Chapter VIII: Preface (7)

“He means to fight. It will be appalling,” exclaimed a journalist.

“Jules Guérin, it is four o’clock,” cried M. Lépine, again stepping forward. Without a word, the man in the sombrero banged down the window, and a few moments later the shadowy figures of his assistants disappeared from the roof.

“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure—no, I wasn’t sure,” said M. Lépine—when the heavy oak door swung open!

A third time he stepped forward—entered the doorway—vanished—reappeared to give an order—again vanished. Up with the hose, into the gutter with the fire-engines; way for half-a-dozen ordinary, shabby _fiacres_ which came bumping and lurching down the street, pulled up before the oak door: and a few minutes later took Jules Guérin and the young men with the bull-dog faces ingloriously away to the Santé prison!

“N’en Parlons Plus,” said Paris, when the Senate, assembled as a High Court, sentenced Jules Guérin, Paul Déroulède, and other rebels and conspirators against the safety of the Republic to long terms of imprisonment and exile.

“N’en Parlons Plus,” reiterated Paris, when the Amnesty Bill permitted the exiles to return to their country.

Little more was heard of Jules Guérin. France, having been restored to order and sanity, and having made what reparation she could to Major Dreyfus, would have no more of Anti-Semitism; and on his return from exile, the rebel of Fort Chabrol retired into the obscurity of a damp, ugly little house in the valley of the Seine.

He still wore his sombrero; but his spirit was broken, and he pottered about in his garden and smoked cigarettes by the side of an evil-smelling stove. Then, a year ago, came the devastating floods. After saving his own scanty furniture, Jules Guérin went to the assistance of his neighbours. He was himself again, dashing hither and thither, issuing orders, directing operations. Many valiant feats he performed. He was rough, but he was kind. It was through standing waist-deep in the cold, murky water—whilst helping his neighbours—that he contracted pneumonia.

“The death, at the age of forty-nine, is announced of M. Jules Guérin: who had his hour of notoriety.”

So—and no more—said the _Figaro_.

XIII

DEATH OF HENRI ROCHEFORT[6]

It is with mixed emotions that I record my own personal recollections of the late Henri Rochefort. They go back fourteen years, to the lurid, delirious summer of 1899, when Jules Guérin, the leader of the Anti-Semites, evaded arrest by shutting himself up in Fort Chabrol; when Dreyfus, bent, shattered, almost voiceless, was enduring the anguish of a second court-martial; when the boulevards were being swept of tumultuous manifestants every night by the Republican Guard.

Rochefort was living in a little villa at the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne: a retreat for a sage, a poet, a dreamer; the very last abode, one would have thought, for the most thunderous figure in French public life. By rights, Rochefort the Ferocious should have been living in a vast boulevard apartment overlooking the nightly Anti-Dreyfusard uproar. But there he was (when first I met him) in that innocent maisonnette—in dressing-gown and slippers, amidst flowers, pictures and frail china—actually playing with a fluffy toy lamb, of the kind hawked about for two francs on the terraces of the Paris cafés. It was only his snowy white hair, brushed upwards, that made him picturesque. Pale, steely blue eyes, that lit up cruelly, evilly at times; a face seamed, sallow and horse-like in shape; a harsh, guttural voice; large, yellowish hands, with long, pointed finger-nails.

Upon the occasion of my first visit to the innocent maisonnette, there was no cause for agitation. The toy lamb was the attraction. A tube was attached to it, and at the end of the tube was a bulb which, when pressed, made the lamb leap. Again and again, Rochefort the Lurid set the lamb leaping. I too lost my heart to the lamb, and also made it frisk. Amidst all this irresponsibility, my host was pleased to pronounce me “sympathetic” and “charming,” not like the “traditional” Englishman with the bull-dog, the aggressive side-whiskers and long, glistening teeth. Rochefort saw me to the garden door; Rochefort actually plucked me a rose; Rochefort’s parting words were a cordial invitation to visit him and his lamb again soon. So was I amazed to find myself described in his very next article as “a sinister brigand, in the pay of the Jews; in fact, one of those diabolical bandits who are devastating our beloved France.”

... A week later I approached him, and mildly protested, as he was sitting on the terrace of the Café de la Paix, drinking milk and Vichy water, sucking his eternal lozenges—and still playing with the lamb.

“Bah, that was only print,” came the reply. “Let us resume our game with the lamb.” As he made it leap about deftly amongst the glasses on the marble-topped table, passers-by, recognising his Luridness, stopped, stared and smiled at the spectacle. “That’s the great Rochefort,” said the _maître d’hôtel_ to an American tourist: and stupefaction of the States. Rising at last, and stuffing the lamb into his pocket, Rochefort remarked: “I must go off and do my article, but you sha’n’t be the brigand. I feel amiable to-night.”

Next morning appeared the notorious, atrocious article demanding that walnut shells—containing long, hairy spiders—should be strapped to the eyes of Captain Dreyfus.

What was the reason of Rochefort’s abominable campaign against the martyr from the Devil’s Island? Since he styled himself a democrat, the champion of liberty and justice, the enemy of tyranny, one would have expected to see the fierce old journalist fighting vigorously for Dreyfus. The fact is, Rochefort was a mass of contradictions: an imp of perversity: at once brutal and humane; gentle and bloodthirsty; simple and vain; the most chaotic Frenchman that ever died. Search his autobiography, in three portly volumes: not once do you find him resting, smiling or reflecting—he is all thunder and lightning, an everlasting storm. Exile, duels, fines and imprisonment—wild, delirious attacks upon the Government of the day. No one escaped; for fifty years, in the columns of the _Figaro_, the _Lanterne_, the _Intransigeant_, and finally, in the _Patrie_, Rochefort pursued presidents and politicians with his unique, extravagant vocabulary. M. Jaurès, the Socialist leader, was “a decayed turnip”; M. Georges Clemenceau, “a loathsome leper”; M. Briand, “a moulting vulture.” As for M. Combes, to the guillotine with him, and into the Seine with M. Delcassé, and a rope and a boulevard lamp-post for M. Pelletan. Then President Loubet was “the foulest of assassins”; President Fallières, “the fat old satyr of the Élysée”; and Madame Marguerite Steinheil, “the Black Panther.”

