The Revolution of '48 -- The beginning of it -- The National
Guards in all their glory -- The Cafe Gregoire on the Place du
Caire -- The price of a good breakfast in '48 -- The palmy days
of the Cuisine Bourgeoise -- The excitement on the Boulevards on
Sunday, February 20th, '48 -- The theatres -- A ball at
Poirson's, the erstwhile director of the Gymnase -- A lull in the
storm -- Tuesday, February 22nd -- Another visit to the Cafe
Gregoire -- On my way thither -- The Comedie-Francaise closes its
doors -- What it means, according to my old tutor -- We are
waited upon by a sergeant and corporal -- We are no longer
"messieurs," but "citoyens" -- An eye to the main chance -- The
patriots do a bit of business in tricolour cockades -- The
company marches away -- Casualties -- "Le patriotisme" means the
difference between the louis d'or and the ecu of three francs --
The company bivouacs on the Boulevard Saint-Martin -- A tyrant's
victim "_malgre lui_" -- Wednesday, February 23rd -- The Cafe
Gregoire once more -- The National Guards _en neglige_ -- A novel
mode of settling accounts -- The National Guards fortify the
inner man -- A bivouac on the Boulevard du Temple -- A camp scene
from an opera -- I leave -- My companion's account -- The
National Guards protect the regulars -- The author of these notes
goes to the theatre -- The Gymnase and the Varietes on the eve of
the Revolution -- Bouffe and Dejazet -- Thursday, February 24th,
'48 -- The Boulevards at 9.30 a.m. -- No milk -- The
Revolutionaries do without it -- The Place du Carrousel -- The
sovereign people fire from the roofs on the troops -- The troops
do not dislodge them -- The King reviews the troops -- The
apparent inactivity of Louis-Philippe's sons -- A theory about
the difference in bloodshed -- One of the three ugliest men in
France comes to see the King -- Seditious cries -- The King
abdicates -- Chaos -- The sacking of the Tuileries -- Receptions
and feasting in the Galerie de Diane -- "Du cafe pour nous, des
cigarettes pour les dames" -- The dresses of the princesses --
The bourgeois feast the gamins who guard the barricades -- The
Republic proclaimed -- The riff-raff insist upon illuminations --
An actor promoted to the Governorship of the Hotel de Ville --
Some members of the "provisional Government" at work -- Mery on
Lamartine -- Why the latter proclaimed the Republic.
I was returning home earlier than usual on Saturday night, the 19th of
February, '48, when, at the corner of the Rue Lafitte, I happened to run
against a young Englishman who had been established for some years in
Paris as the representative of his father, a wealthy cotton-spinner in
the north. We had frequently met before, and a cordial feeling had
sprung up between us, based at first--I am bound to say--on our common
contempt for the vanity of the French.
"Come and breakfast with me to-morrow morning," he said; "I fancy you
will enjoy yourself. We will breakfast in my quarter, and you will see
the National Guards in all their glory. They will muster very strong
to-morrow, if it be fine."
"But why to-morrow?" I replied. "I was under the impression that the
idea of the Reformist banquet in the Champs-Elysees had been abandoned,
so there will be no occasion for them to parade? Besides, that would be
on Tuesday only."
"It has been abandoned, but if you think that it will prevent them from
turning out, you are very much mistaken; at any rate, come and listen to
the preliminaries."
I promised him to come, but I had not the slightest idea that I was
going to witness a kind of mild prologue to a revolution.
Next morning turned out very fine--balmy spring weather--and as I
sauntered along the Boulevards Montmartre and Poissonniere to the place
of appointment the streets were already crowded with people in their
Sunday clothes. The place where I was to meet my English friend was
situated in the midst of a busy quarter, scarcely anything but
warehouses where they sold laces, and flowers, and silks; something like
the neighbourhood at the back of Cheapside. The wealthy tradesmen of
those days did not live in the outskirts of Paris, as they did later on;
and when my friend and I reached the principal cafe and restaurant on
the Place du Caire--I think it was called the Cafe Gregoire--there was
scarcely a table vacant. The habitues were, almost to a man, National
Guards, prosperous business men, considerably more anxious, as I found
out in a short time, to play a political part than to maintain public
tranquillity. If I remember rightly, one of them, a chemist and
druggist, who was pointed out to me then, became a deputy after the fall
of the Second Empire; and I may notice en passant that this same spot
was the political hothouse which produced, afterwards, Monsieur Tirard,
who started life as a small manufacturer of imitation jewellery, and who
rose to be Minister of Finances under the Third Republic.
The breakfast was simply excellent, the wine genuine throughout, the
coffee and cognac all that could be wished; and, when I asked my friend
to let me look at the bill, out of simple curiosity, or, rather, for the
sake of comparing prices with those of the Cafes de Paris and Riche, I
found that he had spent something less than eleven francs. At the Cafe
Riche it would have been twenty-five francs, and, at the present time,
one would be charged double that sum. These were the palmy days of the
Cuisine Francaise, or, to call it by another name, the Cuisine
Bourgeoise, for which, a few years later, a stranger in Paris would have
almost sought in vain. Luckily, however, for my enjoyment and digestive
organs, I was no stranger to Paris and to the French; if I had been,
both the former would have been spoilt, the excitement of those around
me being such as to lead the alien to believe that there would be an
instantaneous departure for the Tuileries, and a revival of the bloody
scenes of the first revolution. It has been my lot, in after-years, to
hear a great deal of political drivel in French and English, but it was
sound philosophy compared to what I heard that morning. I have spoken
before of the Hotel des Haricots, where men like Hugo, Balzac, Beranger,
and Alfred de Musset chose to be imprisoned rather than perform their
_duties_ as National Guards. After that, I could fully appreciate their
reluctance to be confounded with such a set of pompous wind-bags.
