there the day before, and who would leave it before the sun set that
evening, but they bore themselves so modestly that their presence
could not disturb the sleepy, sunny beauty of the grand old gardens
and of the silent thoroughfares, and when we rattled up to the Hôtel
des Réservoirs at one o'clock we made more of a disturbance with the
coach-horn than had the arrival of both Chambers of Deputies. These
gentlemen were at _déjeuner_ when we arrived, and eating and drinking
as leisurely and good-naturedly as though they had nothing in hand of
more importance than a few calls to make or a game of cards at the
club. Indeed, it looked much more as though Versailles had been invaded
by a huge wedding-party than by a convention of Presidential electors.
Some of the Deputies had brought their wives with them, and few as they
were, they leavened and enlivened the group of black coats as the same
number of women of no other nation could have done, and the men came
from different tables to speak to them, to drink their health, and to
pay them pretty compliments; and the good fellows of the two Chambers
hustled about like so many maîtres d'hôtel seeing that such a one had
a place at the crowded tables, that the salad of this one was being
properly dressed, and that another had a match for his cigarette.
Besides the Deputies, there were a half-dozen young and old
Parisians--those who make it a point to see everything and to be seen
everywhere. They would have attended quite as willingly a fête of
flowers, or a prize-fight between two English jockeys at Longchamps,
and at either place they would have been as completely at home.
They were typical Parisians of the highest world, to whom even the
selection of a President for all France was not without its interest.
With them were the diplomats, who were pretending to take the change
of executive seriously, as representatives of the powers, but who were
really whispering that it would probably bring back the leadership of
the fashionable world to the Élysée, where it should be, and that it
meant the reappearance of many royalist families in society, and the
inauguration of magnificent functions, and the reopening of ballrooms
long unused.
It was throughout a pretty, lazy, well-bred scene. Outside the entrance
to the hotel, coachmen with the cockades of the different embassies in
their hats were standing at ease in their shirtsleeves, and with their
pipes between their teeth; and the gentlemen, having finished their
breakfast, strolled out into the court-yard and watched the hostlers
rubbing down the coach-horses, or walked up the hill to the palace,
where the boy sentries were hugging their guns, and waving back the
few surprised tourists who had come to look at the pictures in the
historical gallery, and who did not know that the palace on that day
was being used for the prologue of a new historical play.
[Illustration: "TO BRING A QUEEN BACK TO PARIS"]
At the gates leading to the great Court of Honor there were possibly
two hundred people in all. They came from the neighboring streets, and
not from Paris. None of these people spoke in tones louder than those
of ordinary converse, and they speculated with indolent interest as to
the outcome of the afternoon's voting. A young man in a brown straw
hat found an objection to Casimir-Perier as a candidate because he was
so rich, but he withdrew his objection when an older man in a blouse
pointed out that Casimir-Perier would make an excellent appearance on
horseback.
"The President of France," he said, "must be a man who can look well on
a horse;" and the crowd of old women in white caps, and boy soldiers
with their hands on their baggy red breeches, from the barracks across
the square, nodded their heads approvingly. It was a most interesting
sight when compared with the anxious, howling mob that surrounds the
building in which a Presidential convention is being held at home.
It is also interesting to remember that a special telephone wire was
placed in the Chamber at Versailles in order that the news of the
election might be communicated to the newspaper offices in Paris,
and that this piece of enterprise was considered so remarkable that
it was commented upon by the entire newspaper press of that city.
In Chicago, at the time of the last Presidential convention, when a
nomination merely and not an election was taking place, the interest
of the people justified the Western Union Telegraph Company in sending
out fifteen million words from the building during the three days of
the convention. Wires ran from it directly to the offices of all the
principal newspapers from San Francisco to Boston, and in Chicago
itself there were two hundred extra operators, and relays of horsemen
galloping continually with "copy" from the convention to the main
offices of the different telegraph companies.
