In a salon of the Tuileries the ministers had assembled in council,
under the presidency of the Emperor. Napoleon III. was silently making
marks with a pencil on a plan of an industrial town. His long, sallow
face, with its melancholy sweetness, had a strange appearance amid the
square heads of the men of affairs and the bronzed faces of the men of
toil. He half raised his eyelids, glanced with his gentle, vague look
round the oval table, and asked:
“Gentlemen, is there any other matter to be discussed?”
His voice issued from his thick moustaches a little muffled and hollow,
and seemed to come from very far off.
At this moment the Keeper of the Seals made a sign to his colleague of
the Home Department which the latter did not seem to notice.—At that
time the Keeper of the Seals was M. Delarbre, a magistrate in virtue of
his birth, who had displayed in his high judicial functions a becoming
pliability, abruptly laid aside now and then for the rigidity of a
professional dignity that nothing could bend. It was said that, after
having become an ultramontane and a member of the Empress’s party, the
jansenism of those great lawyers, his ancestors, sometimes bubbled
up in his nature. But those who had access to him considered him to
be merely punctilious, a trifle fanciful, indifferent to the great
questions which his mind did not grasp, and obstinate about the trifles
which suited the pettiness of his intriguing character.
The Emperor was preparing to rise, with his two hands on the gilt arms
of his chair. Delarbre, seeing that the Home Secretary, his nose in his
papers, was avoiding his look, took it upon himself to challenge him.
“Pardon me, my dear colleague, for raising a question which, although
it started in your department, none the less concerns mine. But you
have yourself declared to me your intention of apprising the Council of
the extremely delicate situation in which a magistrate has been placed
by the _préfet_ of a department in the West.”
The Home Secretary shrugged his broad shoulders slightly and looked
at Delarbre with some impatience. He had the air, at once jovial and
choleric, which belongs to great demagogues.
“Oh,” said he, “that was gossip, ridiculous tittle-tattle, a rumour
which I should be ashamed to bring to the notice of the Emperor, were
it not that my colleague, the Minister of Justice, seems to attach
an importance to it which, for my part, I have not succeeded in
discovering.”
Napoleon began sketching once more. “It has to do with the _préfet_ of
Loire-Inférieure,” continued the minister. “This official is reputed,
in his department, to be a gallant squire of dames, and the reputation
for gallantry which has become attached to his name, combined with his
well-known courtesy and his devotion to the government, has contributed
not a little to the popularity which he enjoys in the country. His
attentions to Madame Méreau, the wife of the _procureur-général_, have
been noticed and commented on. I grant that M. Pélisson, the _préfet_,
has given occasion for scandalous gossip in Nantes, and that severe
charges have been laid to his account in the bourgeois circles of
the county town, especially in the drawing-rooms frequented by the
magistracy. Assuredly M. Pélisson’s attitude towards Madame Méreau,
whose position ought to have protected her from any such equivocal
attentions, would be regrettable, if it were continued. But the
information I have received enables me to state that Madame Méreau has
not been actually compromised and that no scandal is to be anticipated.
A little prudence and circumspection will suffice to prevent this
affair having any annoying consequences.”
Having spoken in these terms, the Home Secretary closed his portfolio
and leant back in his chair.
The Emperor said nothing.
“Excuse me, my dear colleague!” said the Keeper of the Seals drily,
“the wife of the _procureur-général_ of the court of Nantes is the
mistress of the _préfet_ of Loire-Inférieure; this connection, known
throughout the whole district, is calculated to injure the prestige of
the magistracy. It is important to call the attention of His Majesty to
this state of things.”
“Doubtless,” replied the Home Secretary, his gaze turned towards the
allegories on the ceiling, “doubtless, such facts are to be regretted;
yet one must in no way exaggerate; it is possible that the _préfet_ of
Loire-Inférieure may have been a little imprudent and Madame Méreau a
little giddy, but …”
The minister wafted the rest of his ideas towards the mythological
figures which floated across the painted sky. There was a moment’s
silence, during which one could hear the impudent chirping of the
sparrows perched on the trees in the garden and on the eaves of the
château.
