THE ABSOLUTION:--SECOND PHASE: THE OATH
I
FOR AN OATH, AN OATH AND A HALF
What is Louis Bonaparte? He is perjury personified; he is mental
reservation incarnate, felony in flesh and bone; he is a false oath
wearing a general's hat, and calling himself Monseigneur.
Well! what is it that he demands of France, this man-ambuscade? An
oath.
An oath!
Indeed, after the 20th of December, 1848, and the 2nd of December,
1851, after the inviolate representatives of the people had been
arrested and hunted down; after the confiscation of the Republic, after
the _coup d'état_, one might have expected from this malefactor an
honest cynical laugh at the oath, and that this Sbrigani would say to
France: "Oh, yes! it is true! I did pledge my word of honour. It is
very funny. Let us say no more about such nonsense."
Not so: he requires an oath.
And so, mayors, gendarmes, judges, spies, prefects, generals,
_sergents-de-ville_, _gardes champêtres_, commissaries of police,
magistrates, office-holders, Senators, Councillors of State,
legislators, clerks, it is said, it is his will, this idea has passed
through his head, he will have it so, it is his good pleasure; lose no
time, start off, you to the registrar, you to a confessional, you under
the eye of your brigadier, you to the minister, you, Senators, to the
Tuileries, to the salon of the marshals, you, spies, to the prefecture
of police, you, first presidents and solicitors-general to M.
Bonaparte's ante-chamber; hasten in carriages, on foot, on horseback,
in gown, in scarf, in court dress, in uniform, gold-laced, bespangled,
embroidered, beplumed, with cap on head, ruff at the neck, sash around
the waist, and sword by the side; place yourselves, some before the
plaster bust, others before the man himself; very good, there you are,
all of you, none are missing; look him well in the face, reflect,
search your conscience, your loyalty, your decency, your religion; take
off your glove, raise your hand, and take oath to his perjury, swear
fealty to his treason.
Have you done it? Yes! Ah, what a precious farce!
So Louis Bonaparte takes the oath _au sérieux_. True, he believes in my
word, in yours, in ours, in theirs; he believes everybody's word but
his own. He demands that everybody about him shall swear, and he orders
them to be loyal. It pleases Messalina to be surrounded by virgins.
Capital!
He requires all to be honourable; you must understand this,
Saint-Arnaud, and you, Maupas, must look upon it as final.
But let us sift things to the bottom; there are oaths and oaths. The
oath which freely, solemnly, before the face of God and man, having
received a note of confidence from 6,000,000 of citizens, one swears
before the National Assembly, to the constitution of his country, to
the law, to the people, and to France, that is nothing, it is not
binding, one can trifle with it, laugh at it, and some fine day trample
it under foot; but the oath that one swears before the cannon's mouth,
at the sword's point, under the eye of the police, in order to retain
the employment that gives one food, to preserve the rank which is one's
property; the oath which, to save one's daily bread and that of one's
children, one swears to a villain, a rebel, the violator of the laws,
the slaughterer of the Republic, a fugitive from every court, the man
who himself has broken his oath--oh! that oath is sacred! Let us not
jest.
The oath that we take on the 2nd of December, nephew of the 18th
Brumaire, is sacrosanct!
What I admire most is its ineptitude. To receive as so much ready money
and coin of good alloy, all those "I swear" of the official commons;
not even to think that every scruple has been overcome, and that there
cannot be in them all one single word of pure metal! He is both a
prince and a traitor! To set the example from the summit of the State,
and to imagine that it will not be followed! To sow lead, and expect to
reap gold! Not even to perceive that, in such a case, every conscience
will model itself on the conscience at the summit, and that the perjury
of the prince transmutes all oaths into counterfeit coin.
II
DIFFERENCE IN PRICE
And from whom, then, are oaths required? From that prefect? he has
betrayed the state. From that general? he has betrayed his colours.
From that magistrate? he has betrayed the law. From all these
office-holders? they have betrayed the Republic. A strange thing, and
calculated to make the philosopher reflect, is this heap of traitors
from which comes this heap of oaths!
