The War of 1870
The spirit of revolution may be quenched at times in the populace of
Paris, but it is never entirely extinguished. Napoleon the Third had
held their turbulence in check for nearly twenty years, but now all
signs seemed to indicate that an outbreak was imminent. The Emperor’s
best friends advised him to identify himself with the liberal party,
which in case of any change of sovereignty would prove a valuable
safeguard to his young and inexperienced son. Others were of the opinion
that a war with Prussia was necessary to preserve the Empire and revive
popular loyalty to the name of Napoleon. That such a war would at one
blow shatter the proud imperial edifice, no one dreamed, least of all
the Empress, who was at the head of this party.
Napoleon chose the former course. At the general election of 1870, the
change from an autocratic to a constitutional government was approved by
about eight million votes. For the other alternative he had a decided
distaste. His watchword, “empire is peace,” was no empty phrase on his
lips, in spite of the wars into which he had been forced by policy. When
at the victorious battle of Solferino he saw whole ranks of Austrians
mowed down by his artillery, he ordered the firing to cease, in spite of
the protests of his officers; and long afterwards he could never think
or speak of this bloody engagement without a shudder. One of his most
cherished plans was to bring about a general disarmament of all the
great powers, and a presentiment that his ruin was near at hand made him
the more averse to any conflict with Prussia. The pressure in favor of
it grew steadily greater, however, and, weary of the burden of
government, ill in body and mind, he finally yielded. War was declared
on the most trivial pretext, July 14, 1870.
Heretofore the French people had shown no special interest in the
subject, and the news came as a surprise; yet once the die was cast, the
prospect of war excited the wildest enthusiasm. The Emperor and Empress
were greeted with acclamation: the horses were taken from their coach
and drawn by the youth of France; the imperial pair rode in triumph
through the streets of Paris. The whole nation was aroused. Volunteers
flocked to the banner of France. Shouts of, “To Berlin! To Berlin!” and
the strains of the Marseillaise, filled the air. The ferment that had
long been brewing having now found an outlet, the riotous element
hastened to the frontier. Every day fresh bodies of troops departed.
Paris was in high spirits, and news from the seat of war was awaited
with confident assurance. From day to day it was expected that the
Emperor would join the army; but it was not till the twenty-eighth of
July that he finally took his departure, leaving his wife as Regent
during his absence, and accompanied by the Prince Imperial, who was to
have his first experience of warfare.
When Napoleon questioned Lebœuf, the Minister of War, concerning the
preparations for war, he was assured that all was complete. The army was
ready; everything in order, to the smallest detail. Yet how far from
truth, alas, were these empty phrases! Reforms that had been begun under
the preceding ministry were far from being carried out. Army
organization was wofully defective. Even so important a post as Metz was
insufficiently protected. Contractors defrauded the Government. All was
confusion and lack of proper equipment. Under these conditions it is not
strange that the overthrow of the Germans did not speedily follow. After
some delay—far too long to suit the eager Parisians—came the first
despatch, a message of victory. The indecisive action at Saarbrücken was
construed into a glorious beginning of the war. The Emperor’s telegram
to his wife was printed all over Europe and stamped the Prince Imperial
with an impression of ridicule that only his life-blood, afterwards shed
at Itelezi, was able entirely to obliterate.
“Louis has received his baptism of fire. He showed admirable calmness
and did not once lose his composure. One of General Frossard’s
divisions has taken the heights overlooking Saarbrücken on the left.
Prussia will offer little resistance. We were at the front, with
musket and cannon balls falling all about us. Louis has kept a bullet
that struck close beside him. One of the soldiers wept to see him so
brave. Our total loss amounts to one officer and ten men.
“Napoleon.”
This news was received with satisfaction but neither surprise nor
enthusiasm. It was no more than was expected, and even in France there
was much laughter over Lulu’s “baptism of fire.” But soon came a change.
The German victories of Weissenburg, Wörth, and Forbach followed in
rapid succession. At the French headquarters an attempt was made to
suppress the news of these defeats and no word from the seat of war was
received in Paris. The ministers who went to St. Cloud to consult with
the Empress found her in tears, and full of anxiety at the long silence.
At length, however, rumors of the disasters reached the capital, and the
people were beside themselves with rage and despair.