It came to nothing that day, but I had become interested, and made an
appointment with my friend for the Tuesday, unless something should
happen in the interval. Still, I did not think that the monarchy of July
was doomed, though, on returning to the Boulevards, I could not help
noticing that the excitement had considerably increased during the time
I had been at breakfast. By twelve o'clock that night I was convinced
that I had been mistaken, and that the dynasty of the D'Orleans had not
a week to live. All the theatres were still open, but I had an
invitation to a ball, given by Poirson, the then late director of the
Gymnase Theatre, at his house in the Faubourg Poissonniere. "Nous ne
danserons plus jamais sous Louis-Philippe!" was the general cry, which
did not prevent the guests from thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Next morning, Monday, there seemed to be a lull in the storm, but on the
Tuesday the signs of the coming hurricane were plainly visible on the
horizon. The Ministry of Marine was guarded by a company of linesmen. I
had some business in the Rue de Rivoli, which at that time ended almost
abruptly at the Louvre; and, on my way to the Cafe Gregoire, I met
patrol upon patrol of National Guards beating the "assembly." I had
occasion to pass before the Comedie-Francaise. The ominous
black-lettered slip of yellow paper, with the word _Relache_, was pasted
across the evening's bill. That was enough for me. I remembered the
words of my old tutor: "When the Comedie-Francaise shuts its doors in
perilous times, it is like the battening down of the hatches in dirty
weather. There is mischief brewing." When I got to the Place du Caire, I
was virtually in the thick of it. With the exception of my friend and I,
there was not a man in mufti. Even the proprietor had donned his
uniform. Our fillet of beef was brought to us by a corporal, and our
coffee poured out by a sergeant. Whether these warrior-waiters meant to
strike one blow for freedom and to leave the place to take care of
itself, we were unable to make out; but their patrons were no longer
"messieurs," but had already become "citoyens." I was tempted to say, in
the words of Dupin--the one who was President of the Chamber on the day
of the Coup d'Etat, and who was Louis-Philippe's personal friend,
"Soyons citoyens, mais restons messieurs," but I thought it better not.
My friend had given up all idea of attending to business. "It will not
be of the least use," he said. "If I had ribbons to sell instead of
cottons, I might make a lot of money, though; for I am open to wager
that some of our patriotic neighbours, while they are going to bell the
cat outside, have given orders to their workpeople to manufacture
tricolour cockades and rosettes with the magic R. F. (Republique
Francaise) in the centre."
"You do not mean that they would think of such a thing at such a
critical moment, even if the republic were a greater probability than it
appears to be?" I remonstrated.
"I do mean to say so," he replied, beckoning at the same time to a
sleek, corpulent lieutenant, standing a few paces away. "Can you do with
a nice lot of narrow silk ribbon?" he asked, as the individual walked up
to our table.
"What colour?" inquired the lieutenant.
My friend gave me a significant look, and named all the hues of the
rainbow except white, red, and blue.
"Won't do," said the lieutenant, shaking his head. "If it had been red,
white, and blue I would have bought as much as you like, because I am
manufacturing rosettes for the good cause." After this he walked away.
On the Thursday afternoon the Boulevards and principal thoroughfares
swarmed with peripatetic vendors of the republican insignia, and some
of my friends expressed their surprise as to where they had come from in
so short a time. Seeing that they were Frenchmen, I held my tongue, even
when one professed to explain, "They have come from England; they are
always speculating upon our misfortunes, though they do it cleverly
enough. They got scent of what was coming, and sent them over as quickly
as they could. Truly they are a great nation--of shopkeepers!" I was
reminded of Beranger's scapegrace, when he was accused of being drunk.
"Qu'est que cela me fait, a moi?
Que l'on m'appelle ivrogne?"
he sings.
As the afternoon wore on, the excitement increased; the news from the
Boulevards became alarming, and at about three o'clock the company
marched away. As a matter of course we followed, and equally, as a
matter of course, did not leave them until 2.30 next morning. Casualties
to report. A large scratch in one of the drummer's cheeks, made by an
oyster-shell, flung at the company as it turned round the corner of the
Rue de Clery. No battles, no skirmishes, a great deal of fraternizing
with "le peuple souverain," whom, in their own employ, the well-to-do
tradesmen would have ordered about like so many mangy curs.
From that day forth I have never dipped into any history of modern
France, professing to deal with the political causes and effects of the
various upheavals during the nineteenth century in France. They may be
worth reading; I do not say that they are not. I have preferred to look
at the men who instigated those disorders, and have come to the
conclusion that, had each of them been born with five or ten thousand a
year, their names would have been absolutely wanting in connection with
them. This does not mean that the disorders would not have taken place,
but they would have always been led by men in want of five or ten
thousand a year. On the other hand, if the D'Orleans family had been
less wealthy than they are there would have been no firmly settled third
republic; if Louis-Napoleon had been less poor, there would, in all
probability, have been no second empire; if the latter had lasted
another year, we should have found Gambetta among the ministers of
Napoleon III., just like Emile Ollivier, of the "light heart." "Les
convictions politiques en France sont basees sur le fait que le louis
d'or vaut sept fois plus que l'ecu de trois francs." This is the dictum
of a man who never wished to be anything, who steadfastly refused all
offers to enter the arena of public life.
My friend and I had been baulked of the drama we expected--for we
frankly confessed to one another that the utter annihilation of that
company of National Guards would have left us perfectly unmoved,--and
got instead, a kind of first act of a military spectacular play, such as
we were in the habit of seeing at Franconi's. The civic warriors were
ostensibly bivouacking on the Boulevard St. Martin; they stacked their
muskets and fraternized with the crowd; it would not have surprised us
in the least to see a troupe of ballet dancers advance into our midst
and give us the entertainment de rigueur--the intermede. It was the only
thing wanting to complete the picture, from which even the low comedy
incident was not wanting. An old woebegone creature, evidently the worse
for liquor, had fallen down while a patrol of regulars was passing. He
was not a bit hurt; but there and then the rabble proposed to carry him
to the Hotel de Ville, and to give him an apotheosis as a martyr to the
cause. They had already fetched a stretcher, and were, notwithstanding
his violent struggles, hoisting him on it, when prevented by the captain
of the National Guards.