Let us, then, dwell upon this charming feature of the 2nd of
December:--
M. Bonaparte Louis believes in men's oaths! he believes in the oaths
that one takes to him! When M. Rouher takes off his glove, and says, "I
swear;" when M. Suin takes off his glove, and says, "I swear;" when M.
Troplong places his hand upon his breast, on that spot where is placed
the third button of a senator, and the heart of other men, and says, "I
swear," M. Bonaparte feels tears in his eyes; deeply moved, he foots
up all these loyalties, and contemplates all these creatures with
profound emotion. He trusts! he believes! Oh, abyss of candour! Really,
the innocence of rogues sometimes elicits the wonder of honest men.
One thing, however, must astonish the kindly-disposed observer and vex
him a little; that is, the capricious and disproportionate manner in
which oaths are paid for, the inequality of the prices that M.
Bonaparte places on this commodity. For example, M. Vidocq, if he were
still chief of police, would receive six thousand francs per annum, M.
Baroche receives eighty thousand. It follows, then, that the oath of M.
Vidocq would bring him in but 16 francs 66 centimes per day, while
the oath of M. Baroche brings him in 222 francs 22 centimes. This is
evidently unjust; why such a difference? An oath is an oath; an oath
consists of a glove removed and six letters. How much more is there in
M. Baroche's oath than in M. Vidocq's?
You will tell me that it is owing to the difference of their functions;
that M. Baroche presides in the Council of State, and that M. Vidocq
would be merely the chief of police. My answer is, that it is but
chance; that probably M. Baroche might excel in directing the police,
and that M. Vidocq might very well be President of the Council of
State. This is no reason.
Are there then several sorts of oaths? Is it the same as with masses?
Are there, in this business also, masses at forty sous, and masses at
ten sous, which latter, as the priest said, are but "rubbish?" Does the
quality of the oath vary with the price? Are there in this commodity of
the oath, superfine, extra-fine, fine, and half-fine? Are some oaths
better than others? Are they more durable, less adulterated with tow
and cotton, better dyed? Are there new oaths, still unused, oaths worn
at the knees, patched oaths and ragged oaths? Is there any choice? Let
us know it. The thing is worth while. It is we who pay. Having made
these observations in the interest of those who are contributors, I
humbly beg pardon of M. Vidocq for having made use of his name. I admit
that I had no right to do so. Besides, M. Vidocq might possibly have
refused the oath!
III
OATHS OF SCIENTIFIC AND LITERARY MEN
Here is a priceless detail: M. Bonaparte was desirous that Arago should
take the oath. Understand,--astronomy must swear fealty. In a
well-regulated state, like France or China, everything is bureaucracy,
even science. The mandarin of the Institute depends upon the mandarin
of the police. The great parallactic telescope owes homage to M.
Bonaparte. An astronomer is a sort of constable of the heavens. The
observatory is like any sentry-box. It is necessary to keep an eye on
the good God up yonder, who seems sometimes not to submit absolutely
to the Constitution of the 14th of January. The heavens are full of
unpleasant allusions, and require to be kept in order. The discovery
of a new spot on the sun is evidently a case for the censorship. The
prediction of a high tide may be seditious. The announcement of an
eclipse of the moon may be treason. We are a bit moonstruck at the
Élysée. Free astronomy is almost as dangerous as a free press. Who can
tell what takes place in those nocturnal _tête-à-têtes_ between Arago
and Jupiter? If it were M. Leverrier, well and good!--but a member
of the Provincial Government! Beware, M. de Maupas! the Bureau of
Longitude must make oath not to conspire with the stars, and especially
with those mad artisans of celestial _coups d'états_ which are
called comets.
Then, too, as we have already said, one is a fatalist when one is a
Bonaparte. Napoleon the Great had his star, Napoleon the Little ought
surely to have a nebula; the astronomers are certainly something of
astrologers. So take the oath, gentlemen. It goes without saying that
Arago refused.
One of the virtues of the oath to Louis Bonaparte is that, according as
it is refused or taken, that oath gives you or takes from you merits,
aptitudes, talents. You are a professor of Greek or Latin; take the
oath, or you are deprived of your chair, and you no longer know Greek
or Latin. You are a professor of rhetoric; take the oath, or tremble;
the story of Theramenes and the dream of Athalie are interdicted; you
shall wander about them for the rest of your days, and never again be
permitted to enter. You are a professor of philosophy; take the oath to
M. Bonaparte,--if not, you become incapable of understanding the
mysteries of the human conscience, and of explaining them to young men.
