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diff --git a/old/63522-h/63522-h.htm b/old/63522-h/63522-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index f24bd47..0000000 --- a/old/63522-h/63522-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11559 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> -<head> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> -<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Amazing City, by John Frederick Macdonald</title> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<style type="text/css"> - -a { - text-decoration: none; -} - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -h1,h2,h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -h2.nobreak { - page-break-before: avoid; -} - -hr { - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - clear: both; - width: 65%; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; -} - -div.chapter { - page-break-before: always; -} - -p { - margin-top: 0.5em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - text-indent: 1em; -} - -table { - margin: 1em auto 1em auto; - max-width: 35em; - border-collapse: collapse; -} - -td { - padding-left: 1.25em; - padding-right: 0.25em; - vertical-align: top; - text-indent: -1em; - text-align: justify; -} - -td.h3 { - padding-left: 3em; -} - -.tdr { - text-align: right; -} - -.tdpg { - vertical-align: bottom; - text-align: right; -} - -.blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 10%; -} - -.center { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.footnotes { - margin-top: 1em; - border: dashed 1px; -} - -.footnote { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; - font-size: 0.9em; -} - -.footnote .label { - position: absolute; - right: 84%; - text-align: right; -} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: none; -} - -.larger { - font-size: 150%; -} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - right: 4%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; -} - -.poetry-container { - text-align: center; - margin: 1em; -} - -.poetry { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; -} - -.poetry .stanza { - margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; -} - -.poetry .verse { - padding-left: 3em; -} - -.poetry .speaker { - text-align: center; - padding-bottom: 0.5em; -} - -.poetry .indent0 { - text-indent: -3em; -} - -.poetry .indent2 { - text-indent: -2em; -} - -.poetry .indent4 { - text-indent: -1em; -} - -.poetry .indent16 { - text-indent: 5em; -} - -.poetry .indent24 { - text-indent: 9em; -} - -.poetry .indent38 { - text-indent: 16em; -} - -.right { - text-align: right; -} - -.smaller { - font-size: 80%; -} - -.smcap { - font-variant: small-caps; - font-style: normal; -} - -.titlepage { - text-align: center; - margin-top: 3em; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -@media handheld { - -img { - max-width: 100%; - width: auto; - height: auto; -} - -.poetry { - display: block; - margin-left: 1.5em; -} - -.blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 5%; -} -} - - - h1.pgx { text-align: center; - clear: both; - font-weight: bold; - font-size: 190%; - margin-top: 0em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - word-spacing: 0em; - letter-spacing: 0em; - line-height: 1; } - h2.pgx { text-align: center; - clear: both; - font-weight: bold; - font-size: 135%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - word-spacing: 0em; - letter-spacing: 0em; - page-break-before: avoid; - line-height: 1; } - h3.pgx { text-align: center; - clear: both; - font-weight: bold; - font-size: 110%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - word-spacing: 0em; - letter-spacing: 0em; - line-height: 1; } - h4.pgx { text-align: center; - clear: both; - font-weight: bold; - font-size: 100%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - word-spacing: 0em; - letter-spacing: 0em; - line-height: 1; } - hr.pgx { width: 100%; - margin-top: 3em; - margin-bottom: 0em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - height: 4px; - border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ - border-style: solid; - border-color: #000000; - clear: both; } - </style> -</head> -<body> -<h1 class="pgx" title="">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Amazing City, by John Frederick Macdonald</h1> -<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: The Amazing City</p> -<p>Author: John Frederick Macdonald</p> -<p>Release Date: October 21, 2020 [eBook #63522]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMAZING CITY***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4 class="pgx" title="">E-text prepared by MFR<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org">https://archive.org</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff; max-width: 80%; margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/amazingcity00macd"> - https://archive.org/details/amazingcity00macd</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> - -<h1>THE AMAZING CITY</h1> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker">LA FAISANE</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Mais tous ces objets sont pauvres et moroses!