Chapter 1: 2.iv

Maurepas.

But now, among French hopes, is not that of old M. de Maurepas
one of the best-grounded; who hopes that he, by dexterity, shall
contrive to continue Minister? Nimble old man, who for all
emergencies has his light jest; and ever in the worst confusion
will emerge, cork-like, unsunk! Small care to him is
Perfectibility, Progress of the Species, and _Astræa Redux:_ good
only, that a man of light wit, verging towards fourscore, can in
the seat of authority feel himself important among men. Shall we
call him, as haughty Châteauroux was wont of old, “_M. Faquinet_
(Diminutive of Scoundrel)”? In courtier dialect, he is now named
“the Nestor of France;” such governing Nestor as France has.

At bottom, nevertheless, it might puzzle one to say where the
Government of France, in these days, specially is. In that
Château of Versailles, we have Nestor, King, Queen, ministers and
clerks, with paper-bundles tied in tape: but the Government? For
Government is a thing that _governs_, that guides; and if need
be, compels. Visible in France there is not such a thing.
Invisible, inorganic, on the other hand, there is: in Philosophe
saloons, in Œil-de-Bœuf galleries; in the tongue of the babbler,
in the pen of the pamphleteer. Her Majesty appearing at the Opera
is applauded; she returns all radiant with joy. Anon the
applauses wax fainter, or threaten to cease; she is heavy of
heart, the light of her face has fled. Is Sovereignty some poor
Montgolfier; which, blown into by the popular wind, grows great
and mounts; or sinks flaccid, if the wind be withdrawn? France
was long a “Despotism tempered by Epigrams;” and now, it would
seem, the Epigrams have get the upper hand.

Happy were a young “Louis the Desired” to make France happy; if
it did not prove too troublesome, and he only knew the way. But
there is endless discrepancy round him; so many claims and
clamours; a mere confusion of tongues. Not reconcilable by man;
not manageable, suppressible, save by some strongest and wisest
men;—which only a lightly-jesting lightly-gyrating M. de Maurepas
can so much as subsist amidst. Philosophism claims her new Era,
meaning thereby innumerable things. And claims it in no faint
voice; for France at large, hitherto mute, is now beginning to
speak also; and speaks in that same sense. A huge, many-toned
sound; distant, yet not unimpressive. On the other hand, the
Œil-de-Bœuf, which, as nearest, one can hear best, claims with
shrill vehemence that the Monarchy be as heretofore a Horn of
Plenty; wherefrom loyal courtiers may draw,—to the just support
of the throne. Let Liberalism and a New Era, if such is the wish,
be introduced; only no curtailment of the royal moneys? Which
latter condition, alas, is precisely the impossible one.

Philosophism, as we saw, has got her Turgot made
Controller-General; and there shall be endless reformation.
Unhappily this Turgot could continue only twenty months. With a
miraculous _Fortunatus’ Purse_ in his Treasury, it might have
lasted longer; with such Purse indeed, every French
Controller-General, that would prosper in these days, ought first
to provide himself. But here again may we not remark the bounty
of Nature in regard to Hope? Man after man advances confident to
the Augean Stable, as if _he_ could clean it; expends his little
fraction of an ability on it, with such cheerfulness; does, in so
far as he was honest, accomplish something. Turgot has faculties;
honesty, insight, heroic volition; but the Fortunatus’ Purse he
has not. Sanguine Controller-General! a whole pacific French
Revolution may stand schemed in the head of the thinker; but who
shall pay the unspeakable “indemnities” that will be needed?
Alas, far from that: on the very threshold of the business, he
proposes that the Clergy, the Noblesse, the very Parlements be
subjected to taxes! One shriek of indignation and astonishment
reverberates through all the Château galleries; M. de Maurepas
has to gyrate: the poor King, who had written few weeks ago, “_Il
n’y a que vous et moi qui aimions le peuple_ (There is none but
you and I that has the people’s interest at heart),” must write
now a dismissal;[32] and let the French Revolution accomplish
itself, pacifically or not, as it can.

Hope, then, is deferred? Deferred; not destroyed, or abated. Is
not this, for example, our Patriarch Voltaire, after long years
of absence, revisiting Paris? With face shrivelled to nothing;
with “huge peruke _à la Louis Quatorze_, which leaves only two
eyes ‘visible’ glittering like carbuncles,” the old man is
here.[33] What an outburst! Sneering Paris has suddenly grown
reverent; devotional with Hero-worship. Nobles have disguised
themselves as tavern-waiters to obtain sight of him: the
loveliest of France would lay their hair beneath his feet. “His
chariot is the nucleus of a comet; whose train fills whole
streets:” they crown him in the theatre, with immortal vivats;
“finally stifle him under roses,”—for old Richelieu recommended
opium in such state of the nerves, and the excessive Patriarch
took too much. Her Majesty herself had some thought of sending
for him; but was dissuaded. Let Majesty consider it,
nevertheless. The purport of this man’s existence has been to
wither up and annihilate all whereon Majesty and Worship for the
present rests: and is it _so_ that the world recognises him? With
Apotheosis; as its Prophet and Speaker, who has spoken wisely the
thing it longed to say? Add only, that the body of this same
rose-stifled, beatified-Patriarch cannot get buried except by
stealth. It is wholly a notable business; and France, without
doubt, is _big_ (what the Germans call “Of good Hope”): we shall
wish her a happy birth-hour, and blessed fruit.

Beaumarchais too has now winded-up his Law-Pleadings
(_Mémoires_);[34] not without result, to himself and to the
world. Caron Beaumarchais (or de Beaumarchais, for he got
ennobled) had been born poor, but aspiring, esurient; with
talents, audacity, adroitness; above all, with the talent for
intrigue: a lean, but also a tough, indomitable man. Fortune and
dexterity brought him to the harpsichord of Mesdames, our good
Princesses _Loque, Graille_ and Sisterhood. Still better, Paris
Duvernier, the Court-Banker, honoured him with some confidence;
to the length even of transactions in cash. Which confidence,
however, Duvernier’s Heir, a person of quality, would not
continue. Quite otherwise; there springs a Lawsuit from it:
wherein tough Beaumarchais, losing both money and repute, is, in
the opinion of Judge-Reporter Goezman, of the Parlement Maupeou,
of a whole indifferent acquiescing world, miserably beaten. In
all men’s opinions, only not in his own! Inspired by the
indignation, which makes, if not verses, satirical law-papers,
the withered Music-master, with a desperate heroism, takes up his
lost cause in spite of the world; fights for it, against
Reporters, Parlements and Principalities, with light banter, with
clear logic; adroitly, with an inexhaustible toughness and
resource, like the skilfullest fencer; on whom, so skilful is he,
the whole world now looks. Three long years it lasts; with
wavering fortune. In fine, after labours comparable to the Twelve
of Hercules, our unconquerable Caron triumphs; regains his
Lawsuit and Lawsuits; strips Reporter Goezman of the judicial
ermine; covering him with a perpetual garment of obloquy
instead:—and in regard to the Parlement Maupeou (which he has
helped to extinguish), to Parlements of all kinds, and to French
Justice generally, gives rise to endless reflections in the minds
of men. Thus has Beaumarchais, like a lean French Hercules,
ventured down, driven by destiny, into the Nether Kingdoms; and
victoriously tamed hell-dogs there. He also is henceforth among
the notabilities of his generation.