In a house in the Rue de Berri, at the back of the courtyard, there
was a little entresol which was lit by a trickle of daylight as dismal
as the stone walls between which it found its difficult way. Henri
de Brécé, son of the Duc Jean de Brécé, president of the Executive
Committee, was seated at his desk with a sheet of paper before him
on which he was turning a round blot of ink into a balloon, by the
addition of netting, ropes and a car. On the wall behind him was nailed
a large photograph of the Prince, looking extremely feeble in his
vulgar solemnity and heavy-witted youth. Tricoloured flags spangled
with _fleurs de lis_ surrounded the portrait. In the corners of the
room banners were displayed on which loyal ladies had embroidered
golden lilies and royalist mottoes. At the back of the room several
cavalry sabres were fixed to the wainscot, with a cardboard scroll
bearing the inscription: “_Vive l’armée!_” Below them, held in place
by pins, was a caricature of Joseph Reinach as a gorilla. A chest for
papers, a strong box, a couch and four chairs and a writing-desk in
some black wood composed the furniture of this room, which looked both
comfortable and business-like. Propagandist pamphlets were piled in
heaps against the walls.
Joseph Lacrisse, secretary of the Departmental Committee of Young
Royalists, was standing by the fireplace silently conning the list
of affiliated members. Henri Léon, vice-president of the Royalist
Committees of the South-West, was seated astride a chair, where, with
stony gaze and knitted brows, he was unfolding his ideas. He was
considered irrelevant and gloomy, a regular skeleton at the feast, but
his inherited financial abilities made him of value to his associates.
He was the son of that Léon-Léon, the banker of the Spanish Bourbons,
who had come to grief in the smash of the _Union générale_.
“We are being hemmed in, I don’t care what you say, we are being hemmed
in, I feel it. Day by day the circle is closing upon us. When Méline
was with us we had air and space, as much space as we wanted. We were
free to do as we liked.”
He jerked his elbows and moved his arms about as though to demonstrate
the ease with which people manœuvred in those happy days which were no
more. He continued:
“With Méline we had everything. We Royalists held the Government, the
army, the magistracy, the administrations and the police.”
“We still have all that,” said Henri de Brécé, “and public opinion is
more than ever with us now that the Government is so unpopular.”
“It’s no longer the same thing. With Méline we were pseudo-official,
we were supporters of the Government, we were Conservatives; the
conditions were ideal for conspiracy. Don’t make any mistake about
that. France as a whole is conservative, and domestic and changes alarm
her. Méline did us the enormous service of making us appear reassuring;
we appeared to be kindly and benign, as benign as he himself appeared.
He told the people that we were the true Republicans, and the people
believed him. You had only to look into his face; you couldn’t suspect
him of a jest. Through him we were accepted by public opinion, and that
in itself is no small service.”
“Méline was a good sort,” sighed Henri de Brécé. “We must at least do
him that justice.”
“He was a patriot,” said Joseph Lacrisse.
“With such a minister,” continued Henri Léon, “we had everything, we
were everything and we could do everything. We had no need to conceal
ourselves. We were not outside the Republic; we were above it, and
we dominated it from the full height of our patriotism. We were
everything; we were France herself! I must admit that the Republic
is good enough at times, though I’m not smitten with the hussy. Under
Méline the police—I don’t exaggerate—were exquisitely agreeable. During
a Royalist demonstration which you very kindly organized, Brécé, I
yelled ‘_Vive la police_’ till I was hoarse! And I meant it. The
enthusiasm with which they clubbed the Republicans! Gerault-Richard was
put in gaol for shouting ‘_Vive la République!_’ Ah, Méline spoiled
us, made life too pleasant for us. A wet-nurse, positively! He rocked
us to sleep. That’s a fact. General Decuir himself used to say, ‘Now
that we’ve got all we can possibly want, what’s the good of upsetting
the whole caboodle and getting a nasty spill in doing it?’ Thrice-happy
days when Méline led the dance! Nationalists, Monarchists, anti-Semites
and Plebiscitarians, we all danced in unison to the sound of his rustic
fiddle.
“We were all countrified and content. When Dupuy came along I was less
pleased; with him things were not so honest and above-board; we were
not so sure of ourselves. Of course he didn’t want to harm us, but he
was not a true friend. He was not the kindly village fiddler leading
the wedding procession. He was a fat coachman jogging us along in his
cab. And we tore along, hanging on anyhow, always in danger of being
upset. He had a hard hand on the reins. You will be telling me that his
clumsiness was feigned; yes, but feigned clumsiness is tremendously
like the real thing. Besides, he never knew where he wanted to go.
There are people like that, fellows who don’t know your address but
drive you indefinitely along impossible roads, winking maliciously as
they do it. It unnerves one.”
“I don’t defend Dupuy,” said Henri de Brécé.
