Some men of the Empire -- Fialin de Persigny -- The public
prosecutor's opinion of him expressed at the trial for high
treason in 1836 -- Superior in many respects to Louis-Napoleon --
The revival of the Empire his only and constant dream -- In order
to realize it, he appeals first to Jerome, ex-King of Westphalia
-- De Persigny's estimate of him -- Jerome's greed and
Louis-Napoleon's generosity -- De Persigny's financial
embarrassments -- His charity -- What the Empire really meant to
him -- De Persigny virtually the moving spirit in the Coup d'Etat
-- Louis-Napoleon might have been satisfied with the presidency
of the republic for life -- Persigny seeks for aid in England --
Palmerston's share in the Coup d'Etat -- The submarine cable --
Preparations for the Coup d'Etat -- A warning of it sent to
England -- Count Walewski issues invitations for a dinner-party
on the 2nd of December -- Opinion in London that Louis-Napoleon
will get the worst in the struggle with the Chamber -- The last
funds from London -- General de Saint-Arnaud and Baron Lacrosse
-- The Elysee-Bourbon on the evening of the 1st of December -- I
pass the Elysee at midnight -- Nothing unusual -- London on the
2nd of December -- The dinner at Count Walewski's put off at the
last moment -- Illuminations at the French Embassy a few hours
later -- Palmerston at the Embassy -- Some traits of De
Persigny's character -- His personal affection for Louis-Napoleon
-- Madame de Persigny -- Her parsimony -- Her cooking of the
household accounts -- Chevet and Madame de Persigny -- What the
Empire might have been with a Von Moltke by the side of the
Emperor instead of Vaillant, Niel, and Leboeuf -- Colonel
(afterwards General) Fleury the only modest man among the
Emperor's entourage -- De Persigny's pretensions as a Heaven-born
statesman -- Mgr. de Merode -- De Morny -- His first meeting with
his half-brother -- De Morny as a grand seigneur -- The origin of
the Mexican campaign -- Walewski -- His fads -- Rouher -- My
first sight of him in the Quartier-Latin -- The Emperor's opinion
of him at the beginning of his career -- Rouher in his native
home, Auvergne -- His marriage -- Madame Rouher -- His
father-in-law.
"A man endowed with a strong will and energy, active and intelligent to
a degree, with the faculty of turning up at every spot where his
presence was necessary either to revive the lagging plot or to gain
fresh adherents; a man better acquainted than all the rest with the
secret springs upon which the conspiracy hung."
This description of M. de Persigny is borrowed from the indictment at
the trial for high treason in 1836. Every particular of it is correct,
yet it is a very one-sided diagnosis of the character of Napoleon's
staunchest henchman. If I had had to paint him morally and mentally in
one line, I should, without intending to be irreverent, have called him
the John the Baptist of the revived Napoleonic legend. There could be no
doubt about his energy, his activity, and his intelligence; in respect
to the former two he was absolutely superior to Louis-Napoleon, but
they, the activity and energy and intelligence, would only respond to
the bidding of one voice, that of the first Napoleon from the grave,
which, he felt sure, had appointed him the chief instrument for the
restoration of the Empire. It was the dream that haunted his sleep, that
pursued him when awake. Let it not be thought, though, that
Louis-Napoleon appeared to him as the one selected by Providence to
realize that dream. Loyal and faithful as he was to him from the day
they met until his (Persigny's) death, he would have been equally loyal
and faithful, though perhaps not so deeply attached, to Jerome, the
ex-King of Westphalia, to whom he appealed first. But the youngest of
the great Napoleon's brothers did not relish adventures, and he turned a
deaf ear to Persigny's proposals, as he did later on to those of M.
Thiers, who wished him to become a candidate for the presidency of the
Second Republic.
I was talking one day on the subject of the latter's refusal to De
Persigny, several years after the advent of the Empire, and commending
Jerome for his abnegation of self and his fealty to his nephew. There
was a sneer on Persigny's face such as I had never seen there before;
for though he was by no means good-tempered, and frequently very
violent, he generally left the members of the Imperial family alone. He
noticed my surprise, and explained at once. "It is very evident that you
do not know Jerome, nor did I until a few years ago. There is not a
single one of the great Napoleon's brothers who really had his glory at
heart; it meant money and position to them, that is all. Do you know why
Jerome did not fall in with my views and those of M. Thiers? Well, I
will tell you. He was afraid that his nephew Louis and the rest of the
family would be a burden on him; he preferred that others should take
the chestnuts out of the fire and that he should have the eating of
them. That is what his self-abnegation meant, nothing more."
I am afraid that De Persigny was not altogether wrong in his estimate of
the ex-King of Westphalia. He was insatiable in his demands for money to
his nephew. In fact, with the exception of Princesse Mathilde, the whole
of the Emperor's family was a thorn in his side.
The Emperor himself was absolutely incapable of refusing a service. I
have the following story on very good authority. De Persigny, who was as
lavish as his Imperial master, was rarely ever out of difficulties, and
in such emergencies naturally appealed to the latter. He had wasted on,
or sunk enormous sums in, his country estate of Chamarande, where he
entertained with boundless hospitality. As a matter of course, he was
always being pursued by his creditors. One early morn--Persigny always
went betimes when he wanted money--he made his appearance in the
Emperor's private room, looking sad and dejected. Napoleon refrained for
a while from questioning him as to the cause of his low spirits, but
finally ventured to say that he looked ill.
"Ah, sire," was the answer, "I am simply bent down with sorrow. This
Chamarande, which I have created out of nothing as it were"--it had cost
nearly two millions of francs--"is ruining me. I shall be forced to give
it up."
De Persigny felt sure that he would be told there and then not to worry
himself; but the Emperor was in a jocular mood, and took delight in
prolonging his anxiety. "Believe me, my dear duc," said Napoleon with an
assumed air of indifference, "it is the best thing you can do. Get rid
of Chamarande; it is too great a burden, and you'll breathe more freely
when it's gone."
De Persigny turned as white as a ghost; whereupon Napoleon, who was
soft-hearted to a degree, took a bundle of notes from his drawer and
handed them to him. De Persigny went away beaming.
It must not be inferred from this that De Persigny was grasping like
Prince Jerome and others, who constantly drained Napoleon's purse. De
Persigny's charity was proverbial, but he gave blindly, and as a
consequence, was frequently imposed upon. When young he had joined the
Saint-Simoniens; his great aim was to make everybody happy. To him the
restoration of the Empire meant not only the revival of Napoleon's
glory, but the era of universal happiness, of universal material
prosperity. As a rule, he was thoroughly unpractical; the whole of his
life's work may be summed up in one line--he conceived and organized the
Coup d'Etat. As such he was virtually the founder of the Second Empire.
In that task practice went hand in hand with theory; when the task was
accomplished, his inspiration was utterly at fault.