Still, we returned next day to the Cafe Gregoire. In the middle of the
place there lay an old man--that one, stark dead, who had been fired
upon without rhyme or reason by a picket of the National Guards. It was
only about eleven o'clock, and those valiant defenders of public order
were still resting from their fatigue--at any rate, there were few of
them about. There was a discussion going on whether they should go out
or not--a discussion confined to the captain, two lieutenants, and as
many sub-lieutenants. They appeared not to have the least idea of the
necessity to refer for orders to the colonel or the head-quarters of the
regiment or the legion, as it was called. They meant to settle the
matter among themselves. The great argument in favour of calling out the
men was that one of them, while standing at his window that very
morning, was fired at by a passing ragamuffin, who, instead of hitting
him, shattered his windowpanes.
"Well," said one of the lieutenants, who had been opposed to the calling
out of the men, "then we are quits after all; for look at the old fellow
lying out there."
"No, we are not," retorts the captain; "for he was shot by a mistake, so
he doesn't count."
"L'esprit ne perd jamais ses droits en France;" so, in another moment or
two, the bugle sounded lustily throughout the quarter. We followed the
buglers for a little while, it being still too early for our breakfast,
and consequently enjoyed the felicity of seeing a good many of the
warriors "in their habit as they lived" indoors--namely, in
dressing-gown and slippers and smoking-caps. For most of them opened
their windows on the first, second, and third floors, to inquire whether
the call was urgent. The buglers entered into explanations. No, the call
was not urgent, but the captain had decided on a military promenade,
just to reassure the neighbourhood, and to stimulate the martial spirit
of the lagging members of the company. The explanation invariably
provoked the same answer, and in a voice not that of the
citizen-warrior: "Que le capitaine attende jusqu'apres le dejeuner."
Davoust has said that the first condition of the fitness of an army is
its commissariat. In that respect every one of these National Guards was
fit to be a Davoust, for their fortifying of the inner man was not
accomplished until close upon two o'clock. By that time they marched
out, saluted by the cries of "Vive la Reforme!" of all the ragtag and
bobtail from the Faubourgs du Temple and St. Antoine, who had invaded
the principal thoroughfares. The "Marseillaise," the "Chant des
Girondins," "La Republique nous appelle" resounded through the air; and
I was wondering whether they were packing their trunks at the Tuileries,
also what these National Guards had come out for. They only seemed to
impede the efficient patrolling of the streets by the regulars, and,
instead of dispersing the rabble, they attracted them. They were
evidently under the impression that they made a very goodly show, and at
every word of command I expected to see the captain burst asunder. When
we got to the Boulevard St. Martin, the latter was told that the sixth
legion was stationed on the Boulevard du Temple. A move was made in that
direction.
Now "Richard is himself again;" he is among the crowd he likes best--the
crowd of the Boulevard du Crime, with its theatres, large and small, its
raree and puppet shows, its open-air entertainments, its cafes and
mountebanks; and, what is more, he is there in his uniform,
distinguished from the rest, and consequently the cynosure of all the
little actresses and pretty _figurantes_ who have just left the
rehearsal--for by this time it is after three--and who are but too
willing to be entertained. Appointments are made to dine or to sup
together, without the slightest reference as to what may happen in the
interval. All at once there is an outcry and a rush towards the Porte
Saint-Martin; our warriors are obliged to leave their inamoratas, and
when they come to look for their muskets, which they have placed in a
corner for convenience' sake, they find that a good many have
disappeared. The customers belonging to the sovereign people have slunk
off with them. Nevertheless they join the ranks, for the bugle has
sounded. At the corner of the Faubourg Saint-Martin, whence the noise
proceeded, they are met by three or four score of the sovereign people,
ragged, unkempt, who are pushing in front of them two of the students of
the Ecole Polytechnique. The two young fellows are very pale, and can
scarcely speak. Still they manage to explain that the Municipal Guard at
the Saint-Martin barracks have fired upon the people; then they go their
way. Whither? Heaven only knows. But our captain, in the most stentorian
of voices, gives the word of command, "To the right, wheel!" and we are
striding up the faubourg, which is absolutely deserted as far as the Rue
des Marais. A collision seems pretty inevitable now, the more that the
Municipal Guards are already taking aim, when all at once our captain
and one of the lieutenants rush forward, and fling themselves into the
arms of the officers of the Municipal Guards. Tableau; and I am baulked
once more of a good fight. I leave my friend to see the rest of this
ridiculous comedy, and take my departure there and then.
The following is my companion's account of what happened after I left. I
am as certain that every word of it is true as if I had been there
myself, though it seems almost incredible that French officers, whose
worst enemies have never accused them of being deficient in courage,
should have acted so inconsiderately.
"The officers of the National Guards appear to have assumed at once the
office of protectors of the regulars against the violence of the crowd.
Why the regulars should have submitted to this, seeing that they were
far better armed than their would-be guardians, I am unable to say. Be
this as it may, the regulars consented, the flag floating above the
principal door of the barracks was taken down, and I really believe
that the Municipal Guards stacked their arms and virtually handed them
over to the others. But I will not vouch for it. At any rate, a few
hours afterwards, while the company had gone to dinner, the barracks
were assailed, the men and officers knocked down by the people, and the
building set on fire. When the fifth legion returned about eleven
o'clock to the Faubourg Saint-Martin, the flames were leaping up to the
sky, so they turned their heels contentedly in the direction of the
Boulevard du Temple, where they bivouacked between the Theatre de la
Gaite and the Ambigu-Comique, while those who had made appointments with
the little actresses went round by the stage doors to keep them. That,
as far as I could judge, was the part of the fifth legion in the day's
proceedings. I left them in all their glory, thinking themselves, no
doubt, very fine fellows.
"On the Thursday morning"--my companion told me all this on Saturday
evening, the 26th of February--"I was up betimes, simply because the
drumming and bugling prevented my sleeping. At eight, the Cafe Gregoire
was already very full, the heroes of the previous night had returned to
perform their ablutions, and also, I suppose, to reassure their anxious
spouses; but they had no longer that conquering air I noticed when I
left them the night before. Whether they had come to the conclusion that
both in love and war they had reaped but barren victories, I cannot say,
but their republican ardour, it seemed to me, had considerably cooled
down. I am convinced that, notwithstanding the events of Wednesday night
in the Faubourg Saint-Martin, they were under the impression that
neither the people nor the military would resort to further extremities.