M. Delarbre bit his thin lips and pulled his austere but coquettish
moustaches. He replied:
“Excuse my persistence; the secret reports which I have received leave
no doubt as to the nature of the relationship between M. Pélisson
and Madame Méreau. These relations were already established two
years ago. In fact, in the month of September 18— the _préfet_ of
Loire-Inférieure got the _procureur-général_ an invitation to hunt
with the Comte de Morainville, deputy for the third division in the
department, and during the magistrate’s absence he entered Madame
Méreau’s room. He got in by way of the kitchen-garden. The next day
the gardener saw traces that the wall had been scaled and informed the
police. Inquiry was made; they even arrested a tramp, who, not being
able to prove his innocence, endured several months of precautionary
imprisonment. He had, it is true, a very bad record and no special
points of interest about him. Still to this day the _procureur-général_
persists, supported by a very small proportion of the public, in
believing him to be guilty of house-breaking. The position, I repeat,
is rendered by this fact no less annoying and prejudicial to the
prestige of the magistracy.”
The Home Secretary poured over the discussion, according to his wont,
certain massive phrases calculated to close and suppress it by their
weight. He held, said he, his _préfets_ in the palm of his hand; he
would be able to lead M. Pélisson easily to a just appreciation of
things, without taking any drastic measure against an intelligent
and zealous official, who had succeeded in his department, and who
was valuable “from the point of view of the electoral position.” No
one could say that he was more interested than the Home Secretary
in maintaining a good understanding between the officials of the
departments and the judicial authority.
Still the Emperor kept that dreamy look in which he was usually
wrapped when silent. He was evidently thinking of past events, for he
suddenly said: “Poor M. Pélisson! I knew his father. He was called
Anacharsis Pélisson. He was the son of a republican of 1792; himself a
republican, he used to write in the opposition papers during the July
administration. At the time of my captivity in the fortress of Ham, he
addressed a friendly letter to me. You cannot imagine the joy which the
slightest token of sympathy gives a prisoner. After that we went on our
separate paths. We never saw one another again. He is dead.”
The Emperor lit a cigarette and remained wrapped in his dream for a
moment. Then rising:
“Gentlemen, I will not detain you.”
With the awkward gait of a great winged bird when it walks, he returned
to his private apartments; and the ministers went out, one after the
other, through the long suite of rooms, beneath the solemn gaze of the
ushers. The marshal who was the Minister of War held out his cigar-case
to the Keeper of the Seals.
“Monsieur Delarbre, shall we take a little walk outside? I want to
stretch my legs.”
Whilst they were both walking down the Rue de Rivoli, by the railing
that borders the Terrasse des Feuillants:
“Speaking of cigars,” said the marshal, “I only like very dry one-sou
cigars. The others seem like sweetmeats to me. Don’t you know …”
He cut short his thought, then:
“This Pélisson that you were talking about just now in the Council,
isn’t he a little dried up, swarthy man, who was _sous-préfet_ at
Saint-Dié five years ago?”
Delarbre replied that Pélisson had indeed been _sous-préfet_ in the
Vosges.
“So I said to myself: I knew Pélisson. And I remember Madame Pélisson
very well. I sat next to her at dinner at Saint-Dié, when I went there
for the unveiling of a monument. Don’t you know …”
“What kind of woman is she?” asked Delarbre.
“Tiny, swarthy, thin. A deceptive thinness. In the morning, in a
high-necked dress, she looked a mere wisp. At table in the evening, in
a low-necked dress with flowers in her bosom, very charming.”
“But morally, marshal?”
“Morally. … I am not an imbecile, am I, now? Well! I have never
understood anything about a woman’s morals. All that I can tell you is
that Madame Pélisson passed for a sentimentalist. They said she had a
warm heart for handsome men.”
“She gave you a hint to that effect, my dear marshal?”