For the life of me I could trace nothing of the “panther” in Madame Steinheil during the ten terrible days that she sat in the dock of the dim, oak-panelled Paris Assize Court. As for her “blackness,” Rochefort was referring to her clothes.

“Heavy crape bands round the accused woman’s black dress, stiff crape bows in the widow’s cap, a deep sombre border to the handkerchief which she clenched tightly, convulsively, in her black-gloved hand... under her eyes, dark, dark shadows, which turned green as the trial tragically wore on.”[7] Impossible, one might have thought, not to sympathise with this prisoner who, with all her follies and faults, was certainly not the murderess of her husband and mother.

But what cared Rochefort for evidence and arguments? Leaning forward in his seat in the Press-box, his sallow face distorted with fury, he fixed the “Tragic Widow” with his steely, cruel eyes. (“I think he was trying to hypnotise me—certainly to terrify me,” relates Madame Steinheil in her _Memoirs_.) Again and again he cracked his lozenges, gesticulated angrily with his large yellow hands. During the adjournments, he held forth violently in the corridors of the Law Courts. Not only was Madame Steinheil the murderess of her mother and husband, but she was also the assassin of President Félix Faure. She poisoned him in the Élysée, at the instigation of the Jews, who knew that so long as Faure remained President there would be no revision of the Dreyfus affair. So, a triple murderess—and “crack, crack” went the lozenges. Later, when it became certain that Madame Steinheil would be acquitted, Rochefort declared that judge and jury had been “bought,” and that the Government had all along protected the “Black Panther.” His hands were trembling, the sallow face had turned livid, when at one o’clock in the morning the jury filed into the dim, stifling court and delivered their verdict: “Not Guilty” on all counts. How Rochefort scowled at the cries of “Vive Madame Steinheil!” and “Vive la Justice!” How he sneered when the barristers cheered, applauded and flung their black _képis_ into the air! With what disgust he listened to the bravoes from the journalists and the public at the back of the court. When Madame Steinheil fainted, and was being carried out of the dock by the Municipal Guards, Rochefort’s ruthless hatred made the compassion of the public loathsome to him. Shaking, speechless with rage, he roughly pushed his way out of court, cracking his lozenges with such savagery that he must have very nearly broken his teeth.

But there were two Henri Rocheforts, and the virtues of the second almost made amends for the vices of the first.

The second Rochefort revealed himself at the age of twenty. He was a medical student. Shortly after the adoption of these studies young Rochefort harangued the surgeon and his fellow-students upon the “iniquities” of vivisection: and _that_ ended his short medical career. Another outburst at the Hôtel de Ville, when Rochefort next accepted a petty clerkship at a pound a week. His colleagues were underpaid and overworked; a scarcity of light and utter lack of ventilation in the dusty, shabby office-rooms resulted in cases of acute anæmia and consumption. “We must have light—floods of it. We must have air—great, healthy draughts of it,” shouted youthful Rochefort to a high official. “I’m strong enough myself and don’t care; but look at your clerks. Martyrs, victims! _De l’air, de la lumière, nom de Dieu!_”

The high official, a pompous, apoplectic soul, was struck dumb by Rochefort’s invasion of his private sanctum. At last he gasped: “If you were not the son of a marquis——” But Rochefort interrupted: “My father died a fortnight ago. But I have no predilection for titles. My name is Henri Rochefort.”

Rochefort nevertheless was an aristocrat—“_la race_” remained, in spite of his assumption of democracy. He was, in fine, a democrat-aristocrat—most chaotic of combinations. Therein lay the secret of his turbulence and incoherency. Like all French aristocrats, he was a militarist at heart. He was the ally of Boulanger. He was the hottest champion of Paul Déroulède when that well-meaning but impossible “patriot” attempted his celebrated _coup d’état_, on the morning of President Félix Faure’s funeral, by establishing General Roget as a military dictator in the Élysée. He was, furthermore, an Anti-Semite. “Pale, white blood,” he cried disdainfully of the French _noblesse_. His own blood was vigorously red, but tinged indelibly with blue. Yes; “_la race_” remained, persisted—clashed inevitably with the true spirit of democracy. And hence the chaos, the thunder and lightning; from out of which there nevertheless shone tenderness, chivalry and a love of beautiful things. He loved music, sculpture, pictures: and whilst urging on France to declare war against England over the Fashoda Affair, announced in my hearing that he would rather annex a portrait by Reynolds than a province in the Sudan. He loved animals: and animals loved him. Wild fury of Rochefort when a bull-fight was advertised to take place at Enghien-les-Bains.

When the Government declined to forbid it, down to Enghien went Rochefort and a number of friends. Sallow-faced old Rochefort seized hold of the “impresario” who was organising the bull-fight and shook him. “I and my friends are going to wreck your arena,” he shouted. Nor did he release the “impresario” until the latter had promised that the bull-fight should not take place.

If Rochefort had been all vindictiveness and luridness, how did it come to pass that he was the guest of the great-hearted Victor Hugo, when both of them were exiles in Brussels? And if the hoarse-voiced, steely-eyed old journalist had been all venom, how did it come about that he was the devoted, admiring friend of that very noble, if disconcerting apostle of humanity, Louise Michel, “the Red Virgin.”

Londoners may remember the frail, thin, shabby little Woman who denounced social injustices in a dingy hall in a back street off Tottenham Court Road some ten years ago. In appearance she was nothing—until she spoke. And when Louise Michel spoke, ah dear me, how one realised the miseries grimly and heroically endured by the poor of this topsy-turvy world! The shabby, frail little figure, with the big, inspired eyes, became galvanised. From London to Paris, from Paris to every European capital, travelled the “Red Virgin”—incomparably eloquent—the woes and sufferings of her fellow-creatures at once crushing and supporting her. Herself, she cared nothing for. The same old threadbare black dress; eternal dim attics and meagre food; the same old self-sacrifice, the pity to the verge of despair, the same old breakdowns from weakness and exhaustion.