This merely shows a difference of temperament: the American likes
to know what has happened while it is hot, and to know all that has
happened. The European and the Parisian, on this occasion at least, was
content to wait at a café in ease and comfort until he was told the
result. He did not feel that he could change that result in any way by
going out to Versailles in the hot sun and cheering his candidate from
the outside of an iron fence.
At the gate of the Place d'Armes there was a crowd of fifty people,
watched by a few hundred more from under the shade of the trees and
the awnings of the restaurants around the square. The dust rose in
little eddies, and swept across the square in yellow clouds, and the
people turned their backs to it and shrugged their shoulders and waited
patiently. Inside of the Court of Honor a single line of lancers stood
at their horses' heads, their brass helmets flashing like the signals
of a dozen heliographs. Officers with cigarettes and heavily braided
sleeves strolled up and down, and took themselves much more seriously
than they did the matter in hand. A dozen white-waistcoated and
high-hatted Deputies standing outside of the Chamber suggested nothing
more momentous or national than a meeting of a Presbyterian General
Assembly. Bicyclers of both sexes swung themselves from their machines
and peered curiously through the iron fence, and, seeing nothing more
interesting than the fluttering pennants of the lancers, mounted their
wheels again and disappeared in the clouds of dust.
In the meanwhile Casimir-Perier has been elected on the first ballot,
which was taken without incident, save when one Deputy refused to
announce his vote as the roll was called until he was addressed as
"citizen," and not as "monsieur." This silly person was finally
humored, and the result was declared, and Casimir-Perier left the
hall to put on a dress-suit in order that he might receive the
congratulations of his friends. As the first act of the new President,
this must not be considered as significant of the particular man who
did it, but as illustrating the point of view of his countrymen, who
do not see that if the highest office in the country cannot lend
sufficient dignity to the man who holds it, a dress-suit or his
appearance on horseback is hardly able to do so. The congratulations
last a long time, and are given so heartily and with such eloquence
that the new President weeps while he grasps the hand of his late
confrères, and says to each, "You must help me; I need you all."
Neither is the fact that the President wept on this occasion
significant of anything but that he was laboring under much excitement,
and that the temperament of the French is one easily moved. People who
cannot see why a strong man should weep merely because he has become
a President must remember that Casimir-Perier wears the cross of the
Legion of Honor for bravery in action on the field of battle.
The congratulations come to an end at last, and the new President
leaves the palace, and takes his place in the open carriage that has
been waiting his pleasure these last two hours. There is a great crowd
around the gate now, all Versailles having turned out to cheer him,
and he can hear them crying "Vive le Président!" from far across the
length of the Court of Honor.
M. Dupuy, his late rival at the polls, seats himself beside him on his
left, and two officers in uniform face him from the front. Before his
carriage are two open lines of cavalry, proudly conscious in their
steel breastplates and with their carbines on the hip that they are
to convoy the new President to Paris; and behind him, in close order,
are the lancers, with their flashing brass helmets, and their pennants
fluttering in the wind. The horses start forward with a sharp clatter
of hoofs on the broad stones of the square, the Deputies raise their
high hats, and with a jangling of steel chains and swords, and with
the pennants snapping in the breeze like tiny whips, the new President
starts on his triumphal ride into Paris. The colossal statues of
France's great men, from Charlemagne to Richelieu, look down upon him
curiously as he whirls between them to the iron gateway and disappears
in the alley of mounted men and cheering civilians. He is out of it
in a moment, and has galloped on in a whirling cloud of yellow dust
towards the city lying seven miles away, where, six months later, by
his unexpected resignation, he is to create a consternation as intense
as that which preceded his election.
It would be interesting to know of what Casimir-Perier thought as he
rode through the empty streets in the cool of the summer evening,
startling the villagers at their dinners, and bringing them on a run
to the doors by the ringing jangle of his mounted men and the echoing
hoofs. Perhaps he thought of the anarchists who might attempt his life,
or of those who succeeded with the man whose place he had taken, or,
what is more likely, he gave himself up to the moment, and said to
himself, as each new face was framed by a window or peered through a
doorway: "Yes, it is the new President of France, Casimir-Perier; not
only of France, but of all her colonies. By to-night they will know in
Siam, in Tunis, in Algiers, and in the swamps of Dahomey that there is
a new step on the floor, and governors of provinces, and native rulers
of barbarous states, and _sous-préfets_, and pretenders to the throne
of France, will consider anxiously what the change means to them, and
will be measuring their fortunes with mine."
