In Paris
"Le plus grand art d'un habile homme est celui de savior
cacher son habileté."
It will be necessary to dwell to a certain extent on those events of
the great world that left their mark on the obscure lives of which the
present history treats. An old man may be excused for expressing his
opinion--or rather his agreement with the opinions of greater
minds--that our little existence here on earth is but part of a great
scheme--that we are but pawns moved hither and thither on a vast
chess-board, and that, while our vision is often obscured by some
knight or bishop or king, whose neighbourhood overshadows us, yet our
presence may affect the greater moves as certainly as we are affected
by them.
I first became aware of the fact that my existence was amenable to
every political wind that might blow a week or so after Lucille went
to La Pauline, without, indeed, vouchsafing an explanation of her
sudden coldness.
In my study I was one evening smoking, and, I admit it, thinking of
Lucille--thinking very practically, however. For I was reflecting
with satisfaction over some small improvements I had effected--with a
Norfolk energy which, no doubt, gave offence to some--during the short
time that the Vicomte and I had passed in the Provençal chateau. I had
the pleasant conviction that Lucille's health could, at all events,
come to no harm from a residence in one of the oldest castles in
France. No very lover-like reflections, the high-flown will cry. So be
it. Each must love in his own way. "Air and water--air and water!" the
Vicomte had cried when he saw the men at work under my directions.
"You Englishmen are mad on the subject."
While I was engaged in these thoughts the old gentleman came to my
room, and in the next few minutes made known to me a new and
unsuspected side of his character. His manner was singularly alert. He
seemed to be years younger.
"I said I should want a man at my side--young and strong," he began,
seating himself. "Let us understand each other, Mr. Howard."
"By all means."
He gave a little laugh, and leaning forward took a quill pen from my
writing-table, disliking idle fingers while he talked.
"That time has come, my friend. Do you mean to stand by me?"
[Illustration: "LET US UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER, MR. HOWARD."]
"Yes."
"You are a man of few words," he answered, looking at me with a new
keenness which sat strangely on his benign features. "But I want no
more. The government has fallen--the doctors say the Emperor's life is
not worth that!"
And he snapped his finger and thumb, glancing at the clock. It was
eight o'clock. We had dined at half-past six.
"Can you come with me now? I want to show you the state of Paris--the
condition of the people, the way of their thoughts. One cannot know
too much of the ... people--for they will some day rule the world."
"And rule it devilish badly," I added, putting my papers together.
"We shall be late in returning," the Vicomte said to the servant who
held the carriage door. I had heard--through my thoughts--the stamping
of the horses in the courtyard and the rattle of the harness, but took
no great note of them, as the Vicomte had the habit of going out in
the evening. I noticed we never crossed the river during our silent
drive. A river has two sides, just as a street, and one of them is
usually in the shade. It was among the shadows that our business lay
this evening.
"You know," said the Vicomte, as we climbed the narrow staircase of a
quiet house in the neighbourhood of the great wine stores that adjoin
the Jardin des Plantes--"you know that this is the day of the
talkers--the Rocheforts, the Pyats--the windbags. Mon Dieu, what
nonsense! But a windbag may burst and do harm. One must watch these
gentry."
Republicanism was indeed in the air at this time. And has not history
demonstrated that those who cry loudest for a commonwealth are such as
wish to draw from that wealth and add nothing to it? The reddest
Republican is always the man who has nothing to lose and all to gain
by a social upheaval.
I was not surprised, therefore, when we found ourselves in a room full
of bad hats and unkempt heads. A voice was shouting their
requirements. I knew that they wanted a wash more than anything else.