Historians have been generally content to attribute the principal role
in the Coup d'Etat, next to that of Louis-Napoleon, to M. de Morny. Of
course, I am speaking of those who conceived it, not of those who
executed it. The parts of Generals Magnan and De Saint-Arnaud, of
Colonel de Beville and M. de Maupas, scarcely admit of discussion. But
the fact is that De Morny did comparatively nothing as far as the
conception was concerned. The prime mover was undoubtedly De Persigny,
and it is a very moot question whether, but for him, it would have been
conceived at all. I know I am treading on dangerous ground, but I have
very good authority for the whole of the following notes relating to it.
In De Persigny's mind the whole of the scheme was worked out prior to
Louis-Napoleon's election to the presidency, though of course the
success of it depended on that election. He did not want a republic,
even with Louis-Napoleon as a president for life; he wanted an empire. I
should not like to affirm that Prince Louis would _not_ have been
content with such a position; it was Persigny who put down his foot,
exclaiming, "_Aut Caesar, aut nullus!_" That the sentence fell upon
willing ears, there is equally no doubt, and when the Prince-President
had his foot upon the first rung of the ladder, he would probably have
rushed, or endeavoured to rush, to the top at once, regardless of the
risk involved in this perilous ascent, for there would have been no one,
absolutely no one, to steady the ladder at the bottom. De Persigny held
him back while he busied himself in finding not only the _personnel_
that was to hold the latter, but the troops that would prevent the crowd
from interfering with the ladder-holders. It was he who was the first to
broach the recall of De Saint-Arnaud from Africa; it was he who drew
attention to M. de Maupas, then little more than an obscure prefect; it
was he who was wise enough to see that "the ladder-holders" would have
to be sought for in England, and not in France. "The English," he said
to Napoleon, "owe you a good turn for the harm they have done to your
uncle. They are sufficiently generous or sufficiently sensible to do
that good turn, if it is in their interest to do so; look for your
support among the English."
I fancy it was Lord Palmerston's dislike of Louis-Philippe on account of
"the Spanish marriages," rather than a sentiment of generosity towards
Louis-Napoleon, that made him espouse his cause, but I feel certain that
he did espouse it. I have good ground for saying that his interviews
with Comte Walewski were much more frequent than his ministerial
colleagues suspected, or the relations between England and France,
however friendly they may have been, warranted. But everything was not
ready. Palmerston and Walewski on the English side of the Channel,
Louis-Napoleon and De Persigny on the French side, were waiting for
something. What was it? Nothing more nor less than the laying of the
submarine cable between Dover and Calais, the concession for which was
given on the 8th of January, 1851, and on which occasion the last words
to Mr. Walker Breit were to hurry it on as much as possible, "_seeing
that it is of the utmost importance for the French Government to be in
direct and rapid communication with the Cabinet of St. James_." The
Cabinet meant Lord Palmerston. Nevertheless, it is not until ten months
later that the cable is laid, and from that moment events march apace.
Let us glance at them for a moment. Telegraphic communication between
Dover and Calais is established on the 13th of November. On the 15th,
General Saint-Arnaud gives orders that the degree of 1849, conferring on
the president of the National Assembly the right of summoning and
disposing of the military forces which had hitherto been hung up in
every barracks throughout the land, shall be taken down. On the 16th,
Changarnier, Leflo, and Baze, with many others, decide that a bill shall
be introduced immediately, conferring once more that right on the
president of the Assembly. The opponents of the Prince-President are
already rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of their success,
for it means that Prince Louis and his adherents will be in their power,
and in their power means removal to Vincennes or elsewhere, as prisoners
of State. On the 18th, the bill is thrown out by a majority of 108, and
the Assembly is virtually powerless henceforth against any and every
attack from the military. It was on that very evening that the date of
the Coup d'Etat was fixed for the 2nd of December, notwithstanding the
hesitation and wavering of Louis-Napoleon. On the 26th a young attache
is despatched from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the French Embassy
in London, instead of the ordinary cabinet (or queen's) messenger, which
proves that the despatches are more important than usual. They contain
letters from the Prince-President himself to Comte Walewski, the
contents of which are probably known to the Marquis de Turgot, but which
are despatched in that way, instead of being sent directly from the
Elysee by a trustworthy person, because the presidential residence is
watched day and night by the "counter-police" of the Assembly. The
reason why the Marquis de Turgot selects a young aristocrat is because
he feels certain that he cannot be tampered with. On the 29th of
November a connection of mine receives a letter from a friend in London,
who is supposed to be behind the scenes, but who this time is utterly in
the dark. It is to the following effect: "There is something in the
wind, but I know not what. Both yesterday morning (27th) and to-day
Walewski has been closeted for more than two hours each time with
Palmerston. There is to be a grand dinner at Walewski's on the second of
next month, to which I received an invitation. Can you tell me what
mischief is brewing?"
The recipient of the letter was neither better nor worse informed than
the rest of us, and in spite of all the assertions to the contrary which
have been made since, no one foresaw the crisis in the shape it came
upon us. On the contrary, the general opinion was that in the end
Louis-Napoleon would get the worse, in spite of the magic influence of
his name with the army. It was expected that if the troops were called
upon to act against the National Assembly, they would refuse and turn
against their leaders. I am by no means certain that the
Prince-President did not entertain a similar opinion up to the last
moment, for I have it on excellent authority that as late as the 26th of
November he endeavoured to postpone the affair for a month. It was then
that De Persigny showed his teeth, and insisted upon the night of the
1st or 2nd of December as the latest. The interview was a very stormy
one. On that very morning De Persigny had received a letter from London,
not addressed to his residence. It contained a draft for L2000, but with
the intimation that these would be the last funds forthcoming. He showed
the Prince-President the letter, and Napoleon gave in there and then.
The letters spoken of just now were despatched on the same day. It was
with that money that the Coup d'Etat was made, and all the stories about
a million and a half of francs being handed respectively to De Morny, De
Maupas, Saint-Arnaud, and the rest are so much invention.
Up to six o'clock in the afternoon of the 1st of December, General de
Saint-Arnaud was virtually undecided, not with regard to the necessity
of the Coup d'Etat, but with regard to the opportuneness of it within
the next twelve hours. I have the following story from the lips of
Baron Lacrosse, who was one of the actors in it. On the eve of the Coup
d'Etat he was Minister of Public Works, and as such was present at the
sitting of the Assembly on the 1st of December. A member ascended the
tribune to interpellate the Minister for War, and, the latter being
absent, the question was deferred until next day. That same evening, 1st
of December, there was an official dinner at M. Daviel's, the Minister
of Justice, and at the termination of the sitting, M. Lacrosse called in
his carriage at the Ministry for War to take his colleague. "You may
make up your mind for a warm half-hour to-morrow," he said with a smile,
as he entered General Saint-Arnaud's room. "Why?" asked the general.
"You are going to be interpellated." "I expected as much, and was just
considering my answer. I am glad you warned me in time. I think I know
what to say now."