The carriage and its escort enter the cool shadows of the Bois de
Boulogne at Passy, and pass Longchamps, where the French President
annually reviews the army of France, and where now the victorias and
broughams and fiacres draw to one side; and he notes the look of amused
interest on the faces of their occupants as his outriders draw rapidly
nearer, and the smiles of intelligence as they comprehend that it is
the new President, and he catches a glimpse out of the corner of his
eye of nodding faces, and hats half raised in salute as he gallops
past. It must have been a pleasant drive. Very few men have taken it.
Very few men have swept round the circle of the Arc de Triomphe and
seen the mass of glittering carriages stretching far down the avenue
part and make way for them on either side.
Casimir-Perier's brief term included many imbitterments, but it is a
question if they will ever destroy the sweetness of that moment when
power first touched him as he was borne back to Paris the President of
France; and in his retirement he will recall that ride in the summer
twilight, which the refractory Deputies who caused his downfall have
never taken, and hear again the people cheering at Versailles, and the
galloping horses, and see the crowd that waited for him in the Place de
la Concorde and ran beside his carriage across the bridge.
* * * * *
Although the funeral procession was not to leave the Élysée until ten
o'clock on Sunday morning, the thrifty citizens of Paris began to
prepare for it as early as eleven o'clock on Saturday night. The Champs
Élysées at that hour was lined with tables, boxes, and ladders, and
any other portable object that could afford from its top a view of the
pageant and standing-room, for which one might reasonably ask a franc.
This barricade stretched in an unbroken front, which extended far back
under the trees from the Avenue Marigny to the Place de la Concorde,
where it spread out over the raised sidewalks and around the fountains
and islands of safety, until the square was transformed into what
looked like a great market-place. It was one of the most curious sights
that Parisians have ever seen in time of peace. Over four thousand
people were encamped around these temporary stands, some drinking and
eating, others sleeping, and others busily and noisily engaged in
erecting still more stands, while the falling of the boards that were
to form them rattled as they fell from the carts to the asphalt like
the reports of musketry. Each stand was lit by a lantern and a smoking
lamp; and the men and women, as they moved about in the half-darkness,
or slept curled up beneath the carts and tables, suggested the bivouac
of an army, or that part of a besieged city where the people had
gathered with their household goods for safety.
The procession the next morning moved down the Champs Élysées and
across the Place de la Concorde and along the Rue de Rivoli to Notre
Dame, from whence, after the ceremony there, it proceeded on to the
Panthéon. All of this line of march was guarded on either side by
double lines of infantry, and one can obtain an idea of how great was
the crowd behind them by the fact that on the morning of the procession
five hundred people were taken in ambulances to the different hospitals
of Paris. This included those who had fainted in the crush, or who
had been overcome by the heat, or who had fallen from one of the many
tottering scaffoldings. Each of the great vases along the iron fence
of the Tuileries held one or two men, one of whom sat opposite us
across the Rue de Rivoli, who had been there six hours, like Stylites
on his pillar, except that the Parisian had an opera-glass, a morning
paper, and a bottle of red wine to keep him company. The trees in the
Tuileries were blackened with men, and the sky-line of every house-top
moved with them. The crowd was greatest perhaps in the Place de la
Concorde, where it spread a black carpet over the great square, which
parted and fell away before the repeated charges of the cavalry like a
piece of cloth before a pair of shears. It was a most orderly crowd,
and an extremely good-humored one, and it manifested no strong feeling
at any time, except over two features of the procession, which had
nothing to do with the death of Carnot. Except when there was music,
which was much too seldom, the crowd chattered and laughed as it might
have done at a purely military function, and only the stern hisses of a
few kept the majority from applauding any one who passed for whom they
held an especial interest.