“I don’t attack him. I watch him, study him and classify him. I don’t
dislike him; he’s been of great service to us. Don’t forget it. If
it were not for him, we should all be doing time to-day. Oh yes, I
mean it. I’m referring to Faure’s funeral, the great day fixed for
simultaneous action. Well, my dear friends, after the failure of the
great _coup_ we should have been done for, had it not been for Dupuy.”
“It wasn’t us he wanted to spare,” said Joseph Lacrisse, with his nose
in his ledger.
“I know that. He saw at a glance that he couldn’t do anything because
there were some generals mixed up in the business. It was too big
for him. But that doesn’t alter the fact that we owe him a jolly big
candle.”[C]
[C] A reference to the practice of burning candles to induce
the Virgin, or a Saint, to listen to a prayer, or in token
of gratitude for a prayer granted.
“Bah!” said Henri de Brécé. “We should have been acquitted, like
Déroulède.”
“It’s possible, but Dupuy allowed us plenty of time to pull ourselves
together after the funeral stampede, and I confess I am grateful to
him for that. On the other hand, without ill will, possibly without
intending it, he has done us a great deal of harm. Suddenly, just when
we least expected such a thing, he appeared to be furiously angry
with us. He made out that he was defending the Republic. His position
demanded the attitude; I recognize that. It wasn’t a serious matter,
but it had a bad effect. I get tired of telling you the same thing;
that this country is conservative at heart. Unlike Méline, Dupuy
did not tell people that we were the Republicans, that we were the
Conservatives; for that matter, no one would have believed him if he
had. During his ministry we lost something of our authority over the
country. We were no longer on the side of the government. We were no
longer reassuring; professional Republicans began to feel anxious about
us. That was to our credit, but it was dangerous. Our position was not
so good under Dupuy as under Méline, and it is worse to-day, under
Waldeck-Rousseau, than it was under Dupuy. That’s the truth, the bitter
truth.”
“Of course,” said Henri de Brécé, pulling his moustache, “of course
the Waldeck-Millerand Ministry is actuated by the worst intentions, but
I repeat it’s unpopular and it won’t last.”
“It may be unpopular,” returned Henri Léon, “but are you quite sure
it won’t last long enough to do us harm? Unpopular governments last
as long as popular ones. To begin with, no government is ever really
popular. To govern is to displease. We are among ourselves and there is
no need to mince matters. Do you for one moment imagine that we shall
be popular when we form the government? Do you imagine, Brécé, that
the people will weep with emotion when they see you attired as king’s
chamberlain with a key hanging down your back? And you, Lacrisse, do
you suppose you’ll be cheered in the working-class districts during a
strike, when you are, say, prefect of police? Look at yourself in the
glass and then tell me whether you look like an idol of the people.
Don’t let us deceive ourselves. We say that the Waldeck-Millerand
Cabinet is composed of idiots; we are quite right to say so, but we
should be wrong to believe it.”
“What ought to encourage us,” said Joseph Lacrisse, “is the weakness of
a government which cannot enforce obedience.”
“All our governments have been weak for many a long year,” said Henri
Léon, “but they have always been strong enough to defeat us.”
“The Waldeck Ministry has not a single police-commissary at its
disposal,” said Joseph Lacrisse. “Not one!”
“So much the better for us,” said Henri Léon, “for one would be enough
to jug all three of us. I tell you the circle is closing in. Consider
these words of a philosopher; they are worth the trouble: ‘Republicans
govern badly, but they defend themselves well.’”
But Henri de Brécé, bending over his desk, was turning a second blot of
ink into a beetle by the addition of a head, two antennæ and six legs.
He gave a satisfied glance at his work, looked up and remarked:
“We still hold trump cards, the Army, the Church——”
Henri Léon interrupted him:
“The Army, the Church, the magistracy, the bourgeoisie, the butcher
boys—in other words, the whole excursion train of the Republic. The
train is travelling nevertheless, and will continue to do so until the
driver stops the engine.”
“Ah,” sighed Joseph Lacrisse, “if only we had President Faure with us
still.”
“Félix Faure,” resumed Henri Léon, “joined us out of sheer vanity. He
became a Nationalist in order to get invitations to hunt with the
Brécés, but he would have turned against us as soon as he saw us on the
verge of success. It was not in his interest to restore the monarchy.
_Dame!_ What could the monarchy have offered him? We could not have
offered him a Lord High Constable’s bâton. We may regret him, for he
loved the army; we may mourn him, but we must not allow ourselves to be
inconsolable. He was not the driver; Loubet is not the driver either;
the President of the Republic, whoever he may be, is never master of
his engine. To me the ghastly part of it is that the Republican train
is controlled by a phantom driver. He is invisible, and yet the train
rushes on. It positively frightens me.