I do not believe that Baron Lacrosse had the faintest inkling of the
real drift of the remark, nor have I ever asked him directly whether he
had. As far as I could gather afterwards from one or two people who were
there, the Elysee presented no unusual feature that night. The reception
was well attended, as the ordinary receptions on Mondays generally were,
for the times had gone by when the courtyard was a howling wilderness
dotted with two, or perhaps three, hackney cabs. It would appear that a
great many well-known men and a corresponding number of pretty women
moved as usual through the salons, only one of which was shut up, that
at the very end of the suite, and which did duty as a council-chamber,
and contained the portrait of the then young Emperor of Austria,
Francis-Joseph. But this was scarcely noticed, nor did the early
withdrawal of the Prince-President provoke any comment, for it happened
pretty often. Very certain is it that at twelve o'clock that night the
Elysee was wrapt in darkness, for I happened to pass there at that hour.
Standing at the door, or rather inside it, was the captain of the guard,
smoking a cigar. I believe it was Captain Desondes of the "Guides," but
I will not be sure, for I was not near enough to distinguish plainly.
The Faubourg St. Honore was pretty well deserted, save for a few
individuals prowling about; they were probably detectives in the pay of
the Prince-President's adversaries.
Let me return for a moment to London, and give an account of what
happened there on the 2nd of December, as supplied by the writer of the
above-mentioned letter, in an epistle which reached Paris only on the
7th.
It appears that on the day of the Coup d'Etat London woke up amidst a
dense fog. Virtually the news of what happened in Paris early that
morning did not spread until between two and three o'clock. Our
informant had been invited to a dinner-party at the French Embassy that
night, and though in no way actively connected with politics, he was
asking himself whether he should go or stay away, when, at five o'clock,
he received a note from the Embassy, saying that the dinner would not
take place. The fact was that at the eleventh hour the whole of the
corps diplomatique had sent excuses. Our friend went to his club, had
his dinner, and spent part of the evening there. At about eleven a crony
of his came in, and seeing him seated in the smoking-room, exclaimed,
"Why, I thought you were going to Walewski's dinner and reception." "So
I was," remarked our friend, "but it was countermanded at five."
"Countermanded? Why, I passed the Embassy just now, and it was blazing
with light. Come and look."
They took a cab, and sure enough the building was positively
illuminated. Our friend went in, and the salons were crammed to
suffocation. Lord Palmerston was talking animatedly to Count Walewski;
the whole corps diplomatique accredited to the court of St. James was
there. The fact was that about nine or half-past the most favourable
news from Paris had reached London. The report soon spread that Lord
Palmerston had officially adhered to the Coup d'Etat, and that he had
telegraphed in that sense to the various English embassies abroad
without even consulting his fellow-ministers.
I believe our friend was correctly informed, for it is well known that
Palmerston did not resign, but was virtually dismissed from office. He
never went to Windsor to give up the seals; Lord John Russell had to do
it for him. Persigny, therefore, considered that he had fallen in the
cause of Louis-Napoleon, and as such he became little short of an idol.
The Prince-President himself was not far from sharing in that worship.
Not once, but a hundred times, his familiars have heard him say, "Avec
Palmerston on peut faire des grandes choses." Nevertheless, Palmerston
appealed more to De Persigny's imagination than to Louis-Napoleon's.
After all, he was perhaps much more of a Richelieu than a constitutional
minister in a constitutional country has a right to be nowadays, and
that was what Persigny admired above all things. His long stay in
England had by no means removed his inherent dislike to parliamentary
government, and, rightly or wrongly, he credited Palmerston with a
similar sentiment.
De Persigny was amiable and obliging enough, provided one knew how to
manage him, and with those whom he liked, but exceedingly thin-skinned
and often violent with those whom he disliked. He was, moreover, very
jealous with regard to Louis-Napoleon's affection for him. I doubt
whether he really minded the influence wielded by the Empress, De Morny,
and Walewski over the Emperor, but he grudged them their place in the
Emperor's heart. This was essentially the case with regard to the
former. He would have been glad to see his old friend and Imperial
master contract a loveless marriage with some insignificant German or
Russian princess, who would have borne her husband few or many children,
in order to secure the safety of the dynasty, but the passion that
prompted the union with Eugenie de Montijo he considered virtually as an
injury to himself. I give his opinion on that subject in English,
because, though expressed in French, it had certainly been inspired by
his sojourn in England. "When love invades a man's heart, there is
scarcely any room left for friendship. You cannot drive love for a woman
and friendship for a man in double harness, you are obliged to drive
them tandem; and what is worse in a case like that of the Emperor,
friendship becomes the leader and love the wheeler. Of course, to the
outsider, friendship has the place of honour; in reality, love, the
wheeler, is in closest contact with the driver and the vehicle, and can,
moreover, have a sly kick at friendship, the leader. Personally, I am an
exception--I may say a phenomenal exception--because my affection for
the Emperor is as strong as my love for my wife."
Those who knew both the Emperor and Madame de Persigny might have fitly
argued that this equal division of affection was a virtual injustice to
the sovereign, who was decidedly more amiable than the spouse. The
former rarely did a spiteful thing from personal motives of revenge; I
only know of two. He never invited Lady Jersey to the Tuileries during
the Empire, because she had shown her dislike of him when he was in
London; he exiled David d'Angers because the sculptor had refused to
finish the monument of Queen Hortense after the Coup-d'Etat. David
d'Angers was one of the noblest creatures that ever lived, and I mean to
speak of him at greater length. On the other hand, Madame de Persigny
made her husband's life, notwithstanding his love for her, a burden by
her whimsical disposition, her vindictive temperament, and her
cheeseparing in everything except her own lavish expenditure on dress.
She was what the French call "une femme qui fait des scenes;" she almost
prided herself upon being superior in birth to her husband, though in
that respect there was really not a pin to choose between her
grandfather, Michel Ney, the stable-boy, who had risen to be a duke of
the First Empire, and her husband, the sergeant-quartermaster Fialin,
who became Duc de Persigny under the second. She was always advocating
retrenchment in the household. "True," said Persigny, "she cuts down her
dresses too, but the more she cuts, the more they cost." For in his
angry moments he would now and then tell a story against his wife. Here
is one. Persigny, as I have already said, was hospitable to a fault, but
he had always to do battle when projecting a grand entertainment. "There
was so much trouble with the servants, and as for the chef, his
extravagance knew no bounds." So said madame; and sick at last of always
hearing the same complaints, he decided to let Chevet provide. All went
well at first, because he himself went to the Palais-Royal to give his
orders, merely stating the number of guests, and leaving the rest to the
famous caterers, than whom there are no more obliging or conscientious
purveyors anywhere. After a little while he began to leave the
arrangements to madame; she herself sent out the invitations, so there
could be no mistake with regard to the number. He soon perceived,
however, that the dinners, if not inferior in quality to the former
ones, were decidedly inferior in quantity. At last, one evening, when
there were twenty-six people round the board, there was not enough for
twenty, and next day De Persigny took the road to the Palais-Royal once
more to lodge his complaint personally. "Comment, monsieur le comte,"
was the reply of one of the principals, "vous dites qu'il y avait
vingt-six convives et qu'il n'y avait pas de quoi nourrir vingt; je vous
crois parfaitement; voila la commande de madame la comtesse, copiee dans
notre registre: 'Diner chez M. de Persigny pour seize personnes.'"