You are a professor of medicine; take the oath,--if not, you no longer
know how to feel the pulse of a feverish patient. But if the good
professors depart, will there be any more good pupils? Particularly in
medicine, this is a serious matter. What is to become of the sick? The
sick? as if we cared about the sick! The important thing is that
medicine should take the oath to M. Bonaparte. For it comes to this:
either the seven million five hundred thousand votes have no sense, or
it is evident that it would be better to have your leg amputated by an
ass who has taken the oath, than by a refractory Dupuytren.
Ah! one would fain jest, but all this makes the heart sad. Are you a
young and generous spirit, like Deschanel; a sane and upright
intellect, like Despois; a serious and powerful mind, like Jacques; an
eminent writer, a popular historian, like Michelet--take the oath, or
die of hunger.
They refuse! The darkness and silence, in which they stoically seek
refuge, know the rest.
IV
CURIOSITIES OF THE BUSINESS
All morality is denied by such an oath, the cup of shame drained to the
dregs, all decency outraged. There is no reason why one should not see
unheard-of things, and one sees them. In some towns, Evreux for
example, the judges who have taken the oath sit in judgment on the
judges who have refused it;[1] dishonour seated on the bench places
honour at the bar; the sold conscience "reproves" the upright
conscience; the courtesan lashes the virgin.
[1] The President of the Tribunal of Commerce at Evreux refused
to take the oath. Let us listen to the _Moniteur_:
"M. Verney, late President of the Tribunal of Commerce at
Evreux, was cited to appear, on Thursday last, before the
correctional judges of Evreux, on account of facts that took
place on the 29th of April last, within the consular
auditory.
"M. Verney is accused of inciting to hatred and treason
against the Government."
The judges of first instance discharged M. Verney, and "reproved"
him. Appeal _a minima_ by the "procureur of the Republic."
Sentence of the Court of Appeal of Rouen:--
"The Court,--
"Whereas the prosecution has no other object than the
repression of the crime of inciting to hatred and scorn of
the Government;
"Whereas that offence would result, according to the
prosecution, from the last paragraph of the letter of M.
Verney to the procureur of the Republic at Evreux, on the
26th of April last, which is thus worded:--
"'But it would be too serious a matter to barter any longer
what we conceive to be right. The magistracy itself will owe
us thanks for not exposing the ermine of the judge to succumb
under the formality which your dispatch announces.'
"Whereas, however blamable _the conduct of Verney has been in
this affair_, the Court cannot see in that portion of the
letter, the offence of inciting to hatred and contempt of the
Government, since the order by which force was to be employed
to prevent the judges from taking their seats who had refused
to take the oaths, did not emanate from the Government;
"Whereas there is no ground, therefore, for applying to him
the penal code;
"For these reasons,
"Confirms the judgment without costs."
The Court of Appeal at Rouen has for its first President, M.
Franck-Carré, formerly procureur-general to the Court of Peers in
the prosecution at Boulogne; the same who addressed to M. Louis
Bonaparte these words: "You have caused corruption to be employed
and money to be distributed to buy treason."
With this oath one journeys from surprise to surprise. Nicolet was but
a booby compared to M. Bonaparte. When M. Bonaparte had had the circuit
made of his valets, his accomplices, and his victims, and had pocketed
all their oaths, he turned good-naturedly to the valiant chiefs of the
African army, and "spoke to them nearly in these words:" "By the bye,
you are aware I caused you to be arrested at night, by my men, when you
were in your beds; my spies broke into your domiciles, sword in hand; I
have in fact decorated them for that feat of arms; I caused you to be
threatened with the gag if you uttered a cry; my agents took you by the
collar; I have had you placed in a felon's cell at Mazas, and in my own
dungeon at Ham; your hands still bear the marks of the cords with which
I bound you. Bonjour, messieurs, may God have you in his keeping; swear
fealty to me." Changarnier fixed his eyes upon him, and made answer:
"No, traitor!" Bedeau replied: "No, forger!" Lamoricière replied: "No,
perjurer!" Leflô answered: "No, bandit!" Charras struck him in the
face.
