of him: "_On croit qu'il se promène un peu aux environs de
Châlons._"
As can be seen from this, the deposition of the Emperor had taken place
in people's consciousness, and was, so to speak, publicly settled,
several weeks before the battle of Sedan brought with it his surrender
to the King of Prussia and the proclamation of the French Republic. The
Revolution of September 4th was not an overturning of things; it was
merely the ratification of a state of affairs that people were already
agreed upon in the capital, and had been even before the battle of
Gravelotte.
In Paris preparations were being made with the utmost energy for the
defence of the city. All men liable to bear arms were called up, and
huge numbers of volunteers were drilled. It was an affecting sight to
see the poor workmen drilling on the Place du Carrousel for enrolment
in the volunteer corps. Really, most of them looked so bloodless and
wretched that one was tempted to think they went with the rest for the
sake of the franc a day and uniform.