“Not the least in the world. She said to me at dessert, ‘I dote on
eloquence. A noble speech carries me away.’ I could not apply that
remark to myself. It is true that I had that morning delivered an
address. But I had got my aide-de-camp, a short-sighted artillery
officer, to write it out for me. He had written so small that I could
not read it. … Don’t you know? …”
They had reached the Place Vendôme. Delarbre held out his little
withered hand to the marshal, and stole under the archway of the
Ministry.
* * * * *
The following week, at the breaking up of the Council, when the
ministers were already withdrawing, the Emperor laid his hand on the
shoulder of the Keeper of the Seals.
“My dear Monsieur Delarbre,” said he to him, “I have heard by
chance—in my position, one never learns anything save by chance—that
there is a deputy magistrate’s post vacant at the Nantes bar. I beg
that you will consider for that post a very deserving young doctor of
law, who has written a remarkable treatise on Trade Unions. His name is
Chanot, and he is the nephew of Madame Ramel. He is to beg an audience
of you this very day. Should you propose him to me for it, I shall sign
his nomination with pleasure.”
The Emperor had pronounced the name of his foster-sister tenderly, for
he had never lost his affection for her, although, a republican of
republicans, she repelled his advances, refused, poor widow as she was,
the master’s offers, and raged openly in her garret against the _coup
d’état_. But yielding at last, after fifteen years, to the persistent
kindness of Napoleon III., she had come to beg, as earnest of
reconciliation, a favour from the prince—not for herself, but for her
nephew young Chanot, a doctor of law, and, according to his professors,
an honour to the Schools. Even now it was an austere favour that Madame
Ramel demanded of her foster-brother; admission to the open court for
young Chanot could scarcely be considered an act of partiality. But
Madame Ramel was keenly anxious that her nephew should be sent to
Loire-Inférieure, where his relatives lived. This fact recurred to
Napoleon’s mind, and he impressed it on the Minister of Justice.
“It is very important,” said he, “that my candidate should be nominated
at Nantes, for that is his native place and where his parents live.
That is an important consideration for a young man whose means are
small and who likes family life.”
“Chanot … hard-working, meritorious, and with small means …” answered
the minister.
He added that he would use his best endeavours to act in accordance
with the desire expressed by His Majesty. His only fear was lest the
_procureur-général_ should have already submitted to him a list of
proposed nominees, among whom, naturally, the name Chanot would not
occur. This _procureur-général_ was, indeed, M. Méreau, concerning whom
there had been a discussion in the preceding Council. The Keeper of
the Seals was particularly anxious to act very handsomely towards him.
But he would strain every nerve to bring this affair to an issue that
conformed with the intentions expressed by His Majesty.
He bowed and took his leave. It was his reception day. As soon as he
had entered his study, he asked his secretary, Labarthe, whether there
were many people in the ante-room. There were two presidents of courts,
a councillor of the Appeal Court, the Cardinal-Archbishop of Nicomedia,
a crowd of judges, barristers, and priests. The minister asked if
there was any one there called Chanot. Labarthe searched in the silver
salver, and discovered, among the pile of cards, that of Chanot, doctor
of law, prizeman of the Faculty of Law, Paris. The minister ordered him
to be called first, merely requesting that he should be conducted by
the back passages, in order not to offend the magistrates and clergy.
The minister seated himself at his table and murmured quite to himself:
“‘A sentimentalist,’ said the marshal, ‘with a warm heart for handsome
men who speak well.’ …”
The usher introduced into the study a huge, tall young man, stooping,
spectacled, and with a pointed skull. Every part of his uncouth frame
expressed at once the timidity of the recluse and the boldness of the
thinker.
The Keeper of the Seals examined him from head to foot and saw that he
had the cheeks of a child and no shoulders. He signed to him to sit
down. The suitor, having perched himself at the edge of the chair, shut
his eyes and began to pour forth a flood of words.