I cannot help thinking that, after I left, not a single man could have
remained at his post, because not one amongst them seemed to have an
idea of the horrible slaughter on the Boulevard des Capucines.[44] They
were not left very long in ignorance of the real state of affairs, and
then they saw at once that they had roused a spectre they would be
unable to lay. From that moment, it is my opinion, they would have
willingly drawn back, but it was too late. While they were still
debating, an individual rushed in, telling them that one or two
regiments, commanded by a general (who turned out to be General Bedeau),
had drawn up in front of the barricade which had been thrown up during
the night in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, and was being defended by a
detachment of the fifth legion. They all ran out, and I ran with them.
When we got to the boulevard, matters had already been arranged, and
they were just in time to join the escort General Bedeau had accepted,
after having consented not to execute the orders with which he had been
entrusted. By that time I began to perceive which way the wind was
blowing: the canaille had unceremoniously linked their arms in those of
the National Guards, and insisted, courteously but firmly, on carrying
their firearms. When we got to the Rue Montmartre, they took the horses
out of the gun-carriages, and the soldiers looked tamely on,
notwithstanding the commands of their officers. When the latter
endeavoured to enforce their orders by hitting them with the flat of
their swords, they simply left the ranks and joined the rabble. I had
had enough of it, and made my way home by the back streets. I had had
enough of it, and kept indoors until this afternoon."
[Footnote 44: The author, as will be seen directly, saw nothing
of that massacre, though he must have passed within a few
hundred yards of the spot immediately before it began. It would
have been the same if he had; he could not have explained the
cause, seeing that the most painstaking historians who have
consulted the most trustworthy eye-witnesses have failed to do
so. It will always remain a mystery whence the first shot came,
whether from the military who were drawn up across the
Boulevard des Capucines, on the spot where now stands the Grand
Cafe, or from the crowd that wanted to pass, in order to
proceed to Odilon-Barrot's to serenade him, because,
notwithstanding the opposition of the king, he was to be
included in the new ministry, which Mole had been instructed to
form. It may safely be said, however, that, but for that shot
and the slaughter consequent upon it, the revolution might have
been averted then--after all, perhaps, only
temporarily.--EDITOR.]
Thus far my informant. As for myself, I saw little on the Wednesday
night of what was going on. It was my own fault: I was too optimistic. I
had scarcely gone a few steps, after my dinner, when, just in front of
the Gymnase, they began shouting, "_La Patrie, Journal du soir_; achetez
_La Patrie_. Voyez le nouveau ministere de Monsieur Mole." I remember
giving the fellow half a franc, at which he grumbled, though it was
three times the ordinary price. On opening the paper, I rashly concluded
from what I read that the revolution was virtually at an end, and I was
the more confirmed in my opinion by the almost instantaneous lighting up
of the Boulevards. It was like a fairy scene: people were
illuminating--a little bit too soon, as it turned out. Being tired of
wandering, and feeling no inclination for bed, I turned into the
Gymnase. There were Bressant and Rose Cheri and Arnal; I would surely be
able to spend a few pleasant hours. But alack and alas! the house
presented a very doleful appearance--dead-heads, to a man; and very few
of these, people who, if they could not fiddle themselves, like Nero
while Rome was burning, would go to hear fiddling under no matter what
circumstances, provided they were not asked to pay. I did not stay long,
but when I came out into the streets the noise was too deafening for me.
The "Marseillaise" has always had a particularly jarring effect upon my
nerves. There are days when I could be cruel enough to prefer "the yells
of those ferocious soldiers, as they murder in cold blood the sons and
the companions" of one section of defenceless patriots, to the stirring
strains of the other section as they figuratively rush to the rescue;
and on that particular evening I felt in that mood. So, when I got to
the Boulevard Montmartre, I turned into the Theatre des Varietes. I
remember the programme up to this day. They were playing "Le Suisse de
Marly," "Le Marquis de Lauzun," "Les Extremes se touchent," and "Les
Vieux Peches." I had seen the second and the last piece at least a dozen
times, but I was always ready to see them again for the sake of Virginie
Dejazet in the one, of Bouffe in the other. The lessee at that time was
an Englishman. Bouffe and I had always kept up our friendship; so I made
up my mind to go and have a chat with him, hoping that Dejazet, whose
conversation affected one like a bottle of champagne, would join us. The
house, like the Gymnase, was almost empty, but I made my way behind the
scenes, and in about half an hour forgot all about the events outside.
Bouffe was telling me anecdotes about his London performances, and
Dejazet was imitating the French of some of the bigwigs of King
Leopold's court; so the time passed pleasantly enough. At the end of the
performance we proposed taking supper, and turned down the Rue
Montmartre. It was late when I returned home, consequently I saw nothing
of the slaughter on the Boulevard des Capucines.
Though I had gone to bed late, I was up betimes on the Thursday morning.
A glance at the Boulevards, as I turned the corner of my street about
half-past nine, convinced me that the illuminations of the previous
night had been premature, and that before the day was out there would be
an end of the monarchy of July. A slight mist was still hanging over
the city as I strolled in the direction of the Madeleine, and the
weather was damp and raw, but in about half an hour the sun broke
through. A shot was heard now and then, but I myself saw no collision
then between the troops and the people. On the contrary, it looked to me
as if the former would have been glad to be left alone. As I had been
obliged to leave home without my usual cup of tea for want of milk--the
servant had told me there was none--I went back a little way to
Tortoni's, where I was greeted with the same answer. I could have tea or
coffee or chocolate made with water, but milk there was none on that
side of Paris, and, unless things took a turn, there would be no butter.
The sovereign people had thrown up barricades during the night round all
the northern and north-western issues, and would not let the milk-carts
pass. They, no doubt, had some more potent fluids to fall back upon, for
a good many, even at that early hour, were by no means steady in their
gait. The Boulevards were swarming with them. Since then, I have seen
these sovereign people getting the upper hand twice, viz. on the 4th of
September, '70, and on the 18th of March, '71. I have seen them during
the siege of Paris, and I have no hesitation in saying that, for
cold-blooded, apish, monkeyish, tigerish cruelty, there is nothing on
the face of God's earth to match them, and that no concessions wrung
from society on their behalf will ever make them anything else but the
fiends in human shape they are.