Madame had simply pocketed, or intended to pocket, fifteen hundred
francs--for Chevet rarely charged less than a hundred and fifty francs
per head, wines included--and had endeavoured to make the food for
sixteen do for twenty-six. Of course there was a scene. Madame promised
amendment, and the husband was only too willing to believe. The
amendment was worse than the original offence, for one night the whole
of the supper-table, set out a la Francaise, _i. e._, with everything on
it, gave way, because, her own dining-table having proved too small, she
had declined Chevet's offer of providing one at a cost of seven or eight
francs, and sent for a jobbing carpenter to put together some boards and
trestles at the cost of two francs. Chevet managed to provide another
banquet within three quarters of an hour, which, with the one that had
been spoiled, was put in the bill. Within a comparatively short time of
her husband's death, early in the seventies, Madame de Persigny
contracted a second marriage, in direct opposition to the will of her
family.
Most of the men in the immediate entourage of the Emperor were
intoxicated with their sudden leap into power, but of course the
intoxication manifested itself in different ways. A good many considered
themselves the composers of the Napoleonic Opera--for it was really such
in the way it held the stage of France for eighteen years, the usual
tragic finale not even being wanting. With the exception of De Persigny,
they were in reality but the orchestral performers, and he, to give him
his utmost due, was only the orchestrator of the score and part author
of the libretto. The original themes had been composed by the exile of
St. Helena, and were so powerfully attractive to, and so constantly
haunting, the ears of the majority of Frenchmen as to have required no
outward aid to remembrance for thirty-five years, though I do not forget
either Thiers' works, Victor Hugo's poetry, Louis-Philippe's generous
transfer of the great captain's remains to France, nor Louis-Napoleon's
own attempts at Strasburg and Boulogne, all of which contributed to that
effect. Nevertheless, all the artisans of the Coup d'Etat considered
themselves nearly as great geniuses as the intellectual and military
giant who conceived and executed the 19th Brumaire, and pretended to
impose their policy upon Europe by imposing their will upon the Emperor,
though not one could hold a candle to him in statecraft. Napoleon with a
Moltke by his side would have been a match for Bismarck, and the left
bank of the Rhine _might_ have been French; Alsace-Lorraine would
certainly not have been German. It is not my purpose, however, to enter
upon politics. I repeat, De Persigny, De Morny, and to a certain extent
Walewski, endeavoured to exalt themselves into political Napoleons at
all times and seasons; De Saint-Arnaud felt convinced that the
strategical mantle of the great warrior had fallen upon him; De Maupas
fancied himself another Fouche. The only one who was really free from
pretensions of either kind was Colonel (afterwards General) Fleury. He
was the only modest man among the lot.
The greatest offender in that way was, no doubt, De Persigny. During his
journey to Rome in 1866 he did not hesitate to tender his political
advice to such past masters in diplomacy as Pius IX. and Cardinal
Antonelli. Both pretended to profit by the lesson, but Mgr. de
Merode,[52] who was not quite so patient, had many an animated
discussion with him, in which De Persigny frequently got the worst. One
evening the latter thought fit to twit him with his pugnaciousness. "I
suppose, monsignor," he said, "it's the ancient leaven of the trooper
getting the upper hand now and then." "True," replied the prelate; "I
was a captain in the foreign legion, and fought in Africa, where I got
my cross of the Legion of Honour. But you, monsieur le duc, I fancy I
have heard that you were more or less of a sergeant-quartermaster in a
cavalry regiment."
[Footnote 52: Frederic Xavier de Merode was the descendant of
an ancient Flemish family, and became an influential member of
the Prelatura. He took an active share in the organization of
the Papal troops which fought at Mentana. There is a romantic
but absolutely true story connected with his military career.
He was from his very youth intended for the priesthood, but one
day, when he was but nineteen, he had a quarrel with a
fellow-student, who gave him a box on the ears. M. de Merode
was too conscientious a Catholic to fight a duel, and still his
pride forbade him to remain under the imputation of being a
coward. So he enlisted first in a Belgian, subsequently in a
foreign regiment, and proved his courage. He was very
hot-tempered, and had frequent disagreements with Generals
Lamoriciere and De Guyon, and even with Pius IX. himself, who,
on the occasion of the promulgation of the decree of
infallibility, positively forbade him to enter the Vatican
again. But he soon afterwards made his peace with the Pontiff.
His worst enemies--and he had many--never questioned his
sincerity and loyalty.--EDITOR.]
Mgr. de Merode could have done De Persigny no greater injury than to
remind him of his humble origin. He always winced under such allusions;
his constant preoccupation was to make people forget it, and he often
exposed himself to ridicule in the attempt. He knew nothing about art,
and yet he would speak about it, not as if he had studied the subject,
but as if he had been brought up in a refined society, where the
atmosphere had been impregnated with it. As a matter of course, he
became an easy victim to the picture-dealers and bric-a-brac merchants.
I remember his silver being taken to the mint during the Siege. He had
paid an enormous price for it on the dealer's representation that it was
antique: "C'est du Louis XV. tout pur." "Tellement pur que c'est du
Victoria," said a connoisseur; and he was not mistaken, for it had been
manufactured by a firm of London silversmiths. But it was a compliment
for all that to the Queen.
With all his faults, De Persigny was at heart a better man than De
Morny, who affected to look down upon him. True, the latter had none of
his glaring defects, neither had he any of his sterling virtues. One
evening, in January, 1849, when the Prince-President had been less than
a month at the Elysee, a closed carriage drove into the courtyard and
stopped before the flight of steps leading to the hall, which, like the
rest of the building, was already wrapt in semi-darkness. A gentleman
alighted who was evidently expected, for the officer on duty conducted
him almost without a word to the private apartments of the President,
where the latter was walking up and down, the usual cigarette between
his lips, evidently greatly preoccupied and visibly impatient. The door
had scarcely opened when the Prince's face, generally so difficult to
read, lighted up as if by magic. Before the officer had time to announce
the visitor, the prince stepped forward, held out his hand, and with the
other clasped the new-comer to his breast. The officer knew the visitor.
It was the Comte Auguste de Morny. As a matter of course he retired, and
saw and heard no more. I had the above account from his own lips, and he
felt certain that this was the first time the brothers had ever met.
The Comte de Morny was close upon forty then, and for at least half of
that time had been emancipated from all restraint; he was a well-known
figure in the society of Louis-Philippe's reign; he had been a deputy
for one of the constituencies in Auvergne; at the period of his first
meeting with Louis-Napoleon he was at the head of an important
industrial establishment down that way, and one fain asks one's self why
he had waited until then to shake his brother's hand. The answer is not
difficult. There is an oft-repeated story about De Morny having been at
the Opera-Comique during the evening of the 1st of December, 1851.
Rumours of the Coup d'Etat were rife, and a lady said, "Il parait qu'on
va donner un fameux coup de balai. De quel cote serez vous, M. de
Morny?" "Soyez sure, madame, que je serai du cote du manche." Morny
always averred that he had said nothing of the kind. "They invented it
afterwards, perhaps because they credited me with the instinctive
faculty of being on the winning side, the side of the handle, in any and
every emergency."