</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker">CHANTECLER</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Moi, je n’en reviens pas du luxe de ces choses!</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker">LA FAISANE</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Tout est toujours pareil, pourtant!</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker">CHANTECLER</div> - <div class="verse indent38"><i>Rien n’est pareil,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Jamais, sous le soleil, à cause du soleil!</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Car Elle change tout!</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker">LA FAISANE</div> - <div class="verse indent24"><i>Elle... Qui?</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker">CHANTECLER</div> - <div class="verse indent38"><i>La lumière!...</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker">LA FAISANE</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Alors tout le secret de ton chant?...</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker">CHANTECLER</div> - <div class="verse indent38"><i>C’est que j’ose</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Avoir peur que sans moi, l’orient se repose!...</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Je pense à la lumière et non pas à la gloire.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Chanter, c’est ma façon de me battre et de croire.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Et si de tous les chants le mien est le plus fier,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>C’est que je chante clair, afin qu’il fasse clair.</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Rostand</span>: Chantecler.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage larger"><span class="smaller">THE</span><br /> -AMAZING CITY</p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -JOHN F. MACDONALD</p> - -<p class="center smaller">AUTHOR OF<br /> -“PARIS OF THE PARISIANS”<br /> -“TWO TOWNS—ONE CITY” ETC.</p> - -<div class="figcenter titlepage" style="width: 50px;"> -<img src="images/leaf.jpg" width="50" height="55" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">LONDON</span><br /> -GRANT RICHARDS LTD.<br /> -<span class="smaller">ST MARTIN’S STREET</span><br /> -MDCCCCXVIII</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller">PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED<br /> -EDINBURGH</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> - -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td colspan="2"></td> - <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td colspan="2">PREFACE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#PREFACE">7</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">I.</td> - <td colspan="2">IN THE STREET</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#I">19</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">II.</td> - <td colspan="2">IN A CELLAR</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#II">31</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">III.</td> - <td colspan="2">IN A MARKET-PLACE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#III">38</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">IV.</td> - <td colspan="2">BOURGEOISIE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#IV">47</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">1.</td> - <td>M. DURAND AT MARIE-LE-BOIS</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">2.</td> - <td>PENSION DE FAMILLE. THE BEAUTIFUL MADEMOISELLE MARIE, WHO LOVED GAMBETTA</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">3.</td> - <td>PENSION DE FAMILLE. FRENCH AND PIANO LESSONS. LES SAINTES FILLES, MESDEMOISELLES PÉRIVIER</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">4.</td> - <td>THE AFFAIR OF THE COLLARS</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">V.</td> - <td colspan="2">ON STRIKE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#V">69</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">1.</td> - <td>WHEN IT WAS DARK IN PARIS</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">2.</td> - <td>BIRDS OF THE STATE AT THE POST OFFICE</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">3.</td> - <td>AFTER THE STORM AT VILLENEUVE-ST-GEORGES</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">VI.</td> - <td colspan="2">COTTIN & COMPANY</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#VI">84</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">VII.</td> - <td colspan="2">THE LATIN QUARTER</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#VII">92</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">1.</td> - <td>MÈRE CASIMIR</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">2.</td> - <td>GLOOM ON THE RIVE GAUCHE</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">3.</td> - <td>THE DAUGHTER OF THE STUDENTS</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">VIII.</td> - <td colspan="2">MONSIEUR LE ROUÉ</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#VIII">114</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">IX.</td> - <td colspan="2">FRENCH LIFE AND THE FRENCH STAGE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#IX">122</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">1.