THE IDES OF MARCH.
Several days elapsed, during which Paris maintained its customary
tranquillity. The eye of a stranger could have observed very little
alteration in the demeanour of the populace; and even in the _salons_,
there was no strong surmise of any coming event of importance. In the
capital of France one looks for a revolution as quietly as the people of
England await the advent of “the coming man.” The event is always
prophesied—sometimes apparently upon the eve of being fulfilled; but the
failures are so numerous as to prevent inordinate disappointment. In the
Chamber there were some growlings about the Reform banquet, and the
usual vague threats if any attempt should be made to coerce the
liberties of the people; but these demonstrations had been so often
repeated, that nobody had faith in any serious or critical result.
Little Thiers, to be sure, blustered; and Odillon Barrot assumed pompous
airs, and tried to look like a Roman citizen, at our small patriotic
cosmopolitan reunions; but I never could believe that either of them was
thoroughly in earnest. We all know the game that is played in Britain,
where the doors of the ministerial cabinet are constructed on the
principle of a Dutch clock. When it is fair weather, the ambitious
figure of Lord John Russell is seen mounting guard on the outside—when
it threatens to blow, the small sentry retires, and makes way for the
Tamworth grenadier. Just so was it in Paris. Guizot, if wheeled from his
perch, was expected to be replaced by the smarter and more enterprising
Thiers, and slumbrous Duchatel by the broad-chested and beetle-browed
Barrot.
At the same time, I could not altogether shut my eyes to the more active
state of the press. I do not mean to aver that the mere political
articles exhibited more than their usual vigour; but throughout the
whole literature of the day there ran an under-current of revolutionary
feeling which betokened wonderful unanimity. Less than usual was said
about Marengo, Austerlitz, or even the three glorious days of July. The
minds of men were directed further back, to a period when the Republic
was all in all, when France stood isolated among the nations, great in
crime, and drunken with her new-won freedom. The lapse of half a century
is enough to throw a sort of halo around the memory of the veriest
villain and assassin. We have seen Dick Turpin and Jack Sheppard exhumed
from their graves to be made the heroes of modern romance; and the same
alchemy was now applied to the honoured ashes of Anacharsis Clootz, and
other patriots of the Reign of Terror.
All this was done very insidiously, and, I must say, with consummate
skill. Six or seven simultaneous romances reminded the public of its
former immunity from rule, and about as many melodramas denounced utter
perdition to tyranny. I liked the fun. Man is by nature a revolutionary
animal, especially when he has nothing to lose; and it is needless to
remark that a very small portion indeed of my capital was invested in
the foreign funds.
I saw little of my friend the Marquis, beyond meeting him at the usual
promenades, and bowing to him at the theatres, where he never failed to
present himself. A casual observer would have thought that De la
Pailleterie had no other earthly vocation than to perambulate Paris as a
mere votary of pleasure. Once or twice, however, towards evening, I
encountered him in his uniform of the National Guard, with fire in his
eye, haste in his step, and a settled deliberation on his forehead; and
I could not help, as I gazed upon him, feeling transported backwards to
the period of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
At length I received the expected billet, and on the appointed evening
rendered myself punctually at his house. The rooms were already more
than half filled by the company.
“Are the Ides of March come?” said I, pressing the proffered hand of
Monte-Christo.
“Come—but not yet over,” he replied. “You have seen the new play which
has produced such a marked sensation?”
“I have. Wonderful production! Whose is it?”
A mysterious smile played upon the lip of my friend.
“Come,” said he, “let me introduce you to a countryman, a sympathiser;
one who, like you, is desirous that our poor country should participate
in the blessings of the British loom. Mr Hutton Bagsby—Mr Dunshunner.”
Bagsby was a punchy man, with a bald head, and a nose which betokened
his habitual addiction to the fiery grape of Portugal.
“Servant, sir!” said he. “Understand you’re a free-trader, supporter of
Cobden’s principles, and inclined to go the whole hog. Glad to see a man
of common understanding here. Damme, sir, when I speak to these French
fellows about calico, they begin to talk about fraternity; which, as I
take it, means eating frogs, for I don’t pretend to understand their
outlandish gibberish.”
“Every nation has its hobby, you know, Mr Bagsby,” I replied. “We
consider ourselves more practical than the French, and stick to the main
chance; they, on the other hand, are occupied with social grievances,
and what they call the rights of labour.”