Early on the morning of Sunday, the seventh of August, the Empress came
to Paris and immediately sent for the ministers and the presidents of
the Legislative Assembly and the Senate. The next day Paris was declared
in a state of siege and a proclamation issued by the Empress, urging the
citizens to maintain order and rally to the support of France that her
losses might be retrieved. She already imagined herself at the head of
affairs, taking active measures for the defence of the capital, cheering
on the troops, and firing them with courage, a role that particularly
appealed to her fancy; but the appeal made little impression. The
people, only too familiar with her fondness for theatrical effect and
admiration, clamored for action. Declamation was little to the purpose.
They wanted victories, not comedies!
Public irritation vented itself first of all against the ministry, which
was forced to resign. Émile Ollivier was succeeded by the aged General
Montauban, Count of Palikao, who had distinguished himself in the war
against China; while Trochu was appointed Governor of Paris. Further to
satisfy popular sentiment, Napoleon was forced to resign his position as
Generalissimo in favor of Marshal Bazaine, who accordingly assumed the
chief command of the army.
Under normal conditions the Emperor’s place would now have been in
Paris; but the new ministry, as well as the Empress herself, protested
against his return. Disheartened by the long delays, sore with
disappointed hopes, and furious at the supposed mistakes of the
generals, the people of Paris were ripe for revolution, and only a spark
was needed to set them aflame. The imperial pair were overwhelmed with
scorn and abuse. Already their throne was tottering, and with the
victorious advance of the Germans, conviction of its speedy downfall
grew daily stronger.
Never before had the Empress found herself in so critical a situation.
The new ministry lacked the confidence of the public and could be of no
help to her. She had no tried general to depend upon, and every trace of
the troops’ devotion to the house of Napoleon had long since vanished.
She stood alone and defenceless against an enraged populace only
awaiting a pretext to hurl itself upon her. With this daily-increasing
excitement, the brawls and dissensions caused by the army’s defeats on
the frontier, and universal anxiety for the fate of the country, Eugénie
began to understand how grievously she had erred in urging on this
“little war,” as she had referred to it in the beginning of the
campaign. Fears as to the fate of her own husband and child made her
realize for the first time the suffering of thousands of other wives and
mothers. She felt the necessity of uniting with them in some active
work, and was tireless in her efforts to atone in some measure for the
wrong she had thoughtlessly committed.
In the days of prosperity her worst qualities had been uppermost; she
had not shown the better side of her nature. It remained for misfortune
to reveal her real strength and nobility of character. In spite of the
feeling against her, she went about everywhere, personally
superintending the care of the wounded. The brilliant salons of the
Tuileries were turned into hospital wards. A new spirit seemed to
animate her and to lend her fresh strength in this time of danger. At
night she rarely slept, and even when taking a brief rest during the
day, her attendants had orders to awaken her the moment any message or
despatch arrived. No matter how worn out or exhausted she might be, she
would force herself to rise and hasten back to the bedside of the
wounded where there was so much suffering to relieve, though she had no
time to think of her own misery. Yet often in her own chamber, haunted
by the agonized cries of the dying, she would pace up and down wringing
her hands as if in bodily pain, tortured by anguish of soul. In these
hours she prayed long and fervently for her dear ones and for her
people, the women who suffered like herself, the brave men who were
fighting for their country. A feverish activity possessed her. She tried
to persuade Austria to assist France. She wrote to the Queen of England
imploring her to intervene for the sake of peace. She pardoned over two
thousand criminals. She superintended the preparations for the defence
of Paris and held innumerable consultations with Trochu, in whom she
placed the blindest and most implicit confidence. At the same time,
however, she took the precaution of having all her important private and
family papers conveyed on board the French squadron, as well as some of
the principal works of art from the Louvre. She also had a list of the
crown jewels made, to secure her against suspicion in case of extremity.
Her own personal ornaments were sent to her mother in Spain. The strain
and over-exertion of these weeks seriously affected her health and
wrought a startling change in her appearance. Tortured with suspense,
she waited from day to day for news from the seat of war; yet all that
came brought so little comfort that her advisers thought best to conceal
it from the people as far as possible.
At length came the final blow. On the afternoon of the third of
September, as the Minister of Foreign Affairs was on his way to the
Tuileries, he was met by the Superintendent of Telegraphs.
“I have just received a most important telegram for the Empress from the
Emperor,” he said. “I usually attend myself to the messages that pass
between Their Majesties, but this one I have not the courage to
deliver.” It was the well-known despatch:
“The army is defeated and has surrendered. I myself am a prisoner.