</td> - <td>M. PAUL BOURGET, THE REACTIONARY PLAYWRIGHT, AND M. PATAUD, WHO PUT OUT THE LIGHTS OF PARIS</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">2.</td> - <td>M. ALFRED CAPUS. “NOTRE JEUNESSE” AT THE FRANÇAISE</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">3.</td> - <td>M. BRIEUX, “LA DÉSERTEUSE,” AT THE ODÉON</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">4.</td> - <td>PARIS, M. EDMOND ROSTAND, AND “CHANTECLER”</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">X.</td> - <td colspan="2">AFTER “CHANTECLER”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#X">187</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">XI.</td> - <td colspan="2">AU COURS D’ASSISES. PARIS AND MADAME STEINHEIL</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XI">192</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">XII.</td> - <td colspan="2">THE LATE JULES GUÉRIN AND THE DEFENCE OF FORT CHABROL</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XII">216</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">XIII.</td> - <td colspan="2">DEATH OF HENRI ROCHEFORT</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XIII">235</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">XIV.</td> - <td colspan="2">ROYAL VISITS TO PARIS</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XIV">246</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">XV.</td> - <td colspan="2">AT THE ÉLYSÉE. MESSIEURS LES PRÉSIDENTS</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XV">260</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">1.</td> - <td>M. LOUBET AND PAUL DÉROULÈDE</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">2.</td> - <td>M. ARMAND FALLIÈRES. MOROCCO AND THE FLOODS</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdr h3">3.</td> - <td>M. RAYMOND POINCARÉ AND THE RECORD OF M. LÉPINE</td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">XVI.</td> - <td colspan="2">MADAME LA PRÉSIDENTE, M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU AND THE UNFORTUNATE M. PAMS</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XVI">296</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE">PREFACE</h2> - -</div> - -<p>This selection from the writings of the -late John F. Macdonald—between 1907 -and 1913—finds, naturally, and without -any arbitrary arrangement, its unity of character, -as the middle volume of the book, in three parts, -that it was this author’s ruling desire—rather -than his deliberate and predetermined purpose—to -spend many years in writing. The first -volume of this book was <i>Paris of the Parisians</i>, -the last was the posthumous volume recently -published, under the title of <i>Two Towns—One -City</i>. In order to convey a clear idea of the -motive and ruling method that give literary and -spiritual unity to this long book in three volumes, -which stands for the accomplished desire of a brief -life, let me quote the author’s own account of this -desire given in his Preface to <i>Paris of the Parisians</i>, -where, at twenty years of age, he described himself -as “a student of human life, still in his -humanities”:</p> - -<p>“The purpose of these sketches is not political -nor yet didactic. No charge is laid upon me to -teach the French nation its duties, to reprove it -for its follies. Nor yet is it my design to hold up -Paris of the Parisians as an example of naughtiness, -nor even of virtue, to English readers. A -student of human life still in my humanities, my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span> -purpose is purely interpretative. I would endeavour -to translate into English some Paris -scenes, in such a way as to give a true impression -of the movement, personages, sounds, colours and -atmosphere pervaded with joy of living which -belongs to them. These impressions which I -have myself received, and now desire to communicate, -are not the result of a general survey -of Paris taken from some lofty summit. I have -not looked down upon the capital of France from -the top of the Eiffel Tower; nor yet from the -terrace of the Sacré Cœur; nor yet from the -balcony among the <i>chimères</i> of Notre Dame; nor -yet from Napoleon’s column on the Place Vendôme; -nor yet from the Revolution’s monument -that celebrates the taking of the Bastille. No -doubt from these exalted places the town affords -an amazing spectacle. Domes rise in the distance -and steeples. Chimneys smoke; clouds hurry. -Up there the spectator has not only a fine bird’s-eye -view of beautiful Paris: he has a good throne -for historical recollections, for philosophical -reveries, for the development of political and -scientific theories also. But for the student of -to-day’s life, whose interest turns less to monuments -than to men, there is this drawback—seen -from this point of view the inhabitants of Paris -look pigmies. Far below him they pass and -repass: the bourgeois, the bohemian, the boulevardier, -all small, all restless, all active, all so -remote that one is not to be distinguished from -the other. Coming down from his tower the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> -philosopher