The procession left the Élysée at ten o'clock, to the accompaniment of
minute-guns from the battery on the pier near the Chamber of Deputies.
It was led by a very fine body of cuirassiers, who presented a better
appearance than any of the soldiers in the procession. It was not the
great military display that had been expected; there was no artillery
in line, and the navy was not represented, save by a few guards around
the wreath from the officers of that particular service. The regiments
of infantry, who were followed by the cavalry, lacked form, and marched
as though they had not convinced themselves that what they were doing
was worth doing well. The infantry was followed by the mourning-wreaths
sent by the Senate and by the different monarchs of Europe. These
wreaths form an important and characteristic part of the funeral of
a great man in France, and as the French have studied this form of
expressing their grief for some time, they produce the most magnificent
and beautiful tributes, of greater proportions and in better taste than
any that can be seen in any other country in the world. The larger of
these wreaths were hung from great scaffoldings, supported on floats,
each drawn by four or six horses. Some of these were so large that a
man standing upright within them could not touch the opposite inner
edges with his finger-tips. They were composed entirely of orchids or
violets, with bands of purple silk stretching from side to side, and
bearing the names of the senders in gold letters. The wreath sent
by the Emperor of Russia was given a place by itself, and mounted
magnificently on a car draped with black, and surrounded by a special
guard of military and servants of the household. The wreaths of the
royalties were followed by more soldiers, and then came the black and
silver catafalque that bore the body of the late President. The wheels
of this car were muffled with cloth, and the horses that drew it were
completely hidden under trappings of black and silver; the reins were
broad white ribbons, and there was a mute at each horse's head. As the
car passed, there was the first absolute silence of the morning, and
many people crossed themselves, and all of the men stood bareheaded.
Separated from the catafalque by but a few rods, and walking quite
alone, was the new President, Casimir-Perier. There were soldiers
and attendants between him and the line of soldiers which guarded
the sidewalks, but he was alone in that there was no one near him.
According to the protocol he should not have been there at all, as
the etiquette of this function ruled that the new President should
not intrude his person upon the occasion when the position held by
his predecessor is being officially recognized for the last time.
Casimir-Perier, however, chose to disregard the etiquette of this
protocol, arguing that the occasion was exceptional, and that no one
had a better right to mourn for the late President than the man who
had succeeded to the dangers and responsibilities of that office. He
was also undoubtedly moved by the fact that it was generally believed
that his life would be attempted if he did walk conspicuously in the
procession. Had Carnot died a natural death, Casimir-Perier's presence
at the funeral would have been in debatable taste, but Carnot's
assassination, and the threats which hung thick in the air, made the
President take the risk he did, in spite of the fact that Carnot had
been murdered in a public place, and not on account of it.
It was distinctly a courageous thing for him to do, and it was done
against the wishes of his best friends and the entreaties of his
family, who spent the entire night before the procession in a chapel
praying for his safety. He walked erect, with his eyes turned down, and
with his hat at his side. He was in evening dress, with the crimson
sash of the Legion of Honor across his breast, and he presented a fine
and soldierly bearing, and made an impression, both by his appearance
and by his action, that could not have been gained so soon in any other
manner.
The embassies and legations followed Casimir-Perier in an irregular
mass of glittering groups. All of these men were on foot. There was no
exception permitted to this rule; and it was interesting to see Lord
Dufferin in the uniform of a viceroy of India, which he wore instead
of his diplomatic uniform, marching in the dust in the same line with
the firemen and letter-carriers. The ambassadors and their attachés
were undoubtedly the most brilliant and picturesque features of the
occasion, and the United States ambassador and his secretaries were,
on account of the contrast their black-and-white evening dress made
to the colors and ribbons of the others, on this occasion, the most
conspicuous and appropriately dressed men present.