After my fruitless attempt to get my accustomed breakfast, I resumed my
perambulations, this time taking the Rue Vivienne as far as the
Palais-Royal. It must have been between half-past ten and eleven when I
reached the Place du Carrousel, which, at a rough guess, was occupied by
about five thousand regular infantry and horse and National Guards. The
Place du Carrousel was not then, what it became later on, a large open
space. Part of it was encumbered with narrow streets of very tall
houses, and from their windows and roofs the sovereign people--according
to an officer who had been on duty from early morn--had been amusing
themselves by firing on the troops,--not in downright volleys, but with
isolated shots, picking out a man here and there. "But," I remonstrated,
"half a dozen pompiers and a score of linesmen could dislodge them in
less than ten minutes, instead of returning their shots one by one." "So
they could," was the reply, "but orders came from the Chateau not to do
so, and here we are. Besides," added my informant, "I doubt very much,
if I gave my men the word of command to storm the place, whether they
would do so; they are thoroughly demoralized. On our way hither I had
the greatest difficulty in keeping them together. Without a roll-call I
could not exactly tell you how many are missing, but as we came along I
noticed several falling out and going into the wine-shops with the
rabble. They did not come back again. I had to shut my eyes to it. If I
had attempted to prevent it, there would have been a more horrible
slaughter than there was last night on the Boulevards, and, what is
worse, the men who remained staunch would have been in a minority, and
not able to stand their ground. The mob have got hold of the muskets of
the National Guards. I dare say, as you came along, you noticed on many
doors, written up in chalk, 'Arms given up,' and on some the words 'with
pleasure' added to the statement." It was perfectly true; I had noticed
it.
I was still talking to the captain when the drums began to beat and the
buglers sounded the salute. At the same moment I saw the King, in the
uniform of a general of the National Guards, cross the courtyard on
horseback. I noticed a great many ladies at the ground-floor windows of
the palace, but could not distinguish their faces. I was told afterwards
that they were the Queen and the princesses, endeavouring to encourage
the septuagenarian monarch. Louis-Philippe was seventy-five then.
I have often heard and seen it stated by historians of the revolution of
'48, that the Duke d'Aumale and the Prince de Joinville, had they been
in Paris, would have saved their father's crown. This is an assumption
which it is difficult to disprove, seeing how popular these young
princes were then. But if the assumption is meant to convey that the mob
at the sight of these brave young fellows would have laid down their
arms without fighting, I can unhesitatingly contradict it. What the
National Guard might have done it is impossible to say. The regulars, no
doubt, would have followed the princes into battle, as they would have
followed their brother, De Nemours, notwithstanding the latter's
unpopularity. There would have been a great deal of bloodshed, but the
last word would have remained with the Government. Louis-Philippe's
greatest title to glory is that of having prevented such bloodshed. But
to show how little such abnegation of self is understood by even the
most educated Frenchmen, I must relate a story which was told to me many
years afterwards by a French officer who, at that time, had just
returned from the Pontifical States, where he had helped to defeat the
small army of Garibaldi. He was describing the battle-field of Mentana
to Napoleon III., and mentioned a prisoner he had made who turned out to
be an old acquaintance from the Boulevards. "He was furious against
Garibaldi, sire," said the officer, "because the latter had placed him
in the necessity, as it were, of firing upon his own countrymen in a
strange land. Said the prisoner, 'I am not an emigre; I would not have
gone to Coblenz; I am a Frenchman from the crown of my head to the sole
of my foot. If it came to fighting my countrymen in the streets of
Paris, that would be a different thing. I should not have the slightest
scruple of firing upon the Imperial Guards or upon the rabble, as the
case might be, for that would be civil war.' That's what he said, sire."
Napoleon nodded his head, and with his wonderful, sphinxlike smile,
replied, "Your prisoner was right; it makes all the difference." The
Orleans princes, save perhaps one, never knew these distinctions; if
they had known them, the Comte de Paris might be King of France to-day.
To return for a moment to Louis-Philippe as I saw him at the last
moments of his reign. He felt evidently disappointed at the lukewarm
reception he received, for though there was a faint cry among the
regulars of "Vive le Roi!" it was immediately drowned by the stentorian
one of the rabble of "Vive la Reforme!" in which a good many of the
National Guards joined. He was evidently in a hurry to get back to the
Tuileries, and, when he disappeared in the doorway, I had looked upon
him for the last time in my life. An hour and a half later, he had left
Paris for ever.
* * * * *
Personally I saw nothing of the flight of the King, nor of the inside of
the Tuileries, until the royal family were gone. The story of that
flight was told to me several years later by the Duc de Montpensier.
What is worse, in those days it never entered my mind that a time would
come when I should feel desirous of committing my reminiscences to
paper, consequently I kept no count of the hours that went by, and
cannot, therefore, give the exact sequence of events. I do not know how
long I stood among the soldiers and the crowd, scarcely divided from
one another even by an imaginary line. It was not a pleasant crowd,
though to my great surprise there were a great many more decently
dressed persons in it than I could have expected, so I stayed on. About
half an hour after the King re-entered the Tuileries, I noticed two
gentlemen elbow their way through the serried masses. I had no
difficulty in recognizing the one in civilian's clothes. Though he was
by no means so famous as he became afterwards, there was hardly a
Parisian who would not have recognized him on the spot. His portrait had
been drawn over and over again, at least as many times as that of the
King, and it is a positive fact that nurses frightened their babies with
it. He was the ugliest man of the century. It was M. Adolphe
Cremieux.[45] His companion was in uniform. I learnt afterwards that it
was General Gourgaud, but I did not know him then except by name, and in
connection with his polemics with the Duke of Wellington, in which the
latter did not altogether behave with the generosity one expects from an
English gentleman towards a fallen foe. As they passed, the old soldier
must have been recognized, because not one, but at least a hundred cries
resounded, "Vive la grande armee! Vive l'Empereur!" In after years I
thought that these cries sounded almost prophetic, though I am pretty
sure that those who uttered them had not the slightest hope of, and
perhaps not even a desire for, a Napoleonic restoration; at any rate,
not the majority. There is one thing, however, which could not have
failed to strike the impartial observer during the next twenty years. I
have seen a good many riots, small and large, during the Second Republic
and the Second Empire. "Seditious cries," as a matter of course, were
freely shouted. I have never heard a single one of "Vivent les
D'Orleans!" or "Vivent les Bourbons!" I have already spoken more than
once about the powerful influence of the Napoleonic legend in those
days; I shall have occasion to refer to it again and again when speaking
about the nephew of the first Napoleon.
