The game is played, the Commune is _au complet_. In the first
arrondissement 21260 electors, are inscribed, and there were 9 voters!
Monsieur Vésinier had 2 votes, and Monsieur Vésinier was elected.
Monsieur Lacord—more clever still—has no votes at all, and, triumphing
by the unanimity of his electors, Monsieur Lacord will preside over the
Commune of Paris in future. A very logical arrangement. It must be
evident to all serious minds that the legislators of the Hôtel de Ville
have promulgated _in petto_ a law which they did not think it necessary
to make known, but which exists nevertheless, and most be couched
somewhat in the following terms:—“Clause 1st. The elections will not be
considered valid, if the number of voters exceed a thousandth part of
the electors entered.—Clause 2nd. Every candidate who has less than
fifteen votes will be elected; if he has sixteen his election will be a
matter of discussion.” The poll is just like the game called, “He who
loses gains, and he who gains loses!” and the probable advantages of
such an arrangement are seen at once. Now let us do a bit of Communal
reasoning. By whom was France led within an inch of destruction? By
Napoleon the Third. How many votes did Napoleon the Third obtain? Seven
millions and more. By whom was Paris delivered into the hands of the
Prussians? By the dictators of the 4th September. How many votes did
the dictators of the 4th September get for themselves in the city of
Paris? More than three hundred thousand. _Ergo_, the candidates who
obtain the greatest number of votes are swindlers and fools. The
Commune of Paris cannot allow such abuses to exist; the Commune
maintains universal suffrage—the grand basis of republican
institutions—but turns it topsy-turvy. Michon has only had half a
vote,—then Michon is our master!
Ah! you do not only make us tremble and weep, you make us laugh too.
What is this miserable parody of universal suffrage? What is this farce
of the will of the people being represented by a half a dozen electors?
The unknown individual, who owes his triumph to the kindness of his
concierge and his water-carrier, becomes a member of the Commune. I
shall be governed by Vésinier, with Briosne and Viard as supporters. Do
you not see that the few men, with any sense left, who still support
you, have refused to present themselves as candidates, and that even
amongst those who were mad enough to declare themselves eligible, there
are some who dispute the validity of the elections? No; you see nothing
of all this, or rather it suits you to be blind. What are right and
justice to you? Let us reign, let us govern, let us decree, let us
triumph. All is contained in that. Rogeard pleases us, so we’ll have
Rogeard. If the people won’t have Rogeard, so much the worse for the
people. Beautiful! admirable! But why don’t you speak out your opinion
frankly? There were some honest brigands (_par pari refertur_) in the
Roman States who were perhaps no better than you are, but at least they
made no pretension of being otherwise than lawless, and followed their
calling of brigands without hypocrisy. When, by the course of various
adventures, the band got diminished in numbers, they stuck no handbills
on the walls to invite people to elect new brigands to fill up the
vacant places; they simply chose among the vagabonds and such like
individuals those, who seemed to them, the most capable of dealing a
blow with a stiletto or stripping a traveller of his valuables, and the
band, thus properly reinforced, went about its usual occupations. The
devil! _Messieurs_, one must say what is what, and call things by their
names. Let us call a cat a cat, and Pilotel a thief. The time of
illusions is past; you need not be so careful to keep your masks on; we
have seen your faces. We have had the carnival of the Commune, and now
Ash-Wednesday is come. You disguised yourselves cunningly, _Messieurs_;
you routed out from the old cupboards and corners of history the
cast-off revolutionary rags of the men of ’98; and, sticking some
ornaments of the present fashion upon them,—waistcoats à la Commune and
hats à la Federation,—you dressed yourselves up in them and then struck
attitudes. People perceived, it is true, that the clothes that were
made for giants, were too wide for you pigmies; they hung round your
figures like collapsed balloons; but you, cunning that you were, you
said, “We have been wasted by persecution.” And when, at the very
beginning, some stains of blood were seen upon your old disguises; “Pay
no attention,” said you, “it is only the red flag we have in our
pockets that is sticking out.” And it happened that some few believed
you. We ourselves, in the very face of all our suspicions, let
ourselves be caught by the waving of your big Scaramouche sleeves, that
were a great deal too long for your arms. Then you talked of such
beautiful things: liberty, emancipation of workmen, association of the
working-classes, that we listened and thought we would see you at your
task before we condemned you utterly. And now we have seen you at your
task, and knowing how you work, we won’t give you any more work to do.
Down with your mask, I tell you! Come, false Danton, be Rigault again,
and let Sérailler’s[61] face come out from behind that Saint Just mask
he has on. You, Napoléon Gaillard, though you are a shoemaker, you are
not even a Simon. Drop the Robespierre, Rogeard! Off with the trappings
borrowed from the dark, grand days! Be mean, small, and ridiculous,—be
yourselves; we shall all be a great deal more at our ease when you are
despicable and we are despising you again.
Paris said to you yesterday just what I am telling you now. This almost
general abstention of electors, compared with the eagerness of former
times, is but the avowal of the error to which your masquerade has
given rise. And what does it prove but the resolution to mix in your
carnival no more? We see clearly through it now, I tell you, that the
saturnalia is wearing to its end. In vain does the orchestra of cannon
and mitrailleuses, under the direction of the conductor, Cluseret, play
madly on and invite us to the fête. We will dance no more, and there is
an end of it!
But it will be fatal to Paris if, after saying this, she sit satisfied.
Contempt is not enough, there must be abhorrence too, and actual
measures taken against those we abhor. It is not sufficient to neglect
the poll, one abstains when one is in doubt, but now that we doubt no
longer it is time to act. While wrongful work is being done, those that
stand aside with folded arms become accomplices. Think that for more
than a fortnight the firing has not ceased; that Neuilly and Asnières
have been turned into cemeteries; that husbands are falling, wives
weeping, children suffering. Think that yesterday, the 18th of April,
the chapel of Longchamps became a dependance—an extra dead-house—of the
ambulances of the Press, so numerous were that day’s dead. Think of the
savage decrees passed upon the hostages and the refractory, those who
shunned the Federates; of the requisitions and robberies; of the
crowded prisons and the empty workshops, of the possible massacres and
the certain pillage. Think of our own compromised honour, and let us be
up and doing, so that those who have remained in Paris during these
mournful hours, shall not have stood by her only to see her fall and
die.