“Monsieur _le Ministre_, I come to beg from your noble patronage the
privilege of admission to the magistracy. Possibly Your Excellence may
consider that the reports I have gained in the various examinations
which I have undergone, and a prize which has been awarded to me for
a work on Trade Unions, are sufficient qualifications, and that the
nephew of Madame Ramel, foster-sister of the Emperor, is not altogether
unworthy …”
The Keeper of the Seals stopped him with a wave of his little yellow
hand.
“Doubtless, Monsieur Chanot, doubtless an august patronage, which would
never have been mistakenly bestowed on an unworthy recipient, has been
secured for you. I know it, the Emperor takes much interest in you. You
desire a chair as judge-advocate, Monsieur Chanot?”
“Your Excellence,” replied Chanot, “would put the finishing touch to my
wishes by nominating me deputy magistrate at Nantes, where my family
live.”
Delarbre fixed his leaden eyes on Chanot and said drily:
“There is no vacancy at the bar of Nantes.”
“Excuse me, Your Excellency, I thought …”
The minister rose.
“There is none there.”
And whilst Chanot was making clumsily for the door and looking for an
exit in the white panels as he made his bow, the Keeper of the Seals
said to him, with a persuasive air and almost in a confidential tone:
“Trust me, Monsieur Chanot, and dissuade your aunt from making any new
solicitations which, far from being of any profit to you, will only do
you harm. Rest assured that the Emperor takes an interest in you, and
rely on me.”
As soon as the door was shut the minister called his secretary.
“Labarthe, bring me your candidate.”
* * * * *
At eight o’clock in the evening Labarthe entered a house in the Rue
Jacob, mounted the staircase as far as the attics, and called from the
landing:
“Are you ready, Lespardat?”
The door of a little garret opened. Inside on a shelf there were
several law-books and tattered novels; on the bed a black velvet
mask with a fall of lace, a bunch of withered violets, and some
fencing foils. On the wall a bad portrait of Mirabeau, a copper-plate
engraving. In the middle of the room a big bronzed fellow was
brandishing dumb-bells. He had frizzled hair, a low forehead, hazel
eyes full of laughter and sweetness, a nose that quivered like the
nostrils of a horse, and in his pleasantly gaping mouth strong white
teeth.
“I was waiting for you,” said he.
Labarthe begged him to dress himself. He was hungry. What time would
they get their dinner?
Lespardat, having laid his dumb-bells on the floor, pulled off his
jersey, and showed the herculean nape that carried his round head on
his broad shoulders.
“He looks at least twenty-six,” thought Labarthe.
As soon as Lespardat had put on his coat, the thin cloth of which
allowed one to follow the powerful, easy play of the muscles, Labarthe
pushed him outside.
“We shall be at Magny’s in three minutes. I have the minister’s
brougham.”
As they had matters to discuss, they asked for a private room at the
restaurant.
After the sole and the _pré-salé_, Labarthe attacked his subject
bluntly:
“Listen to me carefully, Lespardat. You will see my chief to-morrow,
your nomination will be proposed by the _procureur-général_ of Nantes
on Thursday, and on Monday submitted for the signature of the Emperor.
It is arranged that it shall be given to him unexpectedly, at the
moment when he will be busy with Alfred Maury in fixing the site of
Alesia. When he is studying the topography of the Gauls in the time of
Cæsar, the Emperor signs everything they want him to. But understand
clearly what is expected from you. You must win the favour of Madame
_la préfète_. You must win from her the ultimate favour. It is only by
this consummation that the magistracy will be avenged.”
Lespardat swallowed and listened, pleased and smiling in his ingenuous
self-conceit.
“But,” said he, “what notion has budded in Delarbre’s head? I thought
he was a puritan.”
Labarthe, raising his knife, stopped him.
“First of all, my friend, I beg that you will not compromise my chief,
who must remain ignorant of all that’s going on here. But since you
have brought in Delarbre’s name, I will tell you that his puritanism
is a jansenist puritanism. He is a great-nephew of Deacon Pâris. His
maternal great-uncle was that M. Carré de Montgeron who defended the
fanatics of Saint-Médard’s Cloister[K] before the Parliament. Now the
jansenists love to practise their austerities in nooks and crannies;
they have a taste for diplomatic and canonical blackguardism. It is
the effect of their perfect purity. And then they read the Bible. The
Old Testament is full of stories of the same kind as yours, my dear
Lespardat.”