“Then there is another thing,” he continued, “and that is the general
indifference of the public. Speaking of that, reminds me of a very
significant remark once made by Citizen Bissolo. It was when the
anti-Semites and ourselves were organizing spontaneous manifestations
against Loubet. Our crowds went down the boulevards shouting ‘Panama!
Resign! Long live the Army!’ It was magnificent. Young Ponthieu and
General Decuir’s two sons headed the crowd, with glossy silk hats,
white carnations in their buttonholes, and gold-headed canes in their
hands. And the toughest hooligans of Paris made up the procession. We
had seen to that, and as it was a case of good pay and no risk we had
our pick. They would have been sorry to miss such a lark. Lord! what
voices they had, and what fists, and what cudgels!
“A counter-manifestation quickly made its appearance; a smaller and
more insignificant crowd, though warlike and determined enough,
advanced to meet us amid shouts of ‘Long live the Republic! Down with
the priests!’ with an occasional solitary cry for Loubet that seemed
surprised to find itself in the air. Before it was over this unexpected
disturbance aroused the anger of the police, who at that moment were
barricading the boulevard and looking just like an austere border of
black wool on a brightly variegated carpet. Soon, however, this black
border, actuated by a movement of its own, hurled itself upon the van
of the counter-manifestation, while another body of police harassed
them from the rear. In this way the police had soon dispersed the
partisans of Monsieur Loubet, dragging the unrecognizable débris off
to the insidious depths of the Drouot police-station. That was the way
they did things in those troublous times. Was Monsieur Loubet, at the
Élysée, ignorant of the methods employed by his police for enforcing in
the streets of Paris respect for the head of the State? Or, if he knew
of them, was he unable and unwilling to alter them? I do not know.
Did he realize that his unpopularity, real and undoubted as it was,
was fading into insignificance, almost disappearing in fact, before
the strange and agreeable spectacle which was offered nightly to a
witty and intelligent people? I do not think so, for in that case the
man would have been a terrifying person; he would have been a genius,
and I should no longer feel confident of sleeping outside the King’s
door at the Élysée this winter. No, I believe Loubet was once again so
fortunate as to be unable to do anything. Anyhow, it is certain that
the police, who acted spontaneously and solely out of the goodness of
their hearts, succeeded, by their sympathetic repression, in shedding
over the advent of the President a little of that popular rejoicing
which had been totally lacking. In so doing, if one considers the
matter, they did us more harm than good, for they pleased the public,
while it was to our advantage that the general discontent should
increase.
“However, one night, one of the last of that eventful week, when
the expected manœuvre was taking place from point to point, and the
counter-manifestation found itself attacked simultaneously in the
van and in the rear by the police and in flank by us, I saw Bissolo
extricate himself from the menaced van of the Republicans and, with
long strides and a desperate wriggling of his little body, reach the
corner of the Rue Drouot, where I was standing with a dozen or so
roughs who in response to my orders were shouting ‘Panama! Resign!’
It was a nice quiet little corner! I beat time, and my men pronounced
each syllable with great distinctness—‘Pa-na-ma!’ It was really done
with taste. Bissolo took refuge between my legs. He feared me far less
than the police; and he was right. For two years Citizen Bissolo and
I had met face to face in all our manifestations: we had headed the
processions at the beginning and end of every meeting. We had exchanged
every imaginable sort of political insult: ‘Hypocrite! Time-server!
Forger! Traitor! Assassin! Outcast!’ That sort of thing binds people
together and creates a mutual sympathy. Besides, it pleased me to see
a Socialist, almost a Libertarian, standing up for Loubet, who is in
his own fashion a Moderate. I said to myself: ‘The President must hate
being acclaimed by Bissolo, a dwarf with a voice of thunder, who at all
public meetings demands the nationalization of capital. Bourgeois that
he is, the President would surely prefer a bourgeois like myself for
a supporter. But he can feel in his pockets.’ Panama! Panama! Resign!
Resign! Long live the Army! Down with the Jews! Long live the King!
“All this made me treat Bissolo with courtesy. I had only to say
‘Hullo, here’s Bissolo,’ and my dozen costers would promptly have cut
him in pieces, but that wouldn’t have done any good. I said nothing.
We were very quiet; we stood beside one another and watched the march
past of Joubet’s supporters driven to the police-station in the Rue
Drouot. Most of them, having previously been clubbed, staggered along
beside the police like so many drunkards. Among them was a Socialist
deputy, a very handsome man with a big beard; his sleeves had been
torn off; there was a young apprentice sobbing and crying ‘Mother!