“Rights of labour!” exclaimed Bagsby. “Hanged if I think labour has got
any rights at all. Blow all protection! say I. Look after the interests
of the middle classes, and let capital have its swing. As for those
confounded working fellows, who cares about them? We don’t, I can answer
for it. When I was in the League, we wanted to bring corn down, in order
to get work cheaper; and, now that we’ve got it, do you think we will
stand any rubbish about rights? These French fellows are a poor set;
they don’t understand sound commercial principles.”
“Ha! Lamoricière!” said our host, accosting a general officer who just
then entered the apartment; “how goes it? Any result from to-day’s
demonstration at the Chamber?”
“_Ma foi!_ I should say there is. The banquets are forbidden. There is a
talk about impeaching ministers; and, in the meantime, the
artillery-waggons are rumbling through the streets in scores.”
“Then our old friend Macaire is likely to make a stand?”
“It is quite possible that the respectable gentleman may try it,” said
the commandant, regaling himself with a pinch. “By the way, the National
Guard must turn out to-morrow early. The _rappel_ will be beat by
daybreak. There is a stir already in the Boulevards; and, as I drove
here, I saw the people in thousands reading the evening journals by
torch-light.”
“Such is liberty!” exclaimed a little gentleman, who had been listening
eagerly to the General. “Such is liberty! she holds her bivouac at
nightfall by the torch of reason; and, on the morrow, the dawn is red
with the brightness of the sun of Austerlitz!”
A loud hum of applause followed the enunciation of this touching
sentiment.
“Our friend is great to-night,” whispered Monte-Christo; “and he may be
greater to-morrow. If Louis Philippe yields, he may be prime minister—if
firing begins, I have a shrewd notion he won’t be any where. Ah,
Monsieur Albert! welcome from Cannes. We have been expecting you for
some time, and you have arrived not a moment too soon!”
The individual thus accosted was of middle height, advanced age, and
very plainly dressed. He wore a rusty gray surtout, trousers of plaid
check, and the lower part of his countenance was buried in the folds of
a black cravat. The features were remarkable; and, somehow or other, I
thought that I had seen them before. The small gray eyes rolled
restlessly beneath their shaggy pent-house; the cheek-bones were
remarkably prominent; a deep furrow was cut on either side of the mouth;
and the nose, which was of singular conformation, seemed endowed with
spontaneous life, and performed a series of extraordinary mechanical
revolutions. Altogether, the appearance of the man impressed me with the
idea of strong, ill-regulated energy, and of that restless activity
which is emphatically the mother of mischief.
Monsieur Albert did not seem very desirous of courting attention. He
rather winked than replied to our host, threw a suspicious look at
Bagsby, who was staring him in the face, honoured me with a survey, and
then edged away into the crowd. I felt rather curious to know something
more about him.
“Pray, my dear Marquis,” said I, “who may this Monsieur Albert be?”
“Albert! Is it possible that you do not—but I forget. I can only tell
you, _mon cher_, that this Monsieur Albert is a very remarkable man, and
will be heard of hereafter among the ranks of the people. You seem to
suspect a mystery? Well, well! There are mysteries in all great dramas,
such as that which is now going on around us; so, for the present, you
must be content to know my friend as simple Albert, _ouvrier_.”
“Hanged if I haven’t seen that fellow in the black choker before!” said
Mr Bagsby; “or, at all events, I’ve seen his double. I say, Mr
Dunshunner, who is the chap that came in just now?”
“I really cannot tell, Mr Bagsby. Monte-Christo calls him simply Mr
Albert, a workman.”
“That’s their fraternity, I suppose! If I thought he was an operative,
I’d be off in the twinkling of a billy-roller. But it’s all a hoax. Do
you know, I think he’s very like a certain noble—”
Here an aide-de-camp, booted and spurred, dashed into the apartment.
“General! you are wanted immediately: the _émeute_ has begun, half Paris
is rushing to arms, and they are singing the Marseillaise through the
streets!”
“Any thing else?” said the General, who, with inimitable _sang froid_,
was sipping a tumbler of orgeat.
“Guizot has resigned.”
“Bravo!” cried the little gentleman above referred to—and he cut a caper
that might have done credit to Vestris. “Bravo! there is some chance for
capable men now.”
“I was told,” continued the aide-de-camp, “as I came along, that Count
Molé had been sent for.”
“Molé! bah! an imbecile!” muttered the diminutive statesman. “It was not
worth a revolution to produce such a miserable result.”
“And what say the people?” asked our host.
“_Cela ne suffira pas!_”
“_Ah, les bons citoyens! Ah, les braves garçons! Je les connais!_” And
here the candidate for office executed a playful pirouette.