I think one may safely accept that version, and that is why he refrained
from claiming his brother's friendship and acquaintance until he felt
almost certain that the latter was fingering the handle of the broom
that was to make a clean sweep of the Second Republic. It is difficult
to determine how much or how little he contributed to the success of
that sweep, but I have an idea that it was very little. One thing is
very certain, for I have it on very good--I may say, the
best--authority. He did not contribute any money to the undertaking; he
endeavoured to raise funds from others, but he himself did not loosen
his purse-strings; when, curiously enough, he was the only one among the
immediate entourage of Louis-Napoleon whose purse-strings were worth
loosening.
Allowing for the difference of sex, better breeding and better
education, De Morny often reminded one of Rachel. They possessed the
same powers of fascination, and were, I am afraid, equally selfish at
heart. To read the biographies of both--I do not mean those that pretend
to be historical--one would think that there had never been a grande
dame on the stage of the Comedie-Francaise before Rachel or contemporary
with her, though Augustine Brohan was decidedly more grande dame than
Rachel in every respect. It is the same with regard to De Morny. To the
chroniqueur during the Second Empire he was the only grand seigneur--the
rest were only seigneurs; but I am inclined to think that the
chroniqueur of those days had seen very few real grand seigneurs. To use
a popular locution, "they did not go thirteen to the dozen" at the court
of Napoleon III.; and among the people with whom De Morny came
habitually in contact, in the course of his financial and industrial
schemes, a grand seigneur was even a greater rarity than at the
Tuileries. If a kind of quiet impertinence to some of one's
fellow-creatures, and a tacitly expressed contempt for nearly the whole
of the rest, constitute the grand seigneur, then certainly De Morny
could have claimed the title. I have elsewhere noted the meeting of
Taglioni with her husband at De Morny's dinner-party. If it had been
arranged by the host with the view of effecting a reconciliation between
the couple, then nothing could have been more praiseworthy; but I am not
at all sure of it. If it were not, then it became an unpardonable joke
at the woman's expense, and in the worst taste; but the chroniqueur of
those days would have applauded it all the same.
Here are two stories which, at different times, were told by De Morny's
familiars and sycophants in order to stamp him the grand seigneur. Late
in the fifties he was an assiduous frequenter of the salons of a banker,
whose sisters-in-law happened to be very handsome. One evening, while
talking to one of them, they came to ask him to take a hand at
lansquenet. He had evidently no intention of leaving the society of the
lady for that of the gaming-table, and said so. Of course, his host was
in the wrong in pressing the thing, nevertheless one has yet to learn
that "two wrongs make one right."
"What will you play?" they asked, when they had as good as badgered him
away from his companion.
"The simple rouge and the noir. That's the quickest."
"How much for?"
"Ten thousand francs."
The stake seemed somewhat high, and no one cared to take it up. But the
host himself felt bound to set the example, and the sum was made up. De
Morny lost, and was about to rise from the table, when they said--
"Have your revenge."
"Very well; ten thousand on the black."
He lost again. Most grand seigneurs would have got up without saying
anything. Twenty thousand francs was, after all, not an important sum to
him, and I feel, moreover, certain that it was not the loss of the money
that vexed him. But he felt bound to emphasize his indifference.
"There, that will do. I trust I shall be left in peace now."
My informant considered this exceedingly _talon rouge_; I did not.
A story of a similar kind, when he was a simple deputy. A bigwig, with
an inordinate ambition to become a minister, invited him to dinner. He
had been told that his host was in the habit of drinking a rare Bordeaux
which was only offered to one or two guests, quietly pointed out by the
former to the servant. At the question of the latter whether he (M. de
Morny) would take Brane-Mouton or Ermitage, he pointed to the famous
bottle that had been hidden away. The servant, as badly trained as the
master, looked embarrassed, but at last filled De Morny's glass with the
precious nectar. De Morny simply poured it into a tumbler and diluted it
with water.
Ridiculous as it may seem, De Morny often spoke and acted as if he had
royal blood in his veins, and in that respect scarcely considered
himself inferior to Colonna Walewski, of whose origin there could be no
doubt. A glance at the man's face was sufficient. Both frequently spoke
and acted as if Louis-Napoleon occupied the Imperial throne by their
good will, and that, therefore, he was, in a measure, bound to dance to
their fiddling. Outwardly these two were fast friends, up to a certain
period; I fancy that their common hatred of De Persigny was the
strongest link of that bond. In reality they were as jealous of one
another and of their influence over the Emperor as they were of De
Persigny and his. The latter, who was well aware of all this, frankly
averred that he preferred Walewski's undisguised and outspoken hostility
to De Morny's very questionable cordiality. "The one would take my head
like Judith took Holofernes', the other would shave it like Delilah
shaved Samson's, provided I trusted myself to either, which I am not
likely to do."
It was De Persigny who told me the substance of the following story, and
I believe every word of it, because, first, I never caught De Persigny
telling a deliberate falsehood; secondly, because I heard it confirmed
many years afterwards in substance by two persons who were more or less
directly concerned in it.
In the latter end of 1863 one of the sons of Baron James de Rothschild
died; I believe it was the youngest of the four, but I am not certain.
The old baron, who was generosity itself when it came to endowing
charitable institutions, was absolutely opposed to any waste of money.
Amidst the terrible grief at his loss, he was still the careful
administrator, and sent to M. Emile Perrin, the then director of the
Grand Opera, and subsequently the director of the Comedie-Francaise,
asking him to dispose of his box on the grand tier, under the express
condition that it should revert to him after a twelvemonth. It was the
very thing M. Perrin was not empowered to do. Though nominally the
director, he was virtually the manager under Comte Bacciochi, the
superintendent of the Imperial theatres; that is, the theatres which
received a subsidy from the Emperor's civil list. The subscriber who
wished to relinquish his box or seat, for however short a time--of
course without continuing to pay for it--forfeited all subsequent claim
to it. In this instance, though, apart from the position of Baron James,
the cause which prompted the application warranted an exception being
made; still M. Perrin did not wish to act upon his own responsibility,
and referred the matter to Comte Bacciochi, telling him at the same time
that Comte Walewski would be glad to take the box during the interim.
The latter had but recently resigned the Ministry of State by reason of
an unexpected difficulty in the "Roman Question;"[53] the ministerial
box went, as a matter of course, with the appointment, and Comte
Walewski regretted the loss of the former, which was one of the best in
the house, more than the loss of the latter, and had asked his
protege--M. Perrin owed his position at the Opera to him--to get him as
good a one as soon as possible.
[Footnote 53: If Comte Walewski ruled Napoleon III., the second
Comtesse Walewska, who was an Italian by birth and very
handsome, absolutely ruled her husband. The first Comtesse
Walewska was Lord Sandwich's daughter.--EDITOR.]
It so happened that Comte Bacciochi had a grudge against Walewski for
having questioned certain of his prerogatives connected with the
superintendence of the Opera. The moment he heard of Walewski's wish, he
replied, "M. de Morny applied to me several months since for a better
box, and I see no reason why Comte Walewski should have it over his
head."