The room was a large, low one, and looked larger through an atmosphere
blue with smoke and the fumes of absinthe. The Vicomte--a little man,
as I have said--slipped in unperceived. I was less fortunate, being of
a higher stature. I saw that my advent did not pass unobserved on the
platform, where a party of patriots sat in a row, like the Christy
Minstrels, showing the soles of their boots to all whom it might
concern. In this case a working cobbler would have been deeply
interested, as in a vast field of labour. The Vicomte slipped a few
yards away from me, and the shoulders of his fellow-countrymen
obscured him. I could find no such retreat, for your true Socialist
never has much to recommend him to the notice of society, being
usually a poor, mean man to look at, who seeks to add a cubit to his
stature by encouraging the growth of his hair.
One such stood on the platform, mouthing the bloodthirsty periods of
his creed. He caught sight of me.
"Ah!" he cried, "here is a new disciple. And a hardy one! _Un grand
gaillard_, my brethren, who can strike a solid blow for liberty,
equality and fraternity. Say, brother, you are with us; is it not so?"
"If you open the casements, not otherwise," I answered. The French
crowd is ever ready for blood or laughter. I have seen the Republic
completely set in the background by a cat looking in a window and
giving voice to the one word assigned to it by nature. Some laughed
now, and the orator deemed it wise to leave me in peace. I took
advantage of my obscurity to look around me, and was duly edified by
what I saw. The Paris _vaurien_ is worth less than any man on earth,
and these were choice specimens from the gutter.
We were wasting our time in such a galley, and as I thus reflected a
note was slipped into my hand.
"Follow me, but not at once." I read and hid the paper in my pocket.
Without staring about me too much, I watched the Vicomte make his way
towards a door half hidden by a dirty curtain--another to that by
which we had entered. Thither I followed him after a decent
interval--no one molesting me. One of the patriots on the platform
seemed to watch me with understanding, and when I reached the
curtained doorway, my glance meeting his, he dismissed me with his
eyelids.
I found myself in a dark passage, and with his gentle laugh the
Vicomte took my arm.
"All that out there," he whispered, "is a mere blind. It is in the
inner room that they act. Out there they merely talk. Come with me.
Gently--there are two steps--my dear Howard. These are the men--he
paused with his fingers on the handle of a door--who will rule France
when the Emperor is dead or deposed."
With that we entered, and those assembled--some sitting at a table,
others standing about the room--saluted the Vicomte de Clericy almost
as a leader. Some of the faces I knew--indeed, they are to be found in
the illustrated histories of France. The thoughts of others were known
to me, for many were journalists of repute--men of advanced views and
fiery pens. Perhaps, after all, I knew as little of the Vicomte de
Clericy as of any man there. For he seemed to have laid aside that
pleasant and garrulous senility which had awakened my dull conscience.
Although he did not deliver a speech during the proceedings, as did
some, his attitude was rather that of a leader than of a mere
on-looker. Here was no mere watching, thought I. My patron was known
to all, and went from group to group talking in the ear of many. There
was, indeed, much talking as I have always found in the world, and but
little listening. The Vicomte introduced me to some of his friends.
"Mr. Howard," he said, "an English gentleman who is kind enough to act
as my secretary. Mr. Howard is too wise to trouble himself with
politics."
And I thought some of them had a queer way of looking at me.
"A deceiver or a dupe?" I heard one ask another, trusting too far the
proverbial dulness of British ears.
The topic of the evening was, of course, the fall of the ministry--a
matter of great moment at that time, and, it may be, through all the
ages--though a recital of its possible effects would be but dull
reading to-day. When a chain is riven, the casual on-looker takes but
small interest in the history of each link. This event of December,
1869, was in truth an important link in the chain of strange events
that go to make up the history of the shortest and most marvellous of
the great dynasties of the world.
I stood among those politicians and wondered what the greatest of
their race at that time living thought of these matters in the
Tuileries Palace hard by. I could picture him sitting, as was his
wont--a grave man with a keen sense of humour--with his head a little
on one side, his large, still face drawn and pale--the evidence of his
malady around his dull eyes. Was the game played out? The greatest
since that so gloriously won--so miserably lost at length--by his
uncle. The Bonapartes were no common men--and it was no common blood
that trickled unstanched ten years later into the sand of the African
veldt, leaving the world the poorer of one of its greatest races.