“Nevertheless,” said Lamoricière, “we must do our duty.”
“Which is?” interrupted De la Pailleterie.
“To see the play played out, at all events,” replied the military
patriot; “and therefore, messieurs, I have the honour to wish you all a
very good evening.”
“But stop, General,” cried two or three voices: “what would you advise
us to do?”
“In the first place, gentlemen,” replied the warrior, and his words were
listened to with the deepest attention, “I would recommend you, as the
streets are in a disturbed state, to see the ladies home. That duty
performed, you will probably be guided by your own sagacity and tastes.
The National Guard will, of course, muster at their quarters. Gentlemen
who are of an architectural genius will probably be gratified by an
opportunity of inspecting several barricades in different parts of the
city; and I have always observed, that behind a wall of this
description, there is little danger from a passing bullet. Others, who
are fond of fireworks, may possibly find an opportunity of improving
themselves in the pyrotechnic art. But I detain you, gentlemen, I fear
unjustifiably; and as I observe that the firing has begun, I have the
honour once more to renew my salutations.”
And in fact a sharp fusillade was heard without, towards the conclusion
of the General’s harangue. The whole party was thrown into confusion;
several ladies showed symptoms of fainting, and were incontinently
received in the arms of their respective cavaliers.
The aspiring statesman had disappeared. Whether he got under a sofa, or
up the chimney, I do not know, but he vanished utterly from my eyes.
Monte-Christo was in a prodigious state of excitement.
“I have kept my word, you see,” he said: “this may be misconstrued in
history, but I call upon you to bear witness that the revolution was a
triumph of genius. O France!” continued he, filling his pocket with
macaroons, “the hour of thine emancipation has come!”
Observing a middle-aged lady making towards the door without male
escort, I thought it incumbent upon me to tender my services, in
compliance with the suggestions of the gallant Lamoricière. I was a good
deal obstructed, however, by Mr Hutton Bagsby, who, in extreme alarm,
was cleaving to the skirts of my garments.
“Can I be of the slightest assistance in offering my escort to madame?”
said I with a respectful bow.
The lady looked at me with unfeigned surprise.
“Monsieur mistakes, I believe,” said she quietly. “Perhaps he thinks I
carry a fan. Look here”—and she exhibited the butt of an enormous
horse-pistol. “The authoress of Lélia knows well how to command respect
for herself.”
“George Sand!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“The same, monsieur; who will be happy to meet you this evening at an
early hour, behind the barricade of the Rue Montmartre.”
“O good Lord!” cried Mr Hutton Bagsby, “here is a precious kettle of
fish! They are firing out yonder like mad; they’ll be breaking into the
houses next, and we’ll all be murdered to a man.”
“Do not be alarmed, Mr Bagsby; this is a mere political revolution. The
people have no animosity whatever to strangers.”
“Haven’t they? I wish you had seen the way the waiter looked this
morning at my dressing case. They’d tie me up to the lamp-post at once
for the sake of my watch and seals! And I don’t know a single word of
their bloody language. I wish the leaders of the League had been hanged
before they sent me here.”
“What! then you are here upon a mission?”
“Yes, I’m a delegate, as they call it. O Lord, I wish somebody would
take me home!”
“Where do you reside, Mr Bagsby?”
“I don’t know the name of the street, and the man who brought me here
has just gone away with a gun! Oh dear! what shall I do?”
I really felt considerably embarrassed. By this time Monte-Christo and
most of his guests had departed, and I knew no one to whom I could
consign the unfortunate and terrified free-trader. I sincerely pitied
poor Bagsby, who was eminently unfitted for this sort of work; and was
just about to offer him an asylum in my own apartments, when I felt my
shoulder touched, and, turning round, recognised the intelligent though
sarcastic features of Albert the ouvrier.
“You are both English?” he said in a perfectly pure dialect. “_Eh bien_,
I like the English, and I wish they understood us better. You are in
difficulties. Well, I will assist. Come with me. You may depend upon the
honour of a member of the Institute. Workman as I am, I have some
influence here. Come—is it a bargain? Only one caution, gentlemen:
remember where you are, and that the watchwords for the night are
_fraternité_, _égalité_! You comprehend? Let us lose no time, but follow
me.”
So saying, he strode to the door. Bagsby said not a word, but clutched
my arm. But as we descended the staircase, he muttered in my ear as well
as the chittering of his teeth would allow:—
“It is _him_—I am perfectly certain! Who on earth would have believed
this! O Lord Harry!”