Victor dressed and went out. The streets were crowded. Workmen were
everywhere employed in the childish operation of removing all insignia,
and obliterating all names that showed where an Empire had existed. One
greasy citizen, mounted on a ladder, was effacing the words “Boulevard
Haussman,” and substituting for Haussman, “Victor Hugo.”
Suddenly De Mauleon came on a group of blouses, interspersed with
women holding babies and ragged boys holding stones, collected round a
well-dressed slender man, at whom they were hooting and gesticulating,
with menaces of doing something much worse. By an easy effort of his
strong frame the Vicomte pushed his way through the tormentors, and gave
his arm to their intended victim.
“Monsieur, allow me to walk home with you.” Therewith the shrieks and
shouts and gesticulations increased. “Another impertinent! Another
traitor! Drown him! Drown them both! To the Seine! To the Seine!” A
burly fellow rushed forward, and the rest made a plunging push. The
outstretched arm of De Mauleon kept the ringleader at bay. “Mes enfans,”
cried Victor with a calm clear voice, “I am not an Imperialist. Many
of you have read the articles signed Pierre Firmin, written against the
tyrant Bonaparte when he was at the height of his power. I am Pierre
Firmin--make way for me.” Probably not one in the crowd had ever read a
word written by Pierre Firmin, nor even heard of the name. But they
did not like to own ignorance; and that burly fellow did not like to
encounter that arm of iron which touched his throat. So he cried out,
“Oh! if you are the great Pierre Firmin, that alters the case. Make way
for the patriot Pierre!”
“But,” shrieked a virago, thrusting her baby into De Mauleon’s face,
“the other is the Imperialist, the capitalist, the vile Duplessis. At
least we will have him.”
De Mauleon suddenly snatched the baby from her, and said, with
imperturbable good temper, “Exchange of prisoners. I resign the man, and
I keep the baby.”
No one who does not know the humours of a Parisian mob can comprehend
the suddenness of popular change, or the magical mastery over crowds
which is effected by quiet courage and a ready joke. The group was
appeased at once. Even the virago laughed; and when De Mauleon restored
the infant to her arms, with a gold piece thrust into its tiny clasp,
she eyed the gold, and cried, “God bless you, citizen!” The two
gentlemen made their way safely now.
“M. de Mauleon,” said Duplessis, “I know not how to thank you. Without
your seasonable aid I should have been in great danger of life;
and--would you believe it?--the woman who denounced and set the mob on
me was one of the objects of a charity which I weekly dispense to the
poor.”
“Of course I believe that. At the Red clubs no crime is more denounced
than that of charity. It is the ‘fraud against Egalite’--a vile trick
of the capitalist to save to himself the millions he ought to share with
all by giving a sou to one. Meanwhile, take my advice, M. Duplessis,
and quit Paris with your young daughter. This is no place for rich
Imperialists at present.”
“I perceived that before to-day’s adventure. I distrust the looks of my
very servants, and shall depart with Valerie this evening for Bretagne.”
“Ah! I heard from Louvier that you propose to pay off his mortgage on
Rochebriant, and make yourself sole proprietor of my young kinsman’s
property.”
“I trust you only believe half what you hear. I mean to save Rochebriant
from Louvier, and consign it, free of charge, to your kinsman, as the
dot of his bride, my daughter.”
“I rejoice to learn such good news for the head of my house. But Alain
himself--is he not with the prisoners of war?”
“No, thank heaven. He went forth an officer of a regiment of Parisian
Mobiles--went full of sanguine confidence; he came back with his
regiment in mournful despondency. The undiscipline of his regiment,
of the Parisian Mobiles generally, appears incredible. Their
insolent disobedience to their officers, their ribald scoffs at their
general--oh, it is sickening to speak of it! Alain distinguished himself
by repressing a mutiny and is honoured by a signal compliment from
the commander in a letter of recommendation to Palikao. But Palikao is
nobody now. Alain has already been sent into Bretagne, commissioned to
assist in organising a corps of Mobiles in his neighbourhood. Trochu,
as you know, is a Breton. Alain is confident of the good conduct of the
Bretons. What will Louvier do? He is an arch Republican; is he pleased
now he has got what he wanted?”