Vindictive like a Corsican, he laid the matter directly before the
Emperor, and furthermore did his best to exasperate the two postulants
against one another. De Morny had the box; Bacciochi had, however,
succeeded so well that the two men were for a considerable time not on
speaking terms.
Meanwhile the Mexican question had assumed a very serious aspect. In
spite of his undoubted interest in the Jecker scheme, or probably
because it had yielded all it was likely to yield, De Morny had of late
been on the side of Walewski, who strongly counselled the withdrawal of
the French troops. But the moment the incident of the opera-box cropped
up, there was a change of front on his part. He became an ardent
partisan for continuing the campaign, systematically siding against
Walewski in everything, and tacitly avoiding any attempt of the latter
to draw him into conversation. Walewski felt hurt, and gave up the
attempt in despair. A little before this, Don Gutierrez de Estada had
landed in Europe with a deputation of notable Mexicans to offer the
crown to Maximilian. The latter made his acceptance conditional on the
despatch of twenty thousand French troops and the promise of a grant of
three hundred millions of francs.
In a council held at the Tuileries these conditions were unhesitatingly
declined. "That was, if I am not mistaken, on a Saturday," said De
Persigny; "and it was taken for granted that everything was settled. On
Monday morning the council was hurriedly summoned to the Tuileries, and
having to come from a good distance, Walewski arrived when it had been
sitting for more than an hour. What had happened meanwhile? Simply this.
Don Gutierrez had been informed of the decision of the Emperor's
advisers, and Maximilian had been communicated with by telegraph to the
same effect. On the Sunday morning the Archduke telegraphed to the
Mexican envoy that unless his conditions were subscribed to _in toto_ he
should decline the honour. Don Gutierrez, determined not to return
without a king, rushed there and then to De Morny's and offered him the
crown. The latter immediately accepted, in the event of Maximilian
persisting in his refusal. The Emperor was simply frantic with rage, but
nothing would move De Morny. The only one who really had any influence
over him was 'the other prince of the blood,' meaning Walewski, for,
according to him, the real and legitimate Bonapartes counted for
nothing. Walewski was telegraphed for, as I told you, early in the
morning. When he came he found the council engaged in discussing the
means of raising a loan. The Empress begged him to dissuade De Morny
from his purpose, telling him all I have told you. Walewski refused to
be the first to speak to De Morny. I think that both Walewski and De
Morny have heaped injury and insult upon me more than upon any man; I
would have obeyed the Empress for the Emperor's sake, but 'the two
princes of the blood' only consulted their own dignity. I need not tell
you what effect the elevation of De Morny to the throne of Mexico would
have produced in Europe, let alone in France. Rather than risk such a
thing, the money was found; Bazaine was sent, and that poor fellow,
Maximilian, went to his death, because M. Bacciochi had sown dissension
between the brother and the cousin of the Emperor about an opera-box.
Such is history, my friend."
I repeat, De Persigny was a better man at heart than De Morny, or
perhaps than Walewski, though the latter had only fads, and never
stooped to the questionable practices of his fellow "prince of the
blood" in the race for wealth. The erstwhile sergeant-quartermaster
refrained from doing so out of sheer contempt for money-hunters, and
from an inborn feeling of honesty. The son of Napoleon I., though
illegitimate, felt what was due to the author of his being, and
absolutely refused to be mixed up with any commercial transactions. He
was never quietly insolent to any one, like the natural son of Hortense;
he rarely said either a foolish or a wise thing, but frequently did
ill-considered ones, as, for instance, when he wrote a play. "What
induced you to do this, monsieur le comte?" said Thiers, on the first
night. "It is so difficult to write a play in five acts, and it is so
easy not to write a play in five acts." Among his fads was the objection
to ladies in the stalls of a theatre. In 1861 he issued an order
forbidding their admission to that part of the house, and could only be
persuaded with difficulty, and at the eleventh hour, to rescind it. In
many respects he was like Philip II. of Spain; he worried about trifles.
One day he prevailed upon M. de Boitelle, the Prefect of police, a
thoroughly sensible man, to put a stop to the flying of kites, because
their tails might get entangled in the telegraph wires, and cause damage
to the latter. I happened to meet him on the Boulevards on the very day
the edict was promulgated. He felt evidently very proud of the
conception, and asked me what I thought of it. I told him the story of
"the cow on the rails," according to Stephenson. Napoleon, when he heard
of Walewski's reform, sent for Boitelle. "Here is an 'order in council'
I want you to publish," he said, as seriously as possible. It was to the
effect that "all birds found perching on the wires would be fined, and,
in default of payment, imprisoned." Curiously enough, though a man of
parts, and naturally intelligent, satire of that kind was lost upon him,
for not very long after he prevailed upon M. de Boitelle to revive an
obsolete order with regard to the length of the hackney-drivers' whips
and the cracking thereof. It was M. Carlier, the predecessor of M. de
Maupas, who had originally attempted a similar thing. He was rewarded
with a pictorial skit representing him on the point of drowning, while
cabby was trying to save him by holding out his whip, which proved too
short for the purpose.
Walewski had none of the vivacity of most of the Bonapartes. I knew him
a good many years before, and after the establishment of the Second
Empire, and have rarely seen him out of temper. I fancy he must have
made an admirable ambassador with a good chief at his back; he, himself,
I think, had little spirit of initiative, though, like a good many of
us, he was fully convinced of the contrary. He was, to use the correct
word, frequently dull; nevertheless, it was currently asserted and
believed that he was the only man Rachel ever sincerely cared for. "Je
comprends cela," said George Sand one day, when the matter was discussed
in her presence; "son commerce doit lui reposer l'esprit."
It is worthy of remark that during the reign which succeeded that of
Louis-Philippe, the man who wielded the greatest power next to the
Emperor was, in almost every respect but one, the mental and moral
counterpart of "the citizen king." I am alluding to M. Eugene Rouher,
sometimes called the vice-emperor.[54] I knew Eugene Rouher some years
before he was thought of as a deputy, let alone as a minister--when, in
fact, he was terminating his law courses in the Quartier-Latin; but not
even the most inveterate Pumblechook would have dared to advance
afterwards that he perceived the germs of his future eminence in him
then. He was a good-looking young fellow, in no way distinguished from
the rest. He was a not unworthy ornament of "La Chaumiere," and did
probably as much or as little poring over books as his companions.