Rochefort—Victor Henri Marquis de Rochefort-Luçay—sought her out in her attic. When the “Red Virgin” was travelling and lecturing abroad, Rochefort instructed his foreign correspondents to look after her. He bought her a country house: which she promptly sold; he gave her an annuity: which she mortgaged; he arranged that his tradespeople should serve her in his name; but house, annuity, provisions—everything went to the poor.

“I can do nothing with her,” Rochefort once told me. “She is at once sublime and adorable and ridiculous! When I tell her she is killing herself, she replies: ‘Tant pis, mon petit Henri. But you yourself will die one of these days.’”

A week later Louise Michel expired suddenly, from exhaustion, at Marseilles.[8] Sallow-faced, white-headed, red-eyed old Rochefort was the chief mourner at the funeral. As he walked, bent, trembling, behind the hearse of the “Red Virgin”—crack, crack went the lozenges.

The month of June, 1912. Rochefort’s daily article in the _Patrie_ missing; and again missing the next day, and the day after that—the first time octogenarian Rochefort had “missed” his daily lurid article for fifty-two years!

On the fourth day there appears in the _Patrie_ the following intimation:—“I shall soon reach my eighty-second year, and it is now half-a-century since I have worked without a rest even in prison or in exile, at the hard trade of a journalist, which is the first and the most noble of all professions—when it is not the lowest. I think I have earned the right to a rest. But it will only be a short one. My old teeth can still bite.”

However, the “rest” in the country is prolonged: and the teeth don’t “bite” again. Eyesight becomes misty. Hearing next fails. Behold Rochefort in a dressing-gown, stretched on an invalid’s chair in a drowsy country garden, whence he is transported, as a last hope, to Aix-les-Bains,—where he dies.

The 30th June 1913. Day of Rochefort’s funeral. All Paris lining the boulevards and streets as the cortège, half-a-mile long, passes by. A crowd of all kinds and conditions of Parisians. Here is M. Jaurès, “the decayed turnip.” There is M. Clemenceau, “the loathsome leper.” Over there, M. Briand, “the moulting vulture.” And their heads are uncovered; there is not the faintest resentment in their minds as the remains of lurid, yet not always unkind, old Rochefort are borne away round the corner under a magnificent purple pall.

Round the corner and up the steep hill to the vast, rambling Montmartre Cemetery. Tombs, shadows, silence, mystery within the cemetery walls; but, beyond them, the hectic arms of the Moulin Rouge, and the lurid lights of night restaurants. In this mixed atmosphere Henri Rochefort has an appropriate resting-place.

[6] He died on 27th June 1913.

[7] See page 196.

[8] 19th January 1905.

XIV

ROYAL VISITS TO PARIS

Whenever France is shaken by a scandal, convulsed by a crisis, the voice of the undiscerning prophet is to be heard proclaiming the doom of the Republic. The Affair of the Decorations in President Grévy’s time, the Panama Affair, the Dreyfus Affair, the Steinheil Affair, yesterday’s Rochette-Caillaux-Calmette Affair; each of these delirious dramas excited the assertion that the French people, disgusted and indignant at so much political corruption, were ready and eager for the restoration of the old régime. True, these five scandals—and many other smaller ones—shocked, saddened, humiliated the French nation. But at no time have they caused the average Frenchman—most intelligent and reasonable of beings—to lose faith in the Republic. Invariably he has maintained that it is not the Republic that is at fault, but the Republicans behind her; emphatically, he has insisted that the remedy lies, not in the overthrow, but in the _reform_, of the Republic—in the honest enforcement of the principles and doctrines of the Rights of Man. No Kings, no Emperors for Twentieth-Century France! Imagine, if you can do it, Philippe, Duke of Orleans, the handsomest, the most brilliant, the most irresistible of Pretenders. Suppose Prince Victor Napoleon endowed with some of the military and administrative genius of the Petit Caporal, instead of having married and settled down in comfortable, bourgeois little Belgium. Picture a modern General Boulanger on a new black charger—France would, nevertheless, remain true to the Republican régime. “Ah non, mon vieux, pas de ça,” one can hear the average Frenchman say to the would-be monarch. “We have had you before. We know better than to try you again. Bonsoir.”

Still, in spite of their confirmed Republicanism, the French people love Royalty—the Royalty of other nations. How often, outside national buildings that bear the democratic motto of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, have I heard shouts of: “Vive le Roi” and “Vive la Reine,” and admiring exclamations of: “Il est beau” and “Elle est gentille,” when a foreign monarch and his consort have visited Paris! How brilliantly has the city been adorned and illuminated; what a special shine on the helmets and breast-plates of the Republican Guard, and on the boots of the little, nervous boulevard policemen; what a constant playing of the august visitor’s own national anthem! In all countries a neighbouring sovereign is received cordially, elaborately. But it is in Republican France that a Royal visit is marked with the greatest pomp, circumstance and excitement. For the fact is that France, more than any other country, loves a fête—and the arrival in Paris of a King means flags, fairy lamps, festoons of paper flowers, fireworks. (The mere ascent of a rocket, the smallest shower of “golden rain” will throw the Parisian into ecstasies.) Also it delights the Frenchman to behold the uniforms, and the Stars and Orders of foreign nations—and he will stand about for hours to catch only a glimpse of the monarch.