Mother!’ and the editor of some trashy daily with two black eyes and
his nose streaming with blood. And the _Marseillaise_! ‘Qu’un sang
impur.’... I noticed one man who was far more respectable and far
more sorry for himself than the rest. He looked like a professor, a
serious, middle-aged man. He had evidently made an attempt to explain
his point of view; he had tried subtle and persuasive arguments on the
police. Otherwise the way in which they were kicking him in the back
with their hobnailed boots and banging him with their fists was quite
inexplicable. And as he was very tall, very thin, anything but strong,
and weighed very little, he skipped about under these blows in the most
ridiculous fashion. He displayed a comical tendency to make his escape
upwards. His bare head had a most pitiable appearance. He had that
submerged expression which comes over a short-sighted man when he has
lost his glasses. His face expressed the infinite distress of a being
whose only contact with the outside world comes through sturdy fists
and hobnailed boots.
“As this unfortunate prisoner passed us, Bissolo, although he was
on hostile territory, could not help sighing and saying: ‘It is a
strange thing that Republicans should be so treated in a Republic.’ I
politely replied that it was in truth somewhat amusing. ‘No, Citizen
Monarchist,’ replied Bissolo, ‘it is not amusing, it is sad. But that
is not the chief misfortune. The chief misfortune, I tell you, is the
lethargy of the public.’ Bissolo spoke these words with a confidence
that did us both honour. I glanced at the crowd, and it is a fact that
it seemed to me flabby and without energy. Now and again a cry rose
from its depths like a firework let off by a child: ‘Down with Loubet!
Down with the thieves! Down with the Jews! Long live the Army!’ And
it seemed friendly enough towards the worthy police, but there was no
electricity in the air—no storm brewing. Citizen Bissolo continued with
melancholy philosophy: ‘The great evil is the lethargy of the public.
We Republicans, Socialists and Libertarians are suffering from it
to-day. You Monarchists and Imperialists will suffer from it to-morrow,
and will learn in your turn that you may lead a horse to the water but
you can’t make him drink. Republicans are arrested and no one stirs a
finger; and when it is the turn of the Royalists to be arrested, no one
will stir a finger, you may be sure of that. The crowd will not stir
an inch to deliver you, Monsieur Henri Léon, or your friend Monsieur
Déroulède.’
“I must admit that by the light of these words I seemed to catch a
glimpse of a profoundly dismal future flashing across my vision.
Somewhat ostentatiously, however, I replied: ‘Citizen Bissolo, there
is nevertheless this difference between you and ourselves—that the
crowd looks upon you as a mob of time-servers without love for your
country, while we Monarchists and Imperialists enjoy the esteem of the
public. We are popular.’ Citizen Bissolo smiled pleasantly at this and
remarked: ‘Your horse is there, monseigneur, and you have only to mount
her. But when you are on her back she will quietly lie down by the side
of the road and will pitch you off. There is no sorrier jade anywhere,
I warn you. Tell me which one of her riders has not had his back broken
by popularity? In time of peril have the people ever been able to
offer the least assistance to their idols? You Nationalists are not
so popular as you profess, you and your candidate Gamelle are almost
unknown to the general public. But if ever the mob enfolds you in its
loving embrace, you will very quickly discover its stupendous impotence
and cowardice.’
“I could not refrain from reproaching Bissolo severely for calumniating
the French public. He replied that he was a sociologist, that his
Socialism was based on science, and that he had a little box at home
filled with actual facts minutely classified, which enabled him to
bring about a methodical revolution. And he added: ‘Science, and
not the people, possesses sovereign power. A stupidity repeated by
thirty-six millions of mouths does not for that reason cease to be
stupid. Majorities, as a general rule, display a superior capacity
for servitude. Among the weak, weakness is multiplied in proportion
to number. Mobs are always inert. They possess a little energy only
when they are starving. I can prove to you that on the morning of the
10th of August, 1792, the people of Paris were still Royalists. I have
been addressing public meetings for ten years and have had my share of
hard blows. The education of the people has hardly commenced; that is
the fact of the matter. In the brain of the working man, in the place
where the bourgeois carry their inept and brutal prejudices, there is a
great cavity. That has got to be filled. We shall do it. It will take
a long time. In the meanwhile it is better to have an empty head than
one filled with toads and serpents. All this is scientific fact; it’s
all in my box. It is all in accordance with the laws of evolution.
Nevertheless the general poltroonery disgusts me. And in your place it
would frighten me. Look at your partisans, the defenders of the sword
and the Church, did you ever see anything so flabby, so gelatinous?’
Having spoken, he stretched out his arms, gave a wild cry of ‘Long
live Socialism!’ plunged head foremost in the enormous crowd, and
disappeared in the sea of people.”
Joseph Lacrisse, who had listened without enthusiasm to this long
story, asked whether Citizen Bissolo wasn’t merely an animal.
“On the contrary, he is a very clever man,” replied Henri Léon, “the
sort of man one would like to have as a neighbour in the country, as
Bismarck used to say of Lassalle. Bissolo spoke only too truly when he
said that you may lead a horse to the water, but you can’t make him
drink.”