[K] In 1730 miracles were claimed by the jansenists to have been
worked in the cemetery of St. Médard, Paris, at the grave of
François de Pâris, a young jansenist deacon. The spot became
a place of pilgrimage, and was visited by thousands of
jansenist fanatics.
Lespardat was not listening. He was floating in a sea of naïve delight.
He was asking himself: “What will father say? What will mother say?”
thinking of his parents, grocers of large ambitions and little wealth
at Agen. And he vaguely associated his budding fortune with the glory
of Mirabeau, his favourite hero. Since his college days he had dreamt
of a destiny rich with women and feats of oratory.
Labarthe recalled his young friend’s attention to himself.
“You know, monsieur _le substitut_, you are not irremovable. If after a
reasonable interval you have not made yourself very agreeable to Madame
Pélisson—I mean completely agreeable—you fall into disgrace.”
“But,” asked Lespardat frankly, “how much time do you give me to make
myself excessively pleasing to Madame Pélisson?”
“Until the vacation,” answered the minister’s secretary gravely. “We
give you, in addition, all sorts of facilities, secret missions,
furloughs, &c. Everything except money. Above all, we are an honest
administration. People don’t believe it. But later on they will find
that we were no jobbers. Take Delarbre: he has clean hands. Besides,
the Home Office, which is on the husband’s side, controls the Secret
Service Money. Do not count on anything save your two thousand four
hundred francs of salary and your handsome face to captivate Madame
Pélisson.”
“Is she pretty, this _préfète_ of mine?” demanded Lespardat.
He asked this question carelessly, without exaggerating the importance
of it, placidly, as behoves a very young man who finds all women
beautiful. By way of reply, Labarthe threw on the table the photograph
of a thin lady in a round hat, with a double bandeau falling on her
brown neck.
“Here,” said he, “is the portrait of Madame Pélisson. It was ordered by
the Cabinet from the Prefecture of Police, and they sent it on after
they had stamped it with a warranty stamp, as you see.”
Lespardat seized it eagerly with his square fingers.
“She is handsome,” said he.
“Have you a plan?” asked Labarthe. “A methodical scheme of operations.”
“No,” answered Lespardat simply.
Labarthe, who was keen-witted, protested that it was, however,
necessary to foresee, to arrange, not to allow oneself to be taken
unawares by any contingencies.
“You are certain,” added he, “to be invited to the balls at the
prefecture, and you will, of course, dance with Madame Pélisson. Do you
know how to dance? Show me how you dance.”
Lespardat rose, and, clasping his chair in his arms, took one turn of a
waltz with the deportment of a graceful bear.
Labarthe watched him very gravely through his eyeglass.
“You are heavy, awkward, without that irresistible suppleness which …”
“Mirabeau danced badly,” said Lespardat.
“After all,” said Labarthe, “perhaps it is only that the chair does not
inspire you.”
When they were both once more on the damp pavement of the narrow Rue
Contrescarpe, they met several girls who were coming and going between
the Carrefour Buci and the wine-shops of the Rue Dauphine. As one of
these, a thick-set, heavy girl, in a dingy black dress, was passing
sadly by under a street lamp with slack gait, Lespardat seized her
roughly by the waist, lifted her, and made her take with him two turns
of a waltz across the greasy pavement and into the gutter, before she
had any idea what was happening.
Recovering from her astonishment, she shrieked the foulest insults
at her cavalier, who carried her away with irresistible verve. He
himself supplied the orchestra, in a baritone voice, as warm and
seductive as military music, and whirled so madly with the girl that,
all bespattered with mud and water from the street, they collided with
the shafts of prowling cabs and felt on their neck the breath of the
horses. After a few turns, she murmured in the young man’s ear, her
head sunk on his breast and all her anger gone:
“After all, you are a pretty fellow, you are. You ought to make them
happy, didn’t you?—those girls at Bullier’s.”