I gathered that the fall of the ministry was no great surprise to
these men assembled in this inner room. They formed, so far as I could
discover, a sort of administration--a committee which gathered the
opinions of the more intelligent citizens of the larger towns of
France--a head-center of news and public thought. Their meeting place
was furnished without ostentation, and in excellent taste.
These were no mere adventurers, but men of position and wealth, who
had somewhat to lose and every desire to retain the same. They did not
rave of patriotism, nor was there any cant of equality and fraternity.
It seemed rather that, finding themselves placed in stirring times,
they deemed it wise to guide by some means or other the course of
events into such channels as might ensure safety to themselves and
their possessions. And who can blame them for such foresight? Patriots
are, according to my experience, men who look for a substantial _quid
pro quo_. They serve their country with the view of making their
country serve them.
Whatever the usual deliberations of the body among whom I found myself
might be, the all-absorbing topic of the evening set all else aside.
"We approach the moment," cried one, a young man with a lisping
intonation and great possessions, as I afterwards learnt. "Now is the
time for all to do as I have done. I have sent everything out of the
country. I and my sword remain for France."
He spoke truly. He and his sword now lie side by side--in French soil.
"Let all do the same," growled an old man, with eyes flashing beneath
his great white brows.
"All who know," suggested one, significantly. Whereupon arose a great
discussion, and many names were uttered that were familiar to
me--among others, indeed, that of my friend, John Turner. I noticed
that many laughed when his name was mentioned.
"Oh!" they cried. "You may leave John Turner to care for his own
affairs. _Il est fin celui-là._"
Again a familiar name fell on my ears, and this was received with
groans and derisive laughter. It was that of the Baron Giraud. I
gathered that there was question of warning certain financiers and
rich persons outside of this circle of some danger known only to the
initiated. Indeed, the wealthy were sending their money out of the
country as fast and as secretly as possible.
"No, no," cried the young man I have mentioned; "the Baron Giraud--a
fine Baron, heaven knows!--has risen with the Empire--nor has he been
over-scrupulous as to whom he trod underfoot. With the Empire he must
fall."
And one and all fell to abusing the Baron Giraud. He was a thief, and
a despoiler of the widow and orphan. His wealth had been acquired not
honestly, but at the expense,--nay, at the ruin--of others. He was an
unwholesome growth of a mushroom age--a bad man, whose god was gold
and gain his only ambition.
"If such men are to grow in France and govern her, then woe to
France," cried one prophetic voice.
Indeed, if half we heard was true of the Baron Giraud, he must have
been a fine scoundrel, and I had little compunction in agreeing that
he deserved no consideration at the hands of honest men. The cooler
heads deemed it wise to withhold from the Baron certain details of the
public feeling, not out of spite, but because such knowledge could not
be trusted in notoriously unscrupulous hands. He would but turn it to
money.
For the greater safety, all present bound themselves upon honour not
to reveal the result of their deliberations to certain named persons,
and the Baron Giraud had the privilege of heading this list. I was
surprised that no form of mutual faith was observed. These men seemed
to trust each other without so much as a word--and indeed, what
stronger tie can men have than the common gain?
"We are not conspirators," said one to me. "Our movements are known."
And he nodded his head in the direction of the Tuileries. I made no
doubt that all, indeed, was known in that quarter, but the fatalist
who planned and schemed there would meet these men the next day with
his gentle smile, betraying nothing.
As my interest became aroused by these proceedings, I became aware of
the Vicomte's close scrutiny. It seemed that he was watching
me--noting the effect of every speech and word.
"You were interested," he said, casually, as we drove home smoking our
cigars.
"Yes."
He looked out of the carriage window for some time, and then, turning,
he laid his hand on my knee.
"And it is not a game," he said, with his little laugh, which somehow
sounded quite different--less senile, less helpless. "It is not a
game, my friend!"