[Footnote 45: The author is slightly mistaken. The two ugliest
men in France in the nineteenth century were Andrieux, who
wrote "Les Etourdis," and Littre; but Cremieux ran them very
hard.--EDITOR.]
Cremieux and Gourgaud could not have been inside the Tuileries more than
a quarter of an hour when they rushed out again. They evidently made a
communication to the troops, because I beheld the latter waving their
arms, but, of course, I did not catch a word of what they said; I was
too far away. It was, I learnt afterwards, the announcement of the
advent of a new ministry, and the appointment of a new commander of the
National Guards. When I saw hats and caps flung into the air, and heard
the people shouting, I made certain that the revolution was at an end. I
was mistaken. It was not Cremieux's communication at all that had
provoked the enthusiasm; it was a second communication, made by some one
from the doorway of the Tuileries immediately after the eminent
barrister had disappeared among the crowd, to the effect that the King
had abdicated in favour of the Comte de Paris, with the Duchesse
d'Orleans as regent. Between the first and second announcements there
could not have elapsed more than five or six minutes, ten at the utmost,
because, before I had time to recover from my surprise, I saw Cremieux
and Gourgaud battle through the tightly wedged masses once more, and
re-enter the Tuileries to verify the news. I am writing this note
especially by the light of subsequent information, for, I repeat, it was
impossible to understand events succinctly by the quickly succeeding
effects they produced at the time. Another ten minutes elapsed--ten
minutes which I shall never forget, because every one of the thousands
present on the Place du Carrousel was in momentary danger of having the
life crushed out of him. It was no one's fault; there was, if I
recollect rightly, but one narrow issue on the river-side, and there was
a dense seething mass standing on the banks, notwithstanding the danger
of that position, for the insurgents were firing freely and recklessly
across the stream. Egress on the opposite side of the Place du
Carrousel, that of the Place du Palais-Royal, had become absolutely
impossible, for at that moment a fierce battle was raging there between
the people and the National Guards for the possession of the military
post of the Chateau d'Eau;[46] and those of the non-combatants who did
not think it necessary to pay for the fall or the maintenance of the
monarchy of July with life or limb, tried to get out of the bullets'
reach. There was but one way of doing so, by a stampede in a southerly
direction; the Rue de Rivoli, at any rate that part which existed, was
entirely blocked to the west, the congeries of streets that have been
pulled down since to make room for its prolongation to the east were
bristling with barricades: hence the terrible, suffocating crush, in
which several persons lost their lives. The most curious incident
connected with these awful ten minutes was that of a woman and her baby.
When Cremieux issued for the second time from the Tuileries, it was to
confirm the news of the King's abdication. Almost immediately
afterwards, the masses on the quay were making for the Place de la
Concorde and the Palais-Bourbon, whither, it was rumoured, the Duchesse
D'Orleans and her two sons were going; and gradually the wedged-in mass
on the Place du Carrousel found breathing space. Then the woman was seen
to fall down like a ninepin that has been toppled over; she was dead,
but her baby, which she had held above the crowd, and which they had, as
it were, to wrench from her grasp, was alive and well.
[Footnote 46: So called after a large ornamental fountain; the
same, I believe, which subsequently was transferred to what is
now called the Place de la Republique, and which finally found
its way to the Avenue Daumesnil, where it stands at
present.--EDITOR.]
I stood for a little while longer on the Place du Carrousel, trying to
make up my mind whether to proceed to the Place de la Concorde or to the
Place de l'Hotel de Ville. I knew that the newly-elected powers,
whosoever they might be, would make their appearance at the latter spot,
but how long it would be before they came, I had not the least idea. I
was determined, however, to see at any rate one act of the drama or the
farce; for even then there was no knowing in what guise events would
present themselves. I could hear the reports of firearms on both sides
of me, though why there should be firing when the King had thrown up the
sponge, I could not make out for the life of me. I did not know France
so well then as I know her now. I did not know then that there is no man
or, for that matter, no woman on the civilized earth so heedlessly and
obdurately bloodthirsty when he or she works himself into a fury as the
professedly debonnaire Parisian proletarian. Nevertheless, I decided to
go to the Hotel de Ville, and had carefully worked my way as far as the
site of the present Place du Chatelet, when I was compelled to retrace
my steps. The elite of the Paris scum was going to dictate its will to
the new Government; it was marching to the Chamber of Deputies with
banners flying. One of the latter was a red-and-white striped flannel
petticoat, fastened to a tremendously long pole. I had no choice, and if
at that moment my friends had seen me they might have easily imagined
that I had become one of the leaders of the revolutionary mob. We took
by the Quai de la Megisserie, and just before the Pont des Arts there
was a momentary halt. The vanguard, which I was apparently leading, had
decided to turn to the right; in other words, to visit the abode of the
hated tyrant. Had I belonged to the main division, I should have
witnessed a really more important scene, from the historical point of
view; as it was, I witnessed--
THE SACKING OF THE TUILERIES.
The idea that "there is a divinity that hedgeth round a king" seemed, I
admit, preposterous enough at that moment; but I could not help being
struck with its partial truth on seeing the rabble invade the palace.