“Je l’ai vu, moi,” M. le Bourgeois declares proudly. Probably he has discerned no more than the nose, or the ear or the eyebrow of his Majesty. But he “salutes” the ear and the nose, he cheers the eyebrow: and the newspapers are full of the “distinction” and “graciousness” and “wit” of the visiting sovereign. Modern French novels and plays also call attention to the homage paid by Parisians to foreign Royalty. In that brilliant comedy, _Le Roi_, the mythical King of Cerdagne thus addresses a Parisienne: “Le séjour à Paris, c’est une chose qui nous délecte, nous autres pauvres rois, pauvres rois de province! On est si riant pour nous, ici! Pour aimer les rois, il n’y a vraiment plus que la France.” And the lady replies: “Mais elle est sincère, sire. Elle est amoureuse de vous. Elle flirte, elle fait la coquette—elle aime ça. La France est une Parisienne.” Most indisputably, France “flirts” with Foreign Royalty. Vast quantities of flowers, fresh and artificial, here, there and everywhere. All official buildings blazing and glittering with huge electrical devices. About ten o’clock at night—amidst what murmurs, exclamations, rapture!—fireworks on the ghost-haunted Ile de France. Then Republican and Municipal Guards massed on the Place de l’Opéra; and a dense crowd assembled to witness the arrival of his Majesty, M. le Président, MM. les Ambassadeurs, and hosts of distinguished personages, for the gala performance. All Paris turns out: stout M. le Bourgeois, students from the Latin Quarter, _midinettes_ in their best hats (I prefer them at noon, when Mesdemoiselles Marie and Yvonne are bareheaded), workmen in their Sunday suits, small clerks in pink shirts, obscure, dim-eyed old Government officials, Apaches on their good behaviour, cabmen and chauffeurs (off their boxes), conscripts with permits, concierges hastened from their lodges in slippers, street gamins—Victor Hugo’s Gavroche—with his inimitable sarcasms and repartee—all turn out to behold the Royal guest of Republican France pay his State visit to the Opera. But what with the police and the troops and the closed carriage of the sovereign, all these kinds and conditions of Parisians do not behold even so much as the eyebrow of his Majesty. They remain there until the performance is over, but with no happier success. Away goes the Royal carriage, without affording the crowd the view of an ear-tip, a chin or the nape of the neck. Still, in spite of the crowd having seen nothing, what cheers! I have heard them raised for the Tsar; for the Kings of Greece, Belgium, Sweden, Norway and Italy; for the late ruler of Portugal; for the highly popular Alfonso of Spain; for the greatest favourite of all, the idol of the Parisians—King Edward the Seventh. King Edward’s State visit took place eleven years ago. The result of it, twelve months later, was the consummation of the _Entente_. Thus the present month of April will see Paris celebrating a “double” event: the visit of King George and Queen Mary, and the tenth anniversary of the Cordial Understanding. And it is safe to affirm that when the cheers break out afresh in honour of their Majesties, they will not fail to surpass in spontaneity and enthusiasm all the cheers of the past.

Royal visits to Paris never vary. They last four or five days, and during that brief period the foreign sovereign, the French President, the Cabinet Ministers, the array of high State officials, the troops, the police, the Press and the greater part of Paris public have so much to do and to see that at the end of the whirl they cannot but confess to a condition of exhaustion. Both the Royal visitor and the President hold brilliant State banquets. Most probably there is a third banquet at the Quai d’Orsay. The gala at the Opera (or sometimes at the Français), a Military Review, an expedition to Versailles, a reception at the Hôtel de Ville, a special race-meeting, presentations of Addresses: such are the traditional items in the strenuous “programme.” Then, speeches to make; and since they are eminently “official,” they must be carefully considered, and thoroughly mastered, beforehand. As, on the other score, the “official” toasts and speeches are invariably stereotyped in substance and sentiment, they cannot demand much inventiveness or exertion. They must be mutually polite and complimentary—a repetition of one another.

However, in spite of the polite and amusing banality of the “official” speeches, Royal visits to France can have far-reaching consequences. Eighteen years ago the arrival in Paris of the Tsar resulted in the Franco-Russian Alliance. After that, King Edward and the _Entente_; and since then the visits of the kings of Spain and Italy have undoubtedly promoted a mutual friendly feeling between those two countries and Republican France. Then there have also taken place, during the last five or six years, odd, amazing Royal visits: that have caused the punctilious French Protocol no end of _ennuis_ and perplexities. Behold black-faced and burly old Sisowath, King of Cambodia, descending most indecorously upon Paris, in a battered top-hat and gorgeous silken robes: and with a party of bejewelled native dancing-girls! Impossible to separate Sisowath from his monstrous top-hat (which came from heaven knows where) and his dancers; impossible, therefore, to entertain his Cambodian Majesty ceremoniously. Nor would he have tolerated State banquets, the Hôtel de Ville, Versailles, the Opera. No pomp for black Sisowath. A great deal of his time he spent in going up and down lifts; and in listening to gay songs from the gramophone. When he drove through the streets he kissed his great ebony hands at the Parisiennes. He was, as a matter of fact, for kissing everybody: even capacious President Fallières, even sallow, petulant M. Clemenceau. As he did his embracing, he hugged his victims in his huge, massive arms. Still, he was a King—and so official France had to overlook his eccentricities. As for the Parisians, they revelled in Bohemian Sisowath. Ecstatic, gay cries of “_Vive le roi!_” and “_Vivent les petites danseuses_”:—to which his merry old Majesty responded by standing up in his carriage, and waving the disgraceful top-hat; and blowing forth more and more kisses; and shouting out messages in his own incomprehensible language.... Then, after Sisowath, Mulai Hafid, the ex-Sultan of Morocco, who before coming to Paris passed a few days at Vichy. Nobody, however, had reason to cheer or rejoice over this Royal visitor: for his behaviour was intolerable. Sisowath was expansive, affectionate, _rigolo_; Mulai Hafid was violent, insolent, offensive.

“Grotesque, horrible machines” was “Mulai’s” comment on the hats of the fashionable Frenchwomen. The military bands, “they drive me mad.” The actresses, “shameless and shocking”—they should be veiled like the ladies of Morocco. “Where is your sun?” demanded the ex-Sultan, looking up at the grey skies. “I am so bored that I am going to bed. What a people, what a country!” All this, and more, the Yellow journalists gleefully repeated in their newspapers. Then, photographs of “Mulai” scowling, of “Mulai” disdainful, of “Mulai” contemptuous. So that when “Mulai” came to Paris, still scowling, the Hippolyte Durands were indignant at his bad manners. In France, you mustn’t speak ill of anything French: especially when you are in receipt of a pension of 350,000 francs a year.

But “Mulai” didn’t care. He was for ever taking the Paris journalists into his confidence, and more and more unflattering became his comments on French life. As it rained every day, his temper was detestable; and he has been seen to shake his fist at the French skies. Then he omitted to salute the French flag: he described the French language as ridiculous; he yawned in the Louvre: and he retired to bed through sheer boredom a dozen times a day.