At this moment M. Bonaparte's face is red, not from shame, but from the
blow.
There is one other variety of the oath. In the fortresses, in the
prisons, in the hulks, in the jails of Africa, there are thousands of
prisoners. Who are those prisoners? We have said,--republicans,
patriots, soldiers of the law, innocent men, martyrs. Their sufferings
have already been proclaimed by generous voices, and one has a glimpse
of the truth. In our special volume on the 2nd of December, it shall be
our task to tear asunder the veil. Do you wish to know what is taking
place?--Sometimes, when endurance is at an end and strength exhausted,
bending beneath the weight of misery, without shoes, without bread,
without clothing, without a shirt, consumed by fever, devoured by
vermin, poor artisans torn from their workshops, poor husbandmen
forcibly taken from the plough, weeping for a wife, a mother, children,
a family widowed or orphaned, also without bread and perhaps without
shelter, overdone, ill, dying, despairing,--some of these wretched
beings succumb, and consent to "ask for pardon!" Then a letter is
presented for their signature, all written and addressed: "To
Monseigneur le Prince-President." We give publicity to this letter, as
Sieur Quentin Bauchart avows it.
"I, the undersigned, declare upon my honour, that I accept _most
thankfully_ the pardon offered me by Prince Louis-Napoleon, and I
engage never to become a member of any secret society, to respect the
law, and be _faithful_ to the Government that the country has chosen
by the votes of the 20th and 21st of December, 1851."
Let not the meaning of this grave performance be misunderstood. This is
not clemency granted, it is clemency implored. This formula: "Ask us
for your pardon," means: "Grant us our pardon." The murderer, leaning
over his victim and with his knife raised, cries: "I have waylaid you,
seized you, hurled you to the earth, despoiled and robbed you, passed
my knife through your body, and now you are under my feet, your blood
is oozing from twenty wounds; _say you repent_, and I will not finish
you." This _repentance_ exacted by a criminal from an innocent man, is
nothing else than the outward form which his inward remorse assumes.
He fancies that he is thus safeguarded against his own criminality.
Whatever expedient he may adopt to deaden his feelings, although he may
be for ever ringing in his own ears the seven million five hundred
thousand little bells of his plebiscite, the man of the _coup d'état_
reflects at times; he catches vague glimpses of a tomorrow, and
struggles against the inevitable future. He must have legal purgation,
discharge, release from custody, quittance. He exacts it from the
vanquished, and at need puts them to the torture, to obtain it. Louis
Bonaparte knows that there exists, in the conscience of every prisoner,
of every exile, of every man proscribed, a tribunal, and that that
tribunal is beginning his prosecution; he trembles, the executioner
feels a secret dread of his victim; and, under pretext of a pardon
accorded by him to that victim, he forces his judges to sign his
acquittal.
Thus he hopes to deceive France, which, too, is a living conscience and
a watchful tribunal; and that when the hour for passing sentence shall
strike, seeing that he has been absolved by his victims, she will
pardon him. He deceives himself. Let him cut a hole in the wall on
another side, he will not escape through that one.
V
THE 5TH OF APRIL, 1852
On the 5th of April, 1852, this is what was witnessed at the Tuileries.
About eight in the evening, the ante-chamber was filled with men in
scarlet robes, grave and majestic, speaking with subdued voices,
holding in their hands black velvet caps, bedecked with gold lace; most
of them were white-haired. These were the presidents and councillors of
the Court of Cassation, the first presidents of the Courts of Appeal,
and the procureurs-general: all the superior magistracy of France.