Still, there could be no doubt as to his natural intelligence, but the
dunces in my immediate circle were very few. He was not very well off;
but, as I have said elsewhere, the Croesuses were also rare. At any
rate, Eugene Rouher had entirely passed out of my recollection, and
when, eleven or twelve years later, I saw his name in the list of Odilon
Barrot's administration as Minister of Justice, I had not the remotest
idea that it was the Eugene Rouher of my Quartier-Latin days. I am
certain that a great many of our former acquaintances were equally
ignorant, because, though I met several of them from time to time on the
"fashionable side" of the Seine, I do not remember a single one having
drawn my attention to him. It was only at one of the presidential
receptions at the Elysee, in 1850, that I became aware of the fact. He
came up to me and held out his hand. "Il me semble, monsieur, que nous
nous sommes deja rencontres au Quartier-Latin," he said. Even then I was
in the dark with regard to the position he was fast assuming; but the
Prince-President himself enlightened me to a great extent in the course
of the evening. "It appears that you and Rouher are old acquaintances,"
he said in English; and on my nodding in the affirmative, he added, "If
you were a Frenchman, and inclined to go in for politics, or even an
Englishman in need of patronage or influence, I would advise you to
stick to him, for he is a very remarkable man, and I fancy we shall hear
a good deal of him within the next few years." I may, therefore, say
without exaggeration that I was one of the first who had a trustworthy
tip with regard to a comparatively "dark political horse," and from a
tipster in whom by that time I was inclined to believe.
[Footnote 54: It is equally curious to note, perhaps, that M.
Grevy, who occupied the presidential chair of the Third
Republic for a longer period than his two predecessors, was in
many respects like Louis-Philippe, notably in his love of
money.--EDITOR.]
Though I was neither "a Frenchman inclined to go in for politics," nor
"even an Englishman in need of patronage or influence," my curiosity had
been aroused; for, I repeat, at the time of our first acquaintance I had
considered Eugene Rouher a fairly intelligent young fellow; but his
intelligence had not struck me as likely to make a mark, at any rate so
soon, seeing that he was considerably below forty when I met him at the
Elysee. It is idle to assert, as the republicans have done since, that
he gained his position by abandoning the political professions to which
he owed his start in public life. Among the nine hundred deputies of the
Second Republic, there were at least a hundred intelligent so-called
republicans ready and willing to do the same with the prospect of a far
less signal reward than fell eventually to Rouher's lot.
My curiosity was doomed to remain unsatisfied until two or three years
later, when Rouher had already become a fixture in the political
organization of the Empire. It was De Morny himself who gave me the
particulars of Rouher's beginnings, and I have no reason to suppose that
he painted them and the man in deliberately glowing colours, albeit that
in one important crisis they acted in concert. Clermont-Ferrand was only
about twelve miles from Riom, Rouher's native town. I have already
remarked that De Morny, at the time he met with his brother for the
first time, was at the head of an important industrial establishment. It
was at the former place; De Morny, therefore, was in a position to know.
Eugene Rouher, it appears, like a good many men who have risen to
political eminence, belonged to what, for want of a better term, I may
call the rural bourgeoisie--that is, the frugal, thrifty, hard-headed,
small landowner, tilling his own land, honest in the main, ever on the
alert to increase his own property by a timely bargain, with an intense
love of the soil, with a kind of semi-Voltairean contempt for the
clergy, an ingrained respect largely admixed with fear for "the man of
the law," to which profession he often brings up his son in order to
have what he likes most--litigation--for nothing. Rouher's grandfather
was a man of that stamp; he made an attorney of his son, and the latter
established himself in the Rue Desaix, in a small, one-storied,
uninviting-looking tenement, where, in the year 1814, Eugene Rouher was
born.[55] Rouher's father was not very prosperous, yet he managed to
send both his sons to Paris to study law. The elder son, much older than
the future minister, had succeeded in getting a very good practice at
the Riom bar, but he died a short time before Eugene returned from
Paris, leaving a widow and a son, who, of course, was too young to take
his father's place. The young barrister, therefore, stepped into a
capital ready-made practice, and being exceedingly amiable, bright,
hard-working, and essentially honest, soon made a host of friends.
[Footnote 55: Before that it bore the name of the Rue des
Trois-Hautbois, and in the heyday of the Second Empire it was
changed into the Rue Eugene-Rouher. But at the fall of Sedan
the indignation against the Emperor's powerful minister was so
great that his carriages had to be removed from Riom lest they
should be burned by the mob, and the street resumed its old
appellation. In November, 1887, three years after Rouher's
death, I happened to be at Clermont-Ferrand waiting for General
Boulanger to go to Paris. I went over to Riom and had a look at
the house. It was occupied by a carpenter or joiner, to whose
father it had been sold years previously by the express wish of
one of Eugene Rouher's daughters. I got into conversation with
an intelligent inhabitant of the town, who told me that on the
4th of September, 1870, the feeling against Rouher was much
stronger than against Louis-Napoleon himself, yet that feeling
was an implied compliment to Rouher. "He was the cleverer of
the two," the people shouted; "he ought not to have allowed the
Emperor to engage in this war. He could have prevented it with
one word." Nevertheless, in a little while it abated, and
Rouher was elected a member of the National Assembly.--EDITOR.]
"I have frequently found myself opposed to Rouher," said De Morny; "but
his unswerving loyalty to the Empire and the Emperor is beyond question.
I should not wonder but what he died poor.[56]
[Footnote 56: De Morny's prophecy turned out correct. M. Eugene
Rouher died a poor man. There is a comic story connected with
this poverty. At the beginning of the Republic, and during the
presidency of Thiers, Rouher's house was constantly watched by
detectives. The weather was abominably bad; it rained
constantly. Madame Rouher sent them some cotton umbrellas,
excusing herself for not sending silk ones, because she could
not afford it.--EDITOR.]
"As you know, Eugene Rouher was really very handsome. Mdlle.
Conchon--that is Madame Rouher's maiden name--thought him the handsomest
man in the world. True, her world did not extend beyond a few miles from
Clermont-Ferrand; but I fancy she might have gone further and fared
worse. You know old Conchon, and the pride he takes in his son-in-law.
Well, he would not hear of the marriage at first. Conchon was a
character in those days. Though he had but a poor practice at the
Clermont bar, he was clever; and if he had gone to Paris as a
journalist, instead of vegetating down there, I am sure he would have
made his way. He was very fond of his classics--of Horace and Tibullus
above all--and turned out some pretty Anacreontic verses for the local
'caveau;' for Clermont, like every other provincial centre, prided
itself on its 'caveau.'[57]
[Footnote 57: The diminutive of "cave" (cellar). Really a
gathering of poets and songwriters, which reached its highest
reputation in Paris during the early part of the present
century. The Saturday nights at the Savage Club are perhaps the
nearest approach to it in London.--EDITOR.]