When I say the rabble, I mean the rabble, though there were a great many
persons whom it would be an insult to class as such, and who from sheer
curiosity, or because they could not help themselves, had gone in with
them. The doors proved too narrow, and those who could not enter by that
way, entered by the windows. The whole contingent of the riff-raff, male
and female, weltering in the adjacent streets--and such streets!--was
there. Well, for the first ten minutes they stood positively motionless,
not daring to touch anything. It was not the fear of being caught
pilfering and punished summarily that prevented them. The minority which
might have protested was so utterly insignificant in numbers, as to make
action on their part impossible. No, it was neither fear nor shame that
stayed the rabble's hands; it was a sentiment for which I can find no
name. It was the consciousness that these objects had belonged to a
king, to a royal family, which made them gaze upon them in a kind of
superstitious wonder. It did not last long. We were on the ground floor,
which mainly consisted of the private apartments of the household of
Louis-Philippe. We were wandering, or rather squeezing, through the
study and bedroom of the King himself, through the sitting-rooms of the
princes and princesses. I do not think that a single thing was taken
from there at that particular time. But as if the atmosphere their
rulers had breathed but so very recently became too oppressive, the
crowd swayed towards the vestibule, and ascended the grand staircase.
Then the spell was broken. The second batch that entered through the
windows, when we had made room for them, were apparently not affected
by wonder and respect, for, half an hour later, when I came down again,
every cupboard, every wardrobe, had been forced, though it is but fair
to say that very little seems to have been taken; the contents, books,
clothing, linen, etc., were scattered on the floors; but the cellars,
containing over four thousand bottles of wine, were positively empty.
Two hours later, however, the clothing, especially that of the
princesses, had totally disappeared. It had disappeared on the backs of
the inmates of St. Lazare, the doors of which had been thrown open, and
who had rushed to the Tuileries to deck themselves with these fine
feathers which, in this instance, did not make fine birds. I saw some of
them that same evening on the Boulevards, and a more heart-rending
spectacle I have rarely beheld.
The three hours I spent at the Tuileries were so crowded with events as
to make a succinct account of them altogether impossible. I can only
give fragments, because, though at first the wearers of broadcloth were
not molested, this tolerance did not last long on the part of the new
possessors of the Tuileries; and consequently the former gradually
dropped off, and those of them who remained had to be very circumspect,
and, above all, not to linger long in the same spot. This growing
hostility might have been nipped in the bud by our following the example
of the National Guards, and taking off our coats and fraternizing with
the rabble; but I frankly confess that I had neither the courage nor the
stomach to do so. I have read descriptions of mutinous sailors stowing
in casks of rum and gorging themselves with victuals; revolting as such
scenes must be to those who take no active part in them, I doubt whether
they could be as revolting as the one I witnessed in the Gallerie de
Diane.
The Galerie de Diane was one of the large reception rooms on the first
floor, but it generally served as the dining and breakfast room of the
royal family. The table had been laid for about three dozen persons,
because, as a rule, Louis-Philippe invited the principal members of his
military and civil households to take their repasts with him. The
breakfast had been interrupted, and not been cleared away. When I
entered the apartment some sixty or seventy ruffians of both sexes were
seated at the board, while a score or so were engaged in waiting upon
them. They were endeavouring to accomplish what the Highest Authority
has declared impossible of accomplishment, namely, the making of silken
purses out of sows' ears. They were "putting on" what they considered
"company manners," and, under any other circumstances but these, the
attempt would have proved irresistibly comic to the educated spectator;
as it was, it brought tears to one's eyes. I have already hinted
elsewhere that the cuisine at the Tuileries during Louis-Philippe's
reign was execrable, though the wine was generally good. Bad as was the
fare on that abandoned breakfast-table, it must, nevertheless, have been
superior to that usually partaken of by the convives who had taken the
place of the fugitive king and princes. They, the convives, however, did
not think so; they criticized the food, and ordered the improvised
attendants "to give them something different;" then they turned to their
female companions, filling their glasses and paying them compliments.
But for the fact of another batch eagerly claiming their turn, the
repast would have been indefinitely prolonged; as it was, the provisions
in the palace were running short, and the deficiency had to be made up
by supplies from outside. The inner man being refreshed, the ladies were
invited to take a stroll through the apartments, pending the serving of
the cafe and liqueurs. The preparation of the mocha was somewhat
difficult, seeing the utensils necessary for the supply of so large a
company were probably not at hand, and the ingredients themselves in the
store-rooms of the palace. Nothing daunted, one of the self-invited
guests rose and said, in a loud voice, "Permettez moi d'offrir le cafe a
la compagnie," which offer was received with tumultuous applause.
Suiting the action to the word, he pulled out a small canvas bag, and
took from it two five-franc pieces. "Qu'on aille chercher du cafe et du
meilleur," he said to one of the guests who had stepped forward to
execute his orders, for they sounded almost like it; and I was wondering
why those professed champions of equality did not tell him to fetch the
coffee himself. Then he added, "Et pendant que tu y es, citoyen, apporte
des cigares pour nous et des cigarettes pour les dames." The "citoyen"
was already starting on his errand, when the other "citoyen" called him
back. "Ecoute," he said; "tu n'acheteras rien a moins d'y etre force. Je
crois que tu n'auras qu'a demander a la premiere epicerie venue ce qu'il
te faut, et ainsi au premier bureau de tabac. Ils ont si peur, ces sales
bourgeois qu'ils n'oseront pas te refuser. En tout cas prends un fusil;
on ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver; mais ne t'en sers pas qu'en cas de
necessite:"--which meant plainly enough, "If they refuse to give you the
coffee and the tobacco, shoot them down."
Of course, I am unable to say how these two commodities were eventually
procured; but I have every reason to believe that this messenger had
only "to ask and have," without as much as showing his musket. There is
no greater cur at troublous times than the Paris shopkeeper. The merest
urchin will terrify him. Even on the previous day I had seen bands of
gamins who had constituted themselves the guardians of the
barricades--and there was one in nearly every street--levy toll without
the slightest resistance, when a few well-administered cuffs would have
sent them flying, so I have not the slightest doubt that our friend had
all the credit of his generosity without disbursing a penny--unless his
delegate fleeced him also, on the theory that a man who could "fork out"
ten francs at a moment's notice was nothing more or less than a
bourgeois. However, when I returned after about forty minutes' absence,
it was very evident that both the coffee and the tobacco had arrived,
because the Galerie de Diane, large as it was, was full of smoke, and
three saucepans, filled with water, were standing on the fire, while two
or three smaller ones were arranged on the almost priceless marble
mantelpiece. Another batch of ravenous republicans had taken their seats
at the board, their predecessors whiling the time away in sweet converse
with the "ladies." Some of the latter were more usefully engaged; they
were rifling the cabinets of the most rare and valuable Sevres, and
arranging the cups, saucers, platters on their tops to be ready for the
beverage that was being brewed. I was wondering how they had got at
these art treasures, having noticed an hour before that their
receptacles were locked and the keys taken away. The doors had simply
been battered in with the hammer of the great clock of the Tuileries.