These persons were kept waiting in the ante-chamber. An aide-de-camp
ushered them in and left them there. A quarter of an hour passed, half
an hour, an hour; they wandered up and down the room, conversing,
looking at their watches, awaiting the ringing of the bell. After more
than an hour of tedious waiting they perceived that they had not even
chairs to sit upon. One of them, M. Troplong, went to another room
where the footmen were, and complained. A chair was brought him. At
last a folding-door was thrown open; they rushed pell-mell into a
salon. There a man in a black coat was standing with his back against
the chimney-piece. What errand summoned these men in red robes to this
man in a black coat? They came to tender him their oaths. The man was
M. Bonaparte. He nodded, and, in return, they bowed to the ground, as
is meet. In front of M. Bonaparte, at a short distance, stood his
chancellor, M. Abbattucci, late a liberal deputy, now Minister of
Justice to the _coup d'état_. The ceremony began. M. Abbattucci
delivered a discourse, and M. Bonaparte made a speech. The Prince
drawled a few contemptuous words, looking at the carpet; he spoke of
his "legitimacy;" after which the magistrates took the oath. Each in
turn raised his hand. While they were swearing, M. Bonaparte, his back
half turned to them, laughed and chatted with his aides-de-camp, who
were grouped behind him. When it was over he quite turned his back upon
them, and they departed, shaking their heads, humbled and ashamed, not
for having done a base deed, but because they had had no chairs in the
ante-chamber.
As they were departing, the following dialogue was overheard:--"That,"
said one of them, "was an oath it was necessary to take." "And," said
another, "which it will be necessary to keep." "Yes," said a third,
"like the master of the house."
All this is pure servility. Let us proceed.
Among these first presidents who swore fidelity to Louis Bonaparte,
were a certain number of former peers of France, who, as such, had
passed upon Louis Bonaparte the sentence of perpetual imprisonment.
But why should we look back so far? Let us still proceed; here is
something even better. Among these magistrates, there were seven
individuals, by name, Hardouin, Moreau, Pataille, Cauchy, Delapalme,
Grandet, and Quesnault. Prior to the 2nd of December these seven men
composed the High Court of Justice; the first, Hardouin, was president,
the last two, deputy-presidents, the other four, judges. These men had
received and accepted from the Constitution of 1848 a mandate thus
conceived:--
"Article 68. Every measure by which the President of the Republic shall
dissolve the National Assembly, prorogue it or impede the performance
of its decrees, is high treason.
"The judges of the High Court shall thereupon immediately assemble,
under penalty of forfeiture; they shall convoke the jurors in such
place as they shall appoint, to proceed to the trial of the President
and his accomplices; they shall themselves appoint magistrates to
perform the functions of the national administration."
On the 2nd of December, in the face of the flagrant felony, they had
begun the trial, and appointed a procureur-general, M. Renouard, who
had accepted the office, to proceed against Louis Bonaparte on the
charge of high treason. Let us add the name of Renouard to the seven.
On the 5th of April, they were, all eight, present in the antechamber
of Louis Bonaparte; we have just seen what was their business there.
Here it is impossible not to pause.
There are certain melancholy thoughts upon which one must have the
strength to insist; there are sinks of ignominy we must have the
courage to sound.
Cast your eyes upon that man. He was born at hazard, by misfortune, in
a hovel, in a cellar, in a cave, no one knows where, no one knows of
whom. He came out of the dust to fall into the mire. He had only so
much father and mother as was necessary for his birth, after which all
shrank from him. He has crawled on as best he could. He grew up
bare-footed, bare-headed, in rags, with no idea why he was living. He
can neither read nor write, nor does he know that there are laws above
him; he scarcely knows there is a heaven. He has no home, no family, no
creed, no book. He is a blind soul. His intellect has never opened, for
intellect opens only to light as flowers open only to the day, and he
dwells in the dark. However, he must eat. Society has made him a brute
beast, hunger makes him a wild beast. He lies in wait for travellers on
the outskirts of a wood, and robs them of their purses. He is caught,
and sent to the galleys. So far, so good.