“That’s enough, my friend,” cried Labarthe. “Don’t go and get run in.
My word, you will avenge the magistracy!”
* * * * *
In the golden light of a September day four months later, the Minister
of Justice and Religion, passing with his secretary under the arcades
of the Rue de Rivoli, recognised M. Lespardat, the deputy magistrate
of Nantes, at the very moment when the young man was hurrying into the
Hôtel du Louvre.
“Labarthe,” asked the minister, “did you know that your protégé was
in Paris? Has he then nothing to keep him in Nantes? It seems to me
that it is now some time since you have given me any confidential
information about him. His start interested me, but I don’t know yet
whether he has quite lived up to the high opinion you formed of him.”
Labarthe took up the cudgels for the _substitut_; he reminded the
minister that Lespardat was on regular leave; that at Nantes he had
immediately gained the confidence of his chiefs at the bar, and that he
had at the same time won the good graces of the _préfet_.
“M. Pélisson,” added he, “cannot get on without him. It is Lespardat
who organises the concerts at the prefecture.”
Then the minister and his secretary continued their walk towards the
Rue de la Paix, along the arcades, stopping here and there before the
windows of the photograph shops.
“There are too many nude figures exposed in these shop-fronts,” said
the minister. “It would be better to take away their license from
these shops. Strangers judge us by appearances, and such spectacles as
these are calculated to injure the good name of the country and the
government.”
Suddenly, at the corner of the Rue de l’Échelle, Labarthe told his
chief to look at a veiled woman who was coming towards them with a
rapid step. But Delarbre, glancing at her for a moment, considered her
very ordinary, far too slender, and not at all elegant.
“She is clumsily shod,” said he; “she is from the provinces.”
When she had passed them:
“Your Excellency is quite right,” said Labarthe. “That is Madame
Pélisson.”
At this name the minister, much interested, turned round eagerly. With
a vague feeling of his own dignity, he dared not follow her. But he
showed his curiosity in his look.
Lebarthe spurred it on.
“I’ll wager, monsieur _le ministre_, that she won’t go very far.”
They both hastened their steps, and saw Madame Pélisson follow the
arcades, skirt the Place du Palais-Royal, and then, throwing uneasy
glances to left and right, disappear into the Hôtel du Louvre.
At that the minister began to laugh from the depths of his throat. His
little leaden eyes lighted up. And he muttered between his teeth the
words which his secretary guessed rather than heard:
“The magistracy is avenged.”
* * * * *
On the same day the Emperor, then in residence at Fontainebleau, was
smoking cigarettes in the library of the palace. He was leaning
motionless, with the air of a melancholy sea-bird, against the case in
which is kept the Monaldeschi coat of mail. Viollet-le-Duc and Mérimée,
both his intimate friends, stood by his side.
He asked:
“Why, Monsieur Mérimée, do you like the works of Brantôme?”
“Sire,” replied Mérimée, “in them I recognise the French nation, with
her good and bad qualities. She is never worse than when she is without
a leader to show her a noble aim.”
“Really,” said the Emperor, “does one find that in Brantôme?”
“One also finds in him,” answered Mérimée, “the influence of women in
the affairs of state.”
At that moment Madame Ramel entered the gallery. Napoleon had given
orders that she should be allowed to come to him whenever she presented
herself. At the sight of his foster-sister he showed as much delight as
his expressionless, sorrowful face was capable of displaying.
“My dear Madame Ramel,” asked he, “how is your nephew getting on at
Nantes? Is he satisfied?”
“But, sire,” said Madame Ramel, “he was not sent there. Another was
nominated in his place.”
“That’s strange,” murmured His Majesty thoughtfully.
Then, placing his hand on the academician’s shoulder:
“My dear Monsieur Mérimée, I am supposed to rule the fate of France,
of Europe, and of the world. And I cannot get a nomination for a
_substitut_ of the sixth class, at a salary of two thousand four
hundred francs.”