Also, “Mulai” was said to be furious because the Press had compared him unfavourably with Sisowath, the amazing ebony-black monarch of Cambodia. “Sisowath,” said the papers, was not only _rigolo_. When he came to Paris seven years ago he wore brilliant robes, a multitude of diamonds—as well as a battered old top-hat. And he laughed and laughed all day long. Not only did he kiss his great black hands at the Parisiennes, but he showered silver amongst the crowd. And he meant it kindly when he hugged bald, portly State officials. In a word, black, enormous Sisowath of Cambodia was an unsophisticated, affectionate, merry old soul. But, in “Mulai’s” estimation, Sisowath is a savage, and furious, as I have said, is the ex-Sultan that he should be mentioned in the same breath with him.

Socially, in fact, “Mulai’s” visit to France is anything but a success. He has been raging against French boots, because, after putting on a pair, they pinched him. He has been cursing French automobiles, because they travel so fast. And he has hurled a French suit of clothes (especially made for him) out of the window, because of the buttons.

“Ah non, c’est trop fort,” cries Hippolyte Durand, as he reads of “Mulai’s” outbursts in the papers. And still greater becomes his indignation, when he comes upon the following statement:—“The situation in Morocco continues serious. The Vled Bu Beker, of the Rehama tribe, is active. The attitude of the Vled Belghina and the Vled Amrane Fukania is threatening. The Hiania tribesmen are gathered at Safrata on the Wed Sebu. At Ben Guerie, Bab Aissa, Suk-el-Arba and——”

“I will read no more; I understand nothing, I am distracted!” cries M. Hippolyte Durand. “Ah, _nom d’un nom_, what a sinister country is this Morocco!”

Earlier in this paper, I observed that Royal visits to Paris never “vary,” but in one respect this statement requires correction. The most delicate, the most anxious duty of the French Government is to watch over the safety of her illustrious guests. Paris, rightly or wrongly, is alleged to abound with anarchists, fanatics and lunatics. Ask M. Guichard, one of the chiefs of the Criminal Investigation Department: and he will tell you that a Royal visit, if a delight to the public, is a misery and a nightmare to the detective police. The extent, the depth of the misery depends upon the nationality of the monarch. Of course, no fears as to old Sisowath’s safety; and peril for Mulai Hafid, who was nearly always in bed, caused even slighter apprehensions. The kings of Belgium, Sweden and Norway—well, the detective police, although watchful, “breathed” freely and slept of nights when their Majesties came to Paris. But the King of Italy, a hundred thousand precautions; the King of Spain—extraordinary vigilance: and even then a bomb fell within a few yards of the Royal carriage; the Tsar—a state of panic and siege that still haunts me after the interval of eighteen long years. Weeks before his Imperial Majesty’s arrival, Russian detectives descended upon Paris. Together with their French colleagues they searched for conspirators and bombs—even forcing their way into the rooms of the poor Russian girl students of the Latin Quarter, seizing their correspondence, subjecting them to offensive cross-examinations. Still rougher methods with the male students: with Russian plumbers, clerks and mechanics; many were arrested on no evidence as “revolutionaries” and imprisoned (without being allowed to communicate with their friends) until after the Imperial Visitor’s departure. Often, as a result of the raids of the detective police, the poorer Russian residents in Paris were given _congé_ by terrified concierges, and had to take refuge in stifling, common lodging-houses, or seek for shelter on the outskirts of Paris. Meanwhile, Paris was decking herself out with flowers and flags, rehearsing coloured electrical “effects,” setting the supports for the panoramic fireworks, buying up the photographs of the Tsar of All the Russias. But it was a pale, uneasy, harassed-looking Emperor that drove through the splendidly decorated thoroughfares; it was a beautiful, but a sad-faced, Consort who accompanied him; it was cheers all the way; but it was also a detective in plain clothes at one’s elbow, more detectives in corners and doorways, still more detectives on roofs and—I dare say—up chimneys; it was festoons and illuminations and fireworks: but it was also bayonets and sabres; it was the democratic _Marseillaise_ of France _and_ the National Anthem of despotic Russia; it was “Long live the Emperor”; and “Long live the Republic”—but it was an ironical, a pitiable spectacle: this Imperial guest, come on a visit to a friendly country, protected and surrounded by an illimitable, armed bodyguard, as though he were entering—not Paris—but the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

Numbers of Russian decorations for the Paris detective police, when the Tsar had departed in safety! Out of prison came the perfectly innocent “revolutionaries”: the Russian girls were permitted to resume their studies in the Latin Quarter... not the silliest little bomb had spluttered, not a seditious cry had been raised... and a high police official of my acquaintance was granted by a grateful Government a prolonged holiday on increased pay. He deserved it. Dark shadows under his eyes, hectic spots in his cheeks, dyspepsia, insomnia, acute neurasthenia: such was his plight after the glorious visit to Paris of the Tsar of All the Russias. To-day, eighteen years later, my detective friend has risen to one of the highest positions at the Sûreté, and he can produce many a decoration or gift awarded him by foreign Royalty, and is particularly proud of a gold watch presented to him by King Edward the Seventh. The late King was so popular in Paris that he was known familiarly and affectionately as “Edouard.” Nevertheless, he was watched over by the private detective police. “_Mais oui_, we had even to attend to the safety of ‘Edouard,’ the most admirable of kings; he often gave me cigars, and you have already seen the gold watch,” my detective friend recently told me. “We were concerned about the Indians in Paris. Oh, nobody else would have assailed Edouard. As for the Indians, they were kept under observation day and night.” The detective was alluding to the notorious Krishnavarna, who “ran” a scurrilous little newspaper in a house off the Champs Élysées. Odd, sinister-looking Indians (I am still quoting my police friend) called frequently at the place. They remained there for hours and hours: what were they doing? But the police have their eye on them—especially closely and keenly fixed on them now that King George and Queen Mary are about to make their entrance into Paris. Also—so I am informed by the same high detective official—the police have been instructed to beware of the militant Suffragettes. Miss Christabel Pankhurst “under observation”; the comings and goings of her visitors watched and recorded; the lady passengers on the Havre, Dieppe and Calais steamers carefully scrutinised on their arrival; the police actually taught to shout “Votes for Women” in order that they may promptly distinguish that cry in the event of its being uttered! Dear Paris—dear, excitable, incoherent, wonderful, incomparable Paris—into what difficulties as well as delights, into what a whirl of pleasure and confusion, does a Royal visit plunge you!