[Illustration:
"THE GIRL WHO REPRESENTED ALSACE"]
But what best pleased the French people were two girls dressed in the
native costumes of Alsace and Lorraine. They headed the deputation
from those provinces. The girl who represented Alsace was particularly
beautiful, with long black hair parted in the middle, and hanging down
her back in long plaits. She wore the characteristic head-dress of
the Alsacian women, and a short red skirt, black velvet bodice, and
black stockings. She carried the French flag in front of her draped in
crêpe, and as she stepped briskly forward the wind blew the black
bow on her hair and the folds of the flag about her face, and gave
her a living and spirited air that in no way suited the occasion, but
which delighted the populace. They applauded her and her companion
from one end of the march to the other, and the spectacle must have
rendered the German ambassador somewhat uncomfortable, and made him
wish for a billet among a people who could learn to forget. The only
other feature of the procession which called forth applause, which no
one tried to suppress, was the presence in it of an old general who
was mistaken by the spectators for Marshal Canrobert. This last of the
marshals of France was too ill to march in the funeral cortége; but
the old soldier, who looked not unlike him, and whose limping gait and
bent back and crutch-stick led him to be mistaken for the marshal,
served the purpose quite as well. One wondered if it did not embarrass
the veteran to find himself so suddenly elevated into the rôle of
popular idol of the hour; but perhaps he persuaded himself that it was
his white hair and crutch and many war-medals which called forth the
ovation, and that he deserved it on his own account--as who can say he
did not?
The unpleasant incident of the day was one which was unfortunately
acted in full view of the balconies of the hotels Meurice and
Continental. These were occupied by most of the foreigners visiting
Paris, and were virtually the grandstands of the spectacle.
In the Rue Castiglione, which separated the two hotels, and in full
sight of these critical onlookers, a horse was taken with the blind
staggers, and upset a stand, throwing those who sat upon it out into
the street. In an instant the crash of the falling timbers and the
cries of the half-dozen men and women who had been precipitated into
the street struck panic into the crowd of sight-seers on the pavement
and among the firemen who were at that moment marching past. The terror
of another dynamite outrage was in the minds of all, and without
waiting to learn what had happened, or to even look, the thousands of
people broke into a confused mass of screaming, terrified creatures,
running madly in every direction, and changing the quiet solemnity
of the moment into a scene of horror and panic. The firemen dropped
the wreath they were carrying and fled with the crowd; and then the
French soldiers who were lining the pavements, to the astonishment
and disgust of the Americans and English on the balconies, who were
looking down like spectators at a play, tucked their guns under their
arms and joined in the mad rush for safety. It was a sight that made
even the women on the balconies keep silence in shame for them. It was
pathetic, ridiculous, and inexcusable, and the boy officers on duty
would have gained the sympathy of the unwilling spectators had they
cut their men down with their swords, and shown the others that he who
runs away from a falling grandstand is not needed to live to fight
a German army later. It is true that the men who ran away were only
boys fresh from the provinces, with dull minds filled with the fear of
what an anarchist might do; but it showed a lack of discipline that
should have made the directors of the Salon turn the military pictures
in that gallery to the wall, until the picture exhibited in the Rue
Castiglione was effaced from the minds of the visiting strangers.
Imagine a squad of New York policemen running away from a horse with
the blind staggers, and not, on the contrary, seizing the chance to
club every one within reach back to the sidewalk! Remember the London
bobby who carried a dynamite bomb in his hand from the hall of the
Houses of Parliament, and the Chicago police who walked into a real
anarchist mob over the bodies of their comrades, and who answered the
terrifying bombs with the popping of their revolvers! It is surprising
that Napoleon, looking down upon the scene in the Rue Castiglione from
the top of his column, did not turn on his pedestal.
After such an exhibition as this it was only natural that the people
should turn from the soldiers to find the greater interest in the
miles of wreaths that came from every corner of France. These were the
expressions of the truer sympathy with the dead President, and there
seemed to be more sentiment and real regret in the little black bead
wreaths from the villages in the south and west of France than there
were in all the great wreaths of orchids and violets purchased on the
boulevards.