"A time came, however, when Conchon's fortunes took a turn for the
better. You can form no idea of the political ignorance that prevailed
in the provinces even as late as the reign of Louis-Philippe. Any
measure advocated or promulgated by the Government was sure to be
received with suspicion by the populations as affecting their liberties,
and, what was of still greater consequence to them, their property. The
First Republic had given them license to despoil others; any subsequent
measure of the monarchies was looked upon by them as an attempt at
reprisal. In 1842 a general census was ordered. You may remember the
hostility it provoked in Paris; it was nothing to its effect in the
agricultural and wine-growing centres. The Republican wire-pullers
spread the report that the census meant nothing but the thin end of the
wedge of a bill for the duties upon wine to be paid by the grower. There
was a terrible row in Clermont-Ferrand and the neighbourhood; the
'Marseillaise' had to make way for the still more revolutionary
'Ca-ira.' Conchon was maire of Clermont-Ferrand, and he who was as
innocent of all this as a new-born babe, had his house burned over his
head. The Government argued that if the mob had burned the maire's
dwelling in preference to that of the prefect, it was because the former
was a more influential personage than the latter; for there could be no
other reason for their giving him the 'Legion of Honour,' and appointing
him to a puisne judgeship on the bench of Riom, seeing that he had
neither made an heroic defence of his property, nor endeavoured to carry
out the provisions of the census bill by armed force. In fact, the
latter step would have been an impossibility on Conchon's part. You and
I know well enough how difficult it is to make Frenchmen hold their
tongues by means of troops; to endeavour to make them speak--in
distinction to yelling--by similar means is altogether out of the
question. You cannot take every head of a family, even in a
comparatively small town like Clermont-Ferrand, and put him between two
gendarmes to make him tell you his name, his age, and those of his
family. I fancy, moreover, that Conchon was not at Clermont at all when
the mob made a bonfire of his dwelling; it was on a Sunday, and he had
probably gone into the country. At any rate, as I told you, they gave
him the cross and a judgeship. It never rains but it pours. Contrary to
the ordinary principles of French mobs of hating a man in proportion to
his standing well with the Government, they started a subscription to
indemnify Conchon for the loss of his house, which subscription amounted
to a hundred thousand francs.
"Conchon had become a somebody, and refused to give his daughter to a
mere provincial barrister now that he belonged to 'la magistrature
assise.'[58] The young people were, however, very fond of one another,
and had their way. They were a very handsome couple, and became the life
and soul of the best society of Clermont-Ferrand, which, exclusive as it
was, admitted them as they had admitted the widow of the elder brother.
The younger Madame Rouher was by no means as sprightly or as clever as
she has become since. She was somewhat of a spoilt child, but her
husband was a very brilliant talker indeed, though, unlike many
brilliant talkers, there was not an ounce of spite in his cleverest
remarks. The electors might have done worse than send him to Paris the
first time he invited their suffrages in '46, under the auspices of
Guizot. Nevertheless, he was beaten by a goodly majority, and he had to
wait until after the Revolution of February, when he was returned on the
Republican list."
[Footnote 58: The term for the French bench, consisting of
judges; the _parquet_, _i. e._ those to whom the public
prosecution is confided, are called "la magistrature debout."
As a rule, the latter have a great deal more talent than the
former. "What are you going to do with your son?" asked a
gentleman of his friend. "I am going to make a magistrate of
him--'debout,' if he is strong enough to keep on his legs;
'assis,' if he be not."--EDITOR.]
So far De Morny. Consulting my personal recollections of Eugene Rouher,
whom I still see now and then, I find nothing but good to say of him. I
am not prepared to judge him as a politician, that kind of judgment
being utterly at variance with the spirit of these notes, but I know of
no French statesman whose memory will be entitled to greater respect
than Rouher's, with the exception, perhaps, of Guizot's. Both men
committed grave faults, but no feeling of self-interest actuated them.
The world is apt to blame great ministers for clinging to power after
they have apparently given the greatest measure of their genius. They do
not blame Harvey and Jenner for having continued to study and to
practise after they had satisfactorily demonstrated, the one the theory
of the circulation of the blood, the other the possibility of
inoculation against small-pox; they do not blame Milton for having
continued to write after he had given "Paradise Lost," Rubens for having
continued to paint after he had given "The Descent from the Cross,"
Michael-Angelo for not having abandoned the sculptor's chisel after he
had finished the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. The bold stroke of
policy that made England a principal shareholder in the Suez Canal, the
Menai Bridge, the building of the Great Western Railway, were
achievements of great men who had apparently given all there was in
them to give; why should Rouher have retired when he was barely fifty,
and not have endeavoured to retrieve the mistake he evidently made when
he allowed Bismarck to humiliate Austria at Sadowa, and to lay the
foundations of a unified Germany? Richelieu made mistakes also, but he
retrieved them before his death.
Be this as it may, Rouher was both in public and private life an
essentially honourable and honest man--as honest as Louis-Philippe in
many respects, far more honest in others, and absolutely free from the
everlasting preoccupation about money which marred that monarch's
character. He was as disinterested as Guizot, and would have scorned the
tergiversations and hypocrisy of Thiers. He never betrayed his master's
cause; he never consciously sacrificed his country to his pride. The
only blame that can be laid to his charge is that he allowed his better
sense to be overruled by a woman; but that woman was the wife of his
sovereign.
He was, above all, a staunch friend to those who had known him in his
early days. "There will be no Auvergnats left in Clermont-Ferrand and
Riom if this goes on," said a witty journalist, seeing Rouher constantly
surrounded by the natives of that particular province, to the exclusion
of every one else. "We'll send an equal quantity of Parisians to
Auvergne; it will do them good, and teach them to work," replied Rouher,
when he heard of the remark. "And in another generation or two Paris
will see what it has never seen before, namely, frugal Parisians, doing
a day's labour for a day's wage, for we'll have their offspring back by
then." For Rouher could be very witty when he liked, and never feared to
hit out straight. He was a delightful talker, and, next to Alexandre
Dumas, the best raconteur I have ever met. It was because he had a
marvellous memory and a distinct talent for mimicry. Owing to this
latter gift, he was unlike any other parliamentary orator I have ever
heard. He would sit perfectly still under the most terrible onslaught of
his opponents, whoever they were. No sign of impatience or weariness,
not an attempt to take a note; his eyes remained steadily fixed on his
interlocutor, his arms folded across his chest. Then he would rise
slowly from his seat and walk to the tribune, when there was one, take
up the argument of his adversary, not only word for word, but with the
latter's intonation and gestures, almost with the latter's voice--which
used to drive Thiers wild--and answer it point by point.
He used to call that "fair debating;" in reality, it was the masterly
trick of a great actor, who mercilessly wielded his power of ridicule;
but we must remember that he had originally been a lawyer, and that the
scent of the French law-courts hung over him till the very end. "I am
not always convinced of the honesty of my cause, but I hold a brief for
the Government, and I feel convinced that it would not be honest to let
the other party get the victory," he said.
He was, and remained, very simple in his habits. He would not have
minded entertaining his familiars every night of the week, but he did
not care for the grand receptions he was compelled to give. He was very
fond of the game of piquet. His father-in-law, who had been promoted to
a judgeship in one of the Paris courts, had been a foeman worthy of his
steel; "but I am afraid," laughed Rouher, "that his exaggerated
admiration for me affects his play."
Rouher was right; M. Conchon was inordinately proud of his son-in-law.
He lived, as it were, in the Minister of State's reflected glory. His
great delight was to go shopping, in order to have the satisfaction of
saying to the tradesmen, "You'll have this sent to my son-in-law, M.
Rouher." The stir and bustle of the Paris streets confused him to the
last, but he did not mind it, seeing that it afforded him an opportunity
of inquiring his way. "I want to get back to the Ministry of State--to
my son-in-law, M. Rouher." It was not snobbishness; it was sheer
unadulterated admiration of the man to whom he had somewhat reluctantly
given his daughter.