But, never mind the difficulties, _tant pis_ for the confusion; _vivent_ the more than compensating thrills of emotion and delight. This evening, as I close this paper, Paris is once again shouting: “Vive le Roi” and “Vive la Reine”—shouting herself “hoarse,” so the French and English Press unanimously declare; and the decorations and illuminations of the past have been triumphantly eclipsed, and the State banquets, the reception at the Hôtel de Ville, the gala performance at the Opera, the race-meeting and the military review have surpassed in brilliancy and splendour even the golden ceremonies that solemnised the visit of the Tsar of All the Russias. Very remarkable, too, the State speeches delivered by the President of the Republic and the King of England in the banqueting-hall of the Élysée. Both speeches of unusual length: the old, banal, stilted phrases superseded by a note of eloquent and vigorous sincerity.

As a matter of fact, the reception of his son has excited even higher and livelier enthusiasm than did the official visit of King Edward the Seventh—because he _is_ his son: because, since the year 1904, the _entente cordiale_ has matured and strengthened. At all events, unprecedented things have happened. Until to-day, the French newspapers could scarcely contrive to publish an English word, or name, or sentence without misspelling, mangling or otherwise distorting it. Our Prime Minister used to be “Sir Askit,” whilst our ex-Home Secretary, Mr “Winsy Churkil,” was frequently and severally described as Chief of the Police and—Prefect of the Thames. Vanished, to-day, all those inexactitudes and incoherencies of recent times. Before me, almost surrounding me, spread and bulge a mass of French newspapers of all opinions. But every one of them has become “correct,” impeccable in its English, and right across the top of the front page of _Gil Blas_, in gigantic characters, the familiar, cordial invitation:

“Shake hands, King George.”

XV

AT THE ÉLYSÉE. MESSIEURS LES PRÉSIDENTS

1. M. LOUBET AND PAUL DÉROULÈDE

On 16th February 1899, President Faure (known familiarly and gaily in Paris as “Félix”) died suddenly. Two days later the Upper and Lower Chambers, solemnly assembled at Versailles, proclaimed M. Émile Loubet his successor. And now, after seven years in the Élysée, M. Loubet makes way for the eighth President of the Third French Republic and retires into a tranquil, simple _appartement_.

Seven years ago! But it seems only yesterday that I found myself, one cold, misty afternoon, before the St-Lazare station, where the newly elected President was to arrive. I was eager to witness his début in Paris as Chief of the State. Eager, too, to “receive him” were thousands of Parisians.

But as I surveyed the dense, excited crowd, I gathered at a glance that the reception it reserved for M. Loubet was to be very far from friendly. Here, there and everywhere chattered and whispered the followers of MM. Edouard Drumont, Lucien Millevoye, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin. In full force, too, were the paid hirelings of those notorious agitators; collarless, shabby, unshaven fellows, “Messieurs les Quarante-Sous.” And present again was the “Emperor of the Camelots,” a striking-looking man with long hair, bold, brilliant eyes and a humorous expression; not only the composer and seller of “topical” songs, not only the indefatigable electioneering agent and the ironical pamphleteer, but the ingenious, the illustrious, the incomparable organiser of “popular demonstrations.”

Often did agitators say to the “Emperor”: “I want So-and-so hissed,” or “I want So-and-so cheered.” Obligingly and genially the “Emperor” replied: “Nothing is easier.” And in truth, the operation was simple. The agitator provided the money: and the “Emperor” called together a fine army of manifestants.

Thus the crowd before the St-Lazare station looked threatening on that memorable winter’s afternoon. Of course those garrulous, gesticulating bodies, the “Ligue de la Patrie Française” and M. Paul Déroulède’s “League of the Patriots,” were strongly represented. Inevitably, too, the little, nervous, impetuous policemen of Paris figured conspicuously in the scene. And everyone was restless, everyone was impatient, save the “Emperor of the Camelots,” who, making his way urbanely and imperturbably through the crowd, occasionally spoke a word to his subjects, his army: the shabby, unshaven fellows, Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. No doubt he was asking them whether their voices were in good condition, and whether their whistles were handy. And most probably he was instructing them how to keep out of the clutches of the alert, watchful police.

“À bas Loubet!”

The cry came from the interior of the station. No sooner had it been uttered than the crowd excitedly exclaimed: “He has arrived.”

And then, what a din of shouting, of hissing, of hooting! And then, what a blowing of shrill, piercing whistles! And then, as the Presidential carriage drove away (with M. Loubet seated by the window, pale, grave, dignified, venerable), what a hoarse, violent uproar of “À bas Loubet!” and “Mort aux traîtres!” and “Panama! Panama! Panama!”[9] Not one hat raised to him. Not one cheer given him. Not one courtesy paid him. It was to the ear-splitting notes of whistles, it was to a chorus of calumny and abuse, it was in the midst of a howling, hostile mob, that the new Chief of the State made his début in Paris.

What, it may be asked, was the reason of M. Loubet’s unpopularity? Well, the Dreyfus days had begun: those wild, frenzied days of feuds, duels and hatreds; of frauds, riots and conspiracies, when Parisians allowed themselves to be governed and blinded by their passions and prejudices. M. Loubet was notoriously in favour of granting the unhappy prisoner on the Devil’s Island a new trial. Paris, on the other hand, misled, intimidated, deceived by the Nationalists, was Anti-Dreyfusard. And hence the tempestuous reception—at once spontaneous and “organised”—accorded the new President on his return from Versailles.

However, in the present paper, it is not my intention to examine the political situation in France during the tumultuous winter, summer and autumn of 1899. My aim is to portray certain scenes and to record certain incidents which may convey an idea of the state of Paris in that epoch, and of her attitude towards M. Loubet. And here let me return without further ado to the crowd before the St-Lazare station, where, after the President’s departure, there appeared yet another amazing agitator in the person of M. Déroulède.