Now look at this other man; it is no longer the red cap, it is the red
robe. He believes in God, reads Nicole, is a Jansenist, devout, goes to
confession, takes the sacrament. He is well born, as they say, wants
nothing, nor has ever wanted anything; his parents have lavished
everything on his youth--trouble, instruction, advice, Greek and Latin,
masters in every science. He is a grave and scrupulous personage;
therefore he has been made a magistrate. Seeing this man pass his days
in meditating upon all the great texts, both sacred and profane; in the
study of the law, in the practice of religion, in the contemplation of
the just and unjust, society placed in his keeping all that it holds
most august, most venerable--the book of the law. It made him a judge,
and the punisher of treason. It said to him: "A day may come, an hour
may strike, when the chief by physical force shall trample under his
foot both the law and the rights of man; then you, man of justice, you
will arise, and smite with your rod the man of power."--For that
purpose, and in expectation of that perilous and supreme day, it
lavishes wealth upon him, and clothes him in purple and ermine. That
day arrives, that hour, unique, pitiless, and solemn, that supreme hour
of duty; the man in the red gown begins to stutter the words of the
law; suddenly he perceives that it is not the cause of justice that
prevails, but that treason carries the day. Whereupon he, the man who
has passed his life in imbuing himself with the pure and holy light of
the law, that man who is nothing unless he be the contemner of
unmerited success, that lettered, scrupulous, religious man, that judge
in whose keeping the law has been placed, and, in some sort, the
conscience of the state, turns towards triumphant perjury, and with the
same lips, the same voice in which, if this traitor had been
vanquished, he would have said:
"Criminal, I sentence you to the galleys," he says:
"Monseigneur, I swear fealty to you."
Now take a balance, place in one scale the judge, in the other the
felon, and tell me which side kicks the beam.
VI
EVERYWHERE THE OATH
Such are the things we have beheld in France, on the occasion of the
oath to M. Bonaparte. Men have sworn here, there, everywhere; at Paris,
in the provinces, in the north, in the south, in the cast, and in the
west. There was in France, during a whole month, a tableau of hands
raised, of arms outstretched, and the final chorus was: "We swear,"
etc. The ministers placed their oaths in the hands of the President,
the prefects in those of ministers, and the mob in those of the
prefects. What does M. Bonaparte do with all these oaths? Is he making
a collection of them? Where does he put them? It has been remarked
that none but unpaid functionaries have refused the oath, the
councillors-general, for instance. The fact is, that the oath has been
taken to the budget. We heard on the 29th of March a senator exclaim,
in a loud voice, against the omission of his name, which was, so to
speak, vicarious modesty. M. Sibour, Archbishop of Paris swore;[1] M.
Frank Carré, procureur-general to the Court of Peers in the affair of
Boulogne, swore;[2] M. Dupin, President of the National Assembly on the
2nd of December, swore[3]--O, my God! it is enough to make one wring
one's hands for shame. An oath, however, is a sacred obligation.
[1] As Senator.
[2] As First President of the Court of Appeal at Rouen.
[3] As a member of his Municipal Council.
The man who takes an oath ceases to be a man, he becomes an altar, upon
which God descends. Man, that infirmity, that shadow, that atom, that
grain of sand, that drop of water, that tear dropped from the eye of
destiny; man, so little, so weak, so uncertain, so ignorant, so
restless; man, who lives in trouble and in doubt, knowing little of
yesterday, and nothing of to-morrow, seeing just enough of his road to
place his foot before him, and then nothing but darkness; who trembles
if he looks forward, is sad if he looks back; man, enveloped in those
immensities and those obscurities, time, space, and being, and lost in
them; having an abyss within him, his soul; and an abyss without,
heaven; man, who at certain hours bows his head with a sacred horror,
under every force of nature, under the roar of the sea, under the
rustling of the trees, under the shadow of the mountain, under the
twinkling of the stars; man, who can not lift his head by day, without
being blinded by the light, nor by night, without being crushed by the
infinite; man, who knows nothing, who sees nothing, who hears nothing,
who may be swept away to-morrow, to-day, now, by the waves that pass,
by the breeze that blows, by the pebble that falls, by the hour that
strikes; on a certain day, man, that trembling, stumbling being, the
plaything of chance and of the passing moment, rises suddenly before
the riddle that is called human life, feels that there is within him
something greater than this abyss,--honour! something stronger than
fatality,--virtue! something more mysterious than the unknown,--faith!
and alone, feeble and naked, he says to all this formidable mystery
that envelopes him: "Do with me what you will, but I will do this, and
I will not do that;" and proud, tranquil, serene, creating by a word a
fixed point in the sombre instability that fills the horizon, as the
mariner casts his anchor in the sea, he casts his oath into the future.
O plighted oath! admirable confidence of the just man in himself!
Sublime permission given by God to man, to affirm! It is all over.
There are no more of them. Another of the soul's splendours that has
vanished!