“I suppose he is pleased, for he is terribly frightened. Fright is one
of the great enjoyments of a Parisian. Good day. Your path to your hotel
is clear now. Remember me kindly to Alain.”
De Mauleon continued his way through streets sometimes deserted,
sometimes thronged. At the commencement of the Rue de Florentin he
encountered the brothers Vandemar walking arm in arm.
“Ha, De Mauleon!” cried Enguerrand; “what is the last minute’s news?”
“I can’t guess. Nobody knows at Paris how soon one folly swallows up
another. Saturn here is always devouring one or other of his children.”
“They say that Vinoy, after a most masterly retreat, is almost at our
gates with 80,000 men.”
“And this day twelvemonth we may know what he does with them.”
Here Raoul, who seemed absorbed in gloomy reflections, halted before
the hotel in which the Contessa di Rimini lodged, and with a nod to his
brother, and a polite, if not cordial salutation to Victor, entered the
porte cochere.
“Your brother seems out of spirits,--a pleasing contrast to the
uproarious mirth with which Parisians welcome the advance of calamity.”
“Raoul, as you know, is deeply religious. He regards the defeat we have
sustained, and the peril that threatens us, as the beginning of a divine
chastisement, justly incurred by our sins--I mean, the sins of Paris. In
vain my father reminds him of Voltaire’s story, in which the ship goes
down with a fripon on board. In order to punish the fripon, the honest
folks are drowned.”
“Is your father going to remain on board the ship, and share the fate of
the other honest folks?”
“Pas si bete. He is off to Dieppe for sea-bathing. He says that Paris
has grown so dirty since the 4th September, that it is only fit for
the feet of the Unwashed. He wished my mother to accompany him; but she
replies, ‘No; there are already too many wounded not to need plenty of
nurses.’ She is assisting to inaugurate a society of ladies in aid of
the Soeurs de Charite. Like Raoul, she is devout, but she has not his
superstitions. Still his superstitions are the natural reaction of a
singularly earnest and pure nature from the frivolity and corruption
which, when kneaded well up together with a slice of sarcasm, Paris
calls philosophy.”
“And what, my dear Enguerrand, do you propose to do?”
“That depends on whether we are really besieged. If so, of course I
become a soldier.”
“I hope not a National Guard?”
“I care not in what name I fight, so that I fight for France.”
As Enguerrand said these simple words, his whole countenance, seemed
changed. The crest rose; his eyes sparkled; the fair and delicate
beauty which had made him the darling of women--the joyous sweetness
of expression and dainty grace of high breeding which made him the most
popular companion to men,--were exalted in a masculine nobleness of
aspect, from which a painter might have taken hints for a study of the
young Achilles separated for ever from effeminate companionship at the
sight of the weapons of war. De Mauleon gazed on him admiringly. We have
seen that he shared the sentiments uttered--had resolved on the same
course of action. But it was with the tempered warmth of a man who seeks
to divest his thoughts and his purpose of the ardour of romance,
and who, in serving his country, calculates on the gains to his own
ambition. Nevertheless he admired in Enguerrand the image of his own
impulsive and fiery youth.
“And you, I presume,” resumed Enguerrand, “will fight too, but rather
with pen than with sword.”
“Pens will now only be dipped in red ink, and commonsense never writes
in that colour; as for the sword, I have passed the age of forty-five,
at which military service halts. But if some experience in active
service, some knowledge of the art by which soldiers are disciplined
and led, will be deemed sufficient title to a post of command, however
modest the grade be, I shall not be wanting among the defenders of
Paris.”
“My brave dear Vicomte, if you are past the age to serve, you are in the
ripest age to command; and with the testimonials and the cross you
won in Algeria, your application for employment will be received with
gratitude by any general so able as Trochu.”
“I don’t know whether I shall apply to Trochu. I would rather be elected
to command even by the Mobiles or the National Guard, of whom I have
just spoken disparagingly; and no doubt both corps will soon claim and
win the right to choose their officers. But if elected, no matter by
whom, I shall make a preliminary condition; the men under me shall
train, and drill, and obey,--soldiers of a very different kind from the
youthful Pekins nourished on absinthe and self-conceit, and applauding
that Bombastes Furioso, M. Hugo, when he assures the enemy that Paris
will draw an idea from its scabbard. But here comes Savarin. Bon jour,
my dear poet.”