He has been likened to—Don Quixote. And it has also been good-humouredly agreed that in his devoted lieutenant, M. Marcel Habert, he possesses an admirable Sancho Panza. For M. Déroulède is an _exalté_. M. Déroulède is extravagant, theatrical, often absurd: yet with a noble sincerity in him and an attachment to the idea. And as he stood in the thick of the St-Lazare crowd, with his official Deputy’s sash, with his decoration in his button-hole, with fire in his eye, with a flush on his cheeks and with burning “patriotic” utterances on his lips—as he stood there haranguing and gesticulating, M. Paul Déroulède held everyone’s attention. At that moment, he was passionately inviting his hearers to follow him to Joan of Arc’s statue, there to hold a “patriotic” demonstration. Often, he made such a pilgrimage. Often, too, he made pilgrimages to the Strasbourg monument on the Place de la Concorde: and to the cemeteries where rest the “heroic victims” of Germany. There were many who laughed at him, but his courage and honesty no one, not even his adversaries, doubted. He had fought valiantly in the Franco-Prussian War, and ever since that appalling campaign he had looked after the interests of the scrubby little soldier—_le pioupiou_—and composed songs and poems in his honour. “Vive l’Armée!” and “Vive la France!” were the eternal, emotional cries of M. Déroulède. At his bidding, Paris echoed those cries. And Paris also “supported” him enthusiastically when he made his pilgrimages to the Place de la Concorde, and the cemeteries, and Joan of Arc’s statue; for in what is essential and fine in him, his noble sincerity and devotion to the idea, even when in the wrong, M. Déroulède stands as the outward and visible type of a quality that belongs to the soul and the genius of France.

Well, upon the present occasion, M. Déroulède’s audience was particularly responsive. “Then follow me!” he shouted triumphantly. And so, behold him leading a long, animated procession from the St-Lazare station to the rue de Rivoli. And behold him again, a few minutes later, standing against the railing that encircles “La Pucelle” astride of her horse. And behold his followers—hundreds of them—closely surrounding him, and the police—scores of them—ready to “charge” the crowd at the first outbreak of disorder. But M. Déroulède, unlike the Anti-Semitic Jules Guérin, was no lover of brawls. He wished only to “defend” the “honour of the Army” (which, by the way, had never been assailed). He desired only to point out that France was governed by a number of men who dreamt day and night, dreamt night and day, dreamt always and always of “selling their country to the enemy.” Ah, these abominable, these infamous traitors! Even as he, Paul Déroulède, stood there, at the foot of Joan of Arc’s statue, this sinister, this diabolical Government was plotting the “réhabilitation” of a man—no, a scoundrel—convicted by his own colleagues of treason.

“Citizens, our France, our beloved France, is in danger. Citizens, do your duty. Citizens, drive away the traitors who govern you. Citizens, show your execration of these traitors by crying with me: “Vive l’Armée!” “Vive la France!” “Vive la patrie!”

And again the crowd was responsive. This time, indeed, there were shouts of “Vive Déroulède!” Parisians came running up from neighbouring streets, so that the crowd grew and expanded. On the tops of the omnibuses passengers cheered encouragingly. At every window and on every doorstep stood spectators. In fine, much animation around Joan of Arc’s statue.

“En avant!” cried, martially, our Don Quixote. Warned by the police to be “prudent,” he replied that he was a “patriot,” and hotly demanded that his Deputy’s sash should be respected. Then, placing himself at the head of his followers, he led them triumphantly towards the _grands boulevards_. Again, “patriotic” cries. Again, fierce denunciations of the “Government of Traitors.”

And, in M. Déroulède’s organ, _Le Drapeau_, next morning, what an exultant account of M. Loubet’s tempestuous début in Paris, and what a glowing recital of the “grandiose” and “glorious” manifestation held at the foot of Joan of Arc’s gilded statue.

After this we had daily, almost hourly, manifestations. Very _affairé_, but always urbane and imperturbable, was the “Emperor of the Camelots.” Very active and zealous were Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. And very garrulous, excited and nervous were the Parisians. In cafés they emotionally agreed that the situation was “grave.” In cafés, also, they whispered of plots against the President and the Republic—sensational plots that greatly agitated the Chief of the Police. Yes, M. Lépine was alarmed; M. Lépine had lost his appetite; M. Lépine could not rest at night for thinking of the shoals and shoals of conspirators then present in Paris. A veritable plague of conspirators!

Here, there and everywhere, a conspirator. Who knew: perhaps one’s very neighbour in cafés, trains, omnibuses and trams was a dangerous conspirator? And so, when we spoke of conspirators and conspiracies, we lowered our voices and glanced apprehensively over our shoulders, and were altogether very uneasy, suspicious and mysterious. Heavens, what rumours! And mercy, what an effervescence! Now it was the “agents” of the Bonapartists who were “active.” Anon it was the Orleanists who were “at work.” Next it was the Clericals who were conspiring. And, finally, it was the Militarists, who had actually appointed the day and the hour when they would give a Dictator to France. Already it had been arranged that the Dictator should appear in Paris on a splendid black charger, surrounded by a brilliant, dashing staff. And the Dictator, from his saddle, was eloquently to address the populace. And when the Dictator spoke the sacred name “France,” he was to draw and flourish his sword. And the brilliant staff was to cheer. And the dashing staff was to cry—— No matter: the approaching arrival in Paris of the Dictator and retinue was a secret; only whispered timidly and fearfully amongst us when we felt ourselves secure from conspiring eavesdroppers. Such was the gossip; such was the nervousness. Little wonder, then, that the Chief of the Police passed restless, unhappy nights. Never a moment’s peace, never a moment’s leisure for poor M. Lépine. All around him, conspirators. And before him, at the same time, the task of making preparations for M. Félix Faure’s funeral, which was to be solemn, imposing and magnificent.