“Napoleon.”
The Minister went at once to Eugénie with this terrible news, the
reality of which exceeded all that her darkest fears had painted, and
her feelings at this moment may be better imagined than described. Yet
even then she did not consider her own fate. Her only thought was for
France; and she firmly refused to employ the troops in her own defence
against the people, for that would have added the terrors of civil
strife to those of war. Late that evening the bad news reached the city,
but instead of uniting to make a brave stand against the enemy, the
populace rose in arms, and it was plain that the Empire’s days were
numbered. The streets were filled with surging throngs, shouting “Down
with the Emperor! Down with the Empress! Long live the Republic!” On all
sides was heard the expression, “An Emperor dies, but does not
surrender.”
About one o’clock that night the Legislature held a special session. Not
a member was absent, and the galleries were crowded. Amid a deathly
silence the president arose. He said:
“A calamity has brought us together here at this unwonted hour. I have
called the session to discuss our present situation.”
Not a sound broke the stillness. All eyes were fixed on the Ministers’
bench. Count Palikao rose. The aged hero was no orator, but his voice
was firm as he announced the disaster of Sedan. He added, slowly:
“With such news it is impossible for the ministry to enter into any
discussion before to-morrow. I was called from my bed only a short time
since, to come here.”
The president of the Exchequer then put the question as to whether the
meeting should be adjourned. “Aye-aye,” shouted several voices. Suddenly
a bushy head arose, and a loud, discordant voice made three
motions:—“Deposition of the Emperor; Appointment of a provisional
Government; Retention of Trochu as Governor of Paris.” It was Jules
Favre.
Only members of the Extreme Left subscribed to these motions, which were
received with surprising indifference. One member of the Right protested
against the Emperor’s deposition, but an ominous silence greeted his
words. For the rest of the night a similar silence reigned throughout
the city. It was the hush before the storm.
That Eugénie was far from suspecting an uprising is shown by the fact
that she made absolutely no preparations for flight. The next morning
she arose early, heard mass in her private chapel, and made her rounds
of the hospitals as usual. At nine o’clock she received General Trochu,
who, although only a few hours since placed at the head of the new
Government, still solemnly protested his loyalty to her. Later in the
forenoon a deputation waited on the Regent to inform her of the
appointment of a commission to assume control of the Government in her
place, in other words, to request her resignation. She listened quietly
to their explanation and dismissed them with the following words:
“What you mean to offer me, gentlemen, is the pledge of a peaceful
future, on condition that I renounce the present and abandon in time of
danger the post entrusted to me. That I cannot do. To such terms I
certainly will not subscribe. Go back to the Assembly and say to General
Palikao and his colleagues that I rely upon them implicitly; that I
grant them full power to take any steps proper for the interest of the
country, and approve the same in advance.”
Meanwhile the public tumult increased in violence. The red flag was
hoisted everywhere. A boy of nine years even climbed up and fastened one
to the top of the bronze railing that surrounded the Tuileries.
Thousands filled the Place de la Concorde, roaring the Marseillaise at
the top of their voices. The Assembly had again met, but so many forced
their way into the chamber, and the uproar was so great, that it was
impossible to transact any business.
“Not here shall the Republic be proclaimed,” shouted Gambetta, “but at
the Hôtel de Ville!”
This suggestion met with great applause, and the deputies adjourned to
that edifice, where a Government of National Defence was formed. The
news that the Empire no longer existed quickly spread and was hailed
with wildest enthusiasm. Not a voice was raised in behalf of the fallen
dynasty. Vast throngs invaded the Hôtel de Ville and valuable portraits
of the Emperor and Empress were hacked with knives, trampled under foot,
and tossed out of the windows. The imperial emblems were torn to pieces,
and the eagle, which could not be easily removed, was covered with
paper.
“At the windows of the huge barracks filled with troops supposed to be
loyal unto death to the Emperor,” says an eye-witness, “I saw soldiers
laughing, waving their handkerchiefs, and shouting ‘Long live the
Republic!’ Strangers hugged and kissed one another for joy. In the
neighborhood of the Pont Neuf, people mounted on high ladders were busy
pulling down busts of the Emperor, which were carried in mock state and
flung into the Seine, shouts of laughter and applause greeting the
splash with which the mutilated images of their former sovereign struck
the water.”