It was of a piece with the wanton destruction I had witnessed elsewhere,
during my absence from the Galerie de Diane. Before I returned thither,
I had seen the portrait of General Bugeaud in the Salle des Marechaux,
literally stabbed with bayonets; the throne treated to a similar fate,
and carried off to the Place de la Bastille to be burned publicly; the
papers of the royal family mercilessly flung to the winds; the dresses
of the princesses torn to ribbons or else put on the backs of the vilest
of the vile.
There was only one comic incident to relieve the horror of the whole. In
one of the private apartments the rabble had come upon an aged parrot
screeching at the top of its voice, "A bas Guizot!" The bird became a
hero there and then, and was absolutely crammed with sweets and sugar.
That one comic note was not enough to dispel my disgust, and after the
scene in the Galerie de Diane which I have just described, I made my way
into the street.
I had scarcely proceeded a few steps, when I heard the not very
startling news that the republic had been formally proclaimed in the
Chamber by M. de Lamartine, who had afterwards repaired to the Hotel de
Ville. At the same time, people were shouting that the King had died
suddenly. I endeavoured to get as far, but, though the distance was
certainly not more than half a mile, it took me more than an hour. At
every few yards my progress was interrupted by barricades, the
self-elected custodians of which were particularly anxious to show their
authority to a man like myself, dressed in a coat. At last I managed to
get to the corner of the Rues des Lombards and Saint-Martin, and just in
time to enjoy a sight than which I have witnessed nothing more comic
during the succeeding popular uprisings in subsequent years. I was just
crossing, when a procession hove in sight, composed mainly of ragged
urchins, dishevelled women, and riff-raff of both sexes. In their midst
was an individual on horseback, dressed in the uniform of a general of
the First Republic, whom they were cheering loudly. The stationary crowd
made way for them, and mingled with the escort. The moment I had thrown
in my lot with the latter, retreat was no longer possible, and in a very
short time I found myself in the courtyard of the Hotel de Ville, and,
in another minute or so, in the principal gallery on the first floor,
where, it appears, _some members_ of the Provisional Government were
already at work. I had not the remotest notion who they were, nor did I
care to inquire, having merely come to look on. The work of the members
of the Provisional Government seemed mainly to consist in consuming
enormous quantities of charcuterie and washing them down with copious
libations of cheap wine. The place was positively reeking with the smell
of both, not to mention the fumes of tobacco. Every one was smoking his
hardest. The entrance of the individual in uniform caused somewhat of a
sensation; a _member_--whom I had never seen before and whom I have
never beheld since--stepped forward to ask his business. The new-comer
did not appear to know himself; at any rate, he stammered and stuttered,
but his escort left him no time to betray his confusion more plainly.
"C'est le citoyen gouverneur de l'Hotel de Ville," they shouted as with
one voice; and there and then the new governor was installed, though I
am perfectly sure that not a soul of all those present knew as much as
his name.
Subsequent inquiries elicited the fact that the man was a fourth or
fifth-rate singer, named Chateaurenaud, and engaged at the Opera
National (formerly the Cirque Olympique) on the Boulevard du Temple. On
that day they were having a dress rehearsal of a new piece in which
Chateaurenaud was playing a military part. He had just donned his
costume when, hearing a noise on the Boulevards, he put his head out of
the window. The mob caught sight of him. "A general, a general!" cried
several urchins; and in less time than it takes to tell, the theatre was
invaded, and notwithstanding his struggles, Chateaurenaud was carried
off, placed on horseback, and conducted to the Hotel de Ville, where,
for the next fortnight, he throned as governor. For, curious to relate,
M. de Lamartine ratified his appointment(?) on the morning of the 25th
of February. Chateaurenaud became an official of the secret police
during the Second Empire. I often saw him on horseback in the Bois de
Boulogne, when the Emperor drove in that direction.
I did not stay long in the Hotel de Ville, but made my way back to the
Boulevards as best I could; for by that time darkness had set in, and
the mob was shouting for illuminations, and obstructing the
thoroughfares everywhere. Every now and then one came upon a body which
had been lying there since the morning, but they took no notice of it.
Their principal concern seemed the suitable acknowledgment of the advent
of the Second Republic by the bourgeoisie by means of coloured devices,
or, in default of such, by coloured lamps or even candles. Woe to the
houses, the inhabitants of which remained deaf to their summons to that
effect. In a very few minutes every window was smashed to atoms, until
at last a timid hand was seen to arrange a few bottles with candles
stuck into them on the sill, and light them. Then they departed, to
impose their will elsewhere.
That night, after dinner, the first person of my acquaintance I met was
Mery. He had been in the Chamber of Deputies from the very beginning of
the proceedings; it was he who solemnly assured me that the first cry of
"Vive la Republique!" had been uttered by M. de Lamartine. I was
surprised at this, because I had been told that early in the morning the
poet had paid a visit to the Duchesse d'Orleans to assure her of his
devotion to her cause. "That may be so," said Mery, to whom I repeated
what I had heard; "but you must remember that Lamartine is always hard
up, and closely pursued by duns. A revolution with the prospect of
becoming president of the republic was the only means of staving off his
creditors. He clutched at it as a last resource."
Alexandre Dumas was there also, but I have an idea that he would have
willingly passed the sponge over that incident of his life, for I never
could get him to talk frankly on the subject. This does not mean that he
would have recanted his republican principles, but that he was ashamed
at having lent his countenance to such a republic as that. I fancy there
were a great many like him.