And magnificent it was. Almost interminable was the procession that left the Élysée for Notre Dame, to the tragic strains of Chopin’s _Funeral March_. All along the route, soldiers and policemen. And behind the soldiers and policemen, the people of Paris—men, women and even children—who murmured their admiration at the plumes, at the flowers and at the brilliant uniforms in the cortège. Each foreign Power was imposingly represented. But most imposing of them all were the Emperor William’s envoys: three Prussian officers, veritable giants. Then, mourners from the French Army; mourners from the Chambers; mourners from the Corps Diplomatique; mourners from the Academy and Institute; mourners from every distinguished official, social and artistic sphere. And at the head of all these grand mourners the homely, plainly dressed figure of M. Émile Loubet.

However, one mourner was missing: a friend of the late M. Faure: none other than M. Paul Déroulède. And yet he had deeply deplored the death of the late President, and fiercely denounced the advent of his successor.

But—M. Déroulède was busy. Think: at that moment the Élysée had no master. So, what an opportunity. And as the funeral procession proceeded slowly and solemnly from Notre Dame to the cemetery, M. Déroulède might have been seen in a distant quarter of Paris with his hand on the bridle of General Roget’s horse.

“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.”

Only think of it. There was General Roget with soldiers under his command, who would follow him wherever he led them. And the Élysée—practically—was empty. And thus it was the moment of moments to achieve a brilliant _coup d’état_.

“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.”

But General Roget refused to turn his horse’s head in the direction of the Élysée. He preferred to return to the barracks with his men, and therefore begged M. Déroulède to release his hold of the bridle.

_Manqué_, M. Déroulède’s conspiracy. In vain, his tremendous _coup d’état_. Behold our Don Quixote and his devoted Sancho Panza, in dismay and despair. Behold them some time later on their trial for conspiracy. But behold them acquitted by the jury amidst a scene of the wildest enthusiasm. And hear the joyous, triumphant proclamations that their acquittal was yet another bitter humiliation for M. Loubet.

What insults and what calumnies followed! Every Nationalist organ began a fierce campaign against M. Loubet, accused him of corruption, of every conceivable meanness and crime, and exultantly related how his name was constantly being _conspué_ in Paris. Since it was “seditious” to cry “À bas Loubet,” they cried “Vive l’Armée!” and “Mort aux traîtres,” which M. Lucien Millevoye, Édouard Drumont, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin declared to be the same thing.

Those were the only cries that greeted M. Loubet when he drove out in the Presidential carriage—pale, grave, dignified, venerable. From his native place, the village of Montélimar, came a message imploring him to resign. More hissing and hooting in the streets, but always a calm smile on the President’s kindly face; always that determined, imperturbable expression.

Other “incidents”? Well, for months there was incident after incident: and when Émile Loubet drove to the Longchamps Races surrounded by cavalry, it was stated that he feared assassination. At Longchamps up rushed an elegant young aristocrat with a stick in his hand, and the stick was aimed at the President’s head. It only smashed the President’s hat: but the Nationalists rejoiced. And the elegant young aristocrat was regarded as a hero, and caricaturists always portrayed Émile Loubet with his hat smashed over his head. Came another message from Montélimar, inviting him to accept the public verdict: but came, also, messages of sympathy and esteem from all the Courts in Europe.

And here, passing over other incidents, let me arrive at once at the day when the man in the street began to admire Émile Loubet’s patience, tact, determination, and when he was delighted at the calm, kindly smile; and when—day of days—he said: “Ce bon Loubet,” and then—moment of moments—cried, “Vive Loubet.” A change, a change! Through the streets drove the President, saluting, saluted. Parisians rejoiced to learn that the Tsar had a veritable affection for Émile Loubet, and Parisians were pleased to see him drive across Paris with the King of England, chatting, smiling, laughing. Cordial the shouts of “Vive Loubet.” Cordial the newspaper appreciations of Émile Loubet. And the streets lined to see him take train to London.

In London, scores of journalists accompanying him, and also scores of _camelots_. Yes, real Paris _camelots_ in Soho, and in the public-houses and little restaurants of Soho, the _camelots_ loud in their praises of Émile Loubet.

Here, there and everywhere the motto: “Entente Cordiale.”

I remember the King of the Camelots telling me in Soho that he and his men had taken a great fancy to Englishmen.

His appreciation was worth having, for he was no enthusiast. Indeed, he had done a great trade some time ago in Anti-English caricatures, toys and post cards. He drank to the _entente_ in a bottle of Bass. He vowed that Bass was better than _bock_. He paid tributes to roast beef, apple tart and kippers; indeed, regretted with veritable emotion that there were no kippers in France. So kind and affable and flattering was the King of the Camelots that I could write of him for hours. However, I must leave him on the kerbstone in Holborn, shouting: “Vive Loubet,” and waving his hat and receiving (so, at least, he declared afterwards) a special salute from the smiling, delighted President.

Everyone charmed with Émile Loubet, and Émile Loubet charmed with everything. Of course, King and President held little private conversations; it is certain that Lord Lansdowne and M. Delcassé met often and talked long.

Then, Paris again—and crowds in the street once more to shout: “Vive Loubet.” Heavens, what a change since the February afternoon four years ago! To-day, nothing but sympathy and esteem for the President, part author of the Anglo-French Agreement. To-day, nothing but sincere pleasure at the Agreement, which brings together two naturally friendly and sympathetic countries. “Perhaps the most important Treaty ever signed in time of peace,” said an enthusiastic Parisian to me. And then, with equal enthusiasm: “Vive Loubet!”

[9] M. Loubet was Premier and Minister of the Interior at the time of the exposure of the Panama scandal. In November, 1892, he was forced to resign, but retained his post of Minister of the Interior under M. Ribot, the new Premier. Two months later, disgusted by the calumnies of their adversaries in the Chamber, both M. Loubet and his colleague M. de Freycinet (Minister of War) retired.

2. M. ARMAND FALLIÈRES. MOROCCO AND THE FLOODS

A day or two ago, in the Presidential palace of the Élysée, M. Armand Fallières celebrated his seventy-second birthday. I do not know whether there were gifts, flowers, a birthday cake, champagne and speeches: but, according to an incorrigible gossip in a boulevard newspaper, M. le Président stated that this was the blithest birthday he had known for seven years. “I breathe again,” he is reported to have said. “This time next year, I shall pass my anniversary, not in a frock coat and varnished boots, but in a dressing-gown and carpet slippers.”