“Don’t say good day. An evil day for journalists and writers who do not
out-Herod Blanqui and Pyat. I know not how I shall get bread and cheese.
My poor suburban villa is to be pulled down by way of securing Paris;
my journal will be suppressed by way of establishing the liberty of the
press. I ventured to suggest that the people of France should have some
choice in the form of their government.”
“That was very indiscreet, my poor Savarin,” said Victor; “I wonder your
printing-office has not been pulled down. We are now at the moment when
wise men hold their tongues.”
“Perhaps so, M. de Mauleon. It might have been wiser for all of us,
you as well as myself, if we had not allowed our tongues to be so free
before this moment arrived. We live to learn; and if we ever have what
may be called a passable government again, in which we may say pretty
much what we like, there is one thing I will not do, I will not
undermine that government without seeing a very clear way to the
government that is to follow it. What say you, Pierre Firmin?”
“Frankly, I say that I deserve your rebuke,” answered De Mauleon
thoughtfully. “But, of course, you are going to take or send Madame
Savarin out of Paris.”
“Certainly. We have made a very pleasant party for our hegira this
evening-among others the Morleys. Morley is terribly disgusted. A Red
Republican slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘American, we have
a republic as well as you.’ ‘Pretty much you know about republics,’
growled Morley; ‘a French republic is as much like ours as a baboon is
like a man.’ On which the Red roused the mob, who dragged the American
off to the nearest station of the National Guard, where he was accused
of being a Prussian spy. With some difficulty, and lots of brag about
the sanctity of the stars and stripes, he escaped with a reprimand, and
caution how to behave himself in future. So he quits a city in which
there no longer exists freedom of speech. My wife hoped to induce
Mademoiselle Cicogna to accompany us; I grieve to say she refuses. You
know she is engaged in marriage to Gustave Rameau; and his mother dreads
the effect that these Red Clubs and his own vanity may have upon his
excitable temperament if the influence of Mademoiselle Cicogna be
withdrawn.”
“How could a creature so exquisite as Isaura Cicogna ever find
fascination in Gustave Rameau!” exclaimed Enguerrand.
“A woman like her,” answered De Mauleon, “always finds a fascination in
self-sacrifice.”
“I think you divine the truth,” said Savarin, rather mournfully. “But
I must bid you good-bye. May we live to shake hands reunis sons des
meilleurs auspices.”
Here Savarin hurried off, and the other two men strolled into the Champs
Elysees, which were crowded with loungers, gay and careless, as if there
had been no disaster at Sedan, no overthrow of an Empire, no enemy on
its road to Paris.
In fact the Parisians, at once the most incredulous and the most
credulous of all populations, believed that the Prussians would never be
so impertinent as to come in sight of the gates. Something would occur
to stop them! The king had declared he did not war on Frenchmen, but on
the Emperor: the Emperor gone, the war was over. A democratic republic
was instituted. A horrible thing in its way, it is true; but how could
the Pandour tyrant brave the infection of democratic doctrines among
his own barbarian armies? Were not placards, addressed to our “German
brethren,” posted upon the walls of Paris, exhorting the Pandours to
fraternise with their fellow-creatures? Was not Victor Hugo going to
publish “a letter to the German people”? Had not Jules Favre graciously
offered peace, with the assurance that “France would not cede a stone of
her fortresses--an inch of her territory? She would pardon the
invaders and not march upon Berlin!” To all these, and many more such
incontestable proofs, that the idea of a siege was moonshine, did
Enguerrand and Victor listen as they joined group after group of
their fellow-countrymen: nor did Paris cease to harbour such pleasing
illusions, amusing itself with piously laying crowns at the foot of the
statue of Strasbourg, swearing “they would be worthy of their Alsatian
brethren,” till on the 19th of September the last telegram was received,
and Paris was cut of from the rest of the world by the iron line of
the Prussian invaders. “Tranquil and terrible,” says Victor Hugo, “she
awaits the invasion! A volcano needs no assistance.”