may explore Paris from the tombs at -St Denis to the crypts of the Panthéon, from the -galleries of the Louvre to the shops in the Rue de -Rivoli, from the Opera and Odéon to the Moulin -Rouge and sham horrors of the cabarets of Montmartre—leaving -Paris from the Gare du Nord he -may look back at the white city under the blue -sky with mingled regret and satisfaction—regret -for the instructive days he has spent with her, -satisfaction in that he knows her every stone; -and yet, when some hours later in mid-Channel -the coasts of France grow dim, he may leave -behind him an undiscovered Paris—not monumental -Paris, not political Paris, not Baedeker’s -Paris, not profligate Paris, not fashionable cosmopolitan -Paris of the Right Bank, not Bohemian -Anglo-American Paris of the Left Bank, but Paris -as she knows herself—Paris of the Parisians.</p> - -<p>“Virtues of which the mere foreign spectator -has no notion are to be found in Paris of the -Parisians. And the Parisian does not conceal -them through <i>mauvaise honte</i>. Love of Nature, -love of children, both absorb him; how regularly -does he hurry into the country to sprawl on the -grass, lunch by a lake, stare at the sunset, the -stars and the moon; how frequently he admires -the view from his window, the Jardin du Luxembourg -and the Seine; how invariably he spoils his -<i>gosse</i> or another’s <i>gosse</i>, anybody’s <i>gosse</i>, infant, -boy or girl! He will go to the Luxembourg -merely to watch them. He likes to see them dig -and make queer patterns in the dust. He loves<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> -to hear them laugh at <i>guignol</i>, and is officiously -careful to see that they are securely strapped on -to the wooden horses. He does not mind their -hoops, and does not care a jot if their balls knock -his best hat off. He walks proudly behind -Jeanne and Edouard, on the day of their first -Communion, all over Paris; laughing as Jeanne -lifts her snow-white skirt and when Edouard, -ætat. 10, salutes a friend; and he worships -Jeanne, and thinks that there is no better son -in the world than Edouard, and he will tell you -so candidly and with earnestness over and over -again. ‘Ma fille Jeanne,’ ‘Mon fils Edouard,’ -‘Mes deux gosses,’ is his favourite way of introducing -the joy of his heart and the light of his -home. And then he knows how to live amiably, -and how to amuse himself pleasantly, and how to -put poorer people at their ease, as on fête days. -He will go to a State theatre on 14th July (when -the performance is free) and joke with the crowd -that waits patiently before its doors, and never -push, and never complain, and never think of -elbowing his way forward at the critical moment -to get in. He will admire the fireworks and illuminations -after, and dance at street corners without -ever uttering a word that is rude or making a -gesture that is rough. He will trifle with confetti -on Mardi Gras, and throw coloured rolls of paper -on to the boulevard trees. And he will laugh all -the time and joke all the time, and make Jeanne -happy and Edouard happy, and be happy himself, -until it is time to abandon the boulevards and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span> -go home. ‘La joie de vivre!’ Verily, the -Parisian studies, knows and appreciates it.</p> - -<p>“There is something else he appreciates also, -and reveres. And here especially we find that -his paternal affection for all children, his courtesy -and good-fellowship with all classes, his sense of -proprietorship and delight and pride in public -gardens do not indicate only a happy and amiable -disposition, but spring from a deeper sentiment. -He is sauntering on the boulevards, it may be, -with Edouard. The time is summer—there is -sunshine everywhere; the trees are in bloom, the -streets are full of movement and noise, <i>fiacres</i> -rattle, tram-horns sound, camelots cry, gamins -whistle. Suddenly there is a temporary lull. A -slow procession passes, a hearse buried in flowers; -mourners on foot follow, the near relatives, bareheaded, -walking two by two; after them come, it -may be, a long line of carriages; it may be, one -forlorn <i>fiacre</i>. It does not matter. For the -Parisian, a rich funeral or a poor one is never an -indifferent spectacle; never simply an unavoidable, -disagreeable interruption of traffic, to be got -out of sight, and out of the way of the busy world -as quickly as possible. Here is one of those -ordinary circumstances when the Parisian’s attention -to the courtesies of social life is the outward -and visible sign of his self-respecting humanity -and fraternal sympathy. His hat is off, and held -off—so is Edouard’s cap, so are the caps of even -younger children, for from the age of four upwards -each <i>gosse</i> knows what is due from him on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span> -such an occasion. <i>Cochers</i> are bareheaded, boulevard -loafers also; the bourgeois stops stirring his -absinthe to salute; many a woman crosses herself -and mutters a prayer. ‘Farewell!’ ‘God -bless thee!’ The kind and pious leave-taking -of the Parisian enjoying to-day’s sunshine to the -Parisian of yesterday whose place to-morrow will -know him no more, accompanies the procession -step by step on its way to the cemetery of Père -Lachaise or Montparnasse....</p> - -<p>“A kind critic of some of these sketches here -reproduced from <i>The Saturday Review</i> has said of -them that their tendency is to ‘counteract the -wrong-headed reports of French and English antipathies -by which two sympathetic neighbour-peoples -are being estranged and exasperated.’ If -this be true—and to some extent I hope it may -be—the result is surely all the more gratifying -because it does not proceed from any deliberate -effort on my part to serve that end, but, as I have -said, from my endeavour to convey to others the -impressions I have received. The immortal Chadband -may be said to have established the proposition -that if a householder, having upon his rambles -seen an eel, were to return home and say to the -wife of his bosom, ‘Rejoice with me, I have seen -an elephant,’ it would not be truth. It would -not be truth were I to say of the Jeunesse of the -Latin Quarter that it is callous and corrupt, or to -deny that beneath the madcap, frolicsome temper -of the hour can be felt the justness of mind and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> -openness to great ideas that will put a curb on -extravagance and give safe guidance by and by. -And again of Paul and Pierre’s little lady friends, -Mimi and Musette, mirth-loving, dance-loving -daughters of Mürger—it would not be truth were -I to report them in any sense wicked girls, or to -deny that taking them where they stand their -ways of feeling are straight though, no doubt, -their way of life may go a little zigzag. And of -Montmartre and her cabarets and <i>chansonniers</i>—it -would not be truth were I to say that only madness -and perversion reign in her cabarets, or to -deny that true poets and genuine artists may be -found amidst the false and hectic glitter of the -‘Butte.’ And of the man in the street who is -neither poet nor student, the average Parisian of -simply everyday life—it would not be truth were -I to repeat the hackneyed phrase that he would -overthrow the Republican Government to reinstate -a Monarchy, being a Royalist at heart. -True, storms rage about him; scandals break out -beside him; ministries fall; presidents pass—did -these storms and scandals represent Republican -principles it might be said with truth that he paid -them little heed. What is true, however, is that -the qualities and principles he takes his stand by -do not change or fall with ministries or pass with -presidents: cultivating still the art of living amiably, -rejoicing still over the beauties of his town, -and not merely rejoicing over them, but respecting -and protecting them, believing still, and with -reason, in the greatness of his country, he succeeds<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> -where his rulers often fail, not merely in professing, -but in practising the doctrine of liberty, -equality, fraternity.”</p> - -<p>The point of view from which the author of -<i>Paris of the Parisians</i> in 1900 studied French life -remained the same down to 1915, when he died. -Nor did he ever change his interpretative methods -into didactic or political ones. But it was inevitable -that, as years passed, fresh knowledge -and enlarged experience would come to the -student of French life who, at twenty, sought to -convey his impressions as he at that time received -them. His impressions were not altered, nor, as -a result of his increased knowledge of life, did -he ever become himself less appreciative of the -special virtues he discovered in the serious, as -well as in the joyous, sides of the French art of -living. On his own side, he remained to the end -of his life (as so many of his friends testify) the -same unworldly, joyous being, of profound and -tender sympathies, impatient of all rules and -systems save those that derive their authority -from human kindness. But as a result of his -inborn power of vision and gifts of observation -and expression, his impressions became more lucid -and were given greater force by the exceptional -opportunities he enjoyed. During his residence -in Paris, throughout the years when most of the -essays in criticism contained in this volume were -written, he was dramatic critic of French life and -the French stage for <i>The Fortnightly Review</i>, and -as Paris correspondent, given more or less a free<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> -hand by other leading periodicals to which he was -a contributor; so that he could direct his attention -to the study of many aspects of Parisian life not -exclusively bounded by political interests.</p> - -<p>Looking through the list of subjects dealt with -in these chapters, it will be seen that the criticism -of French life carried through by John F. Macdonald -(if by “criticism” we understand what -Matthew Arnold defined as “an impartial endeavour -to see the thing as in itself it really -is”) covered, from 1907 to 1913, nearly all -events in every domain of Parisian life during -this critical period.</p> - -<p>In other words, the present volume supplies the -evidence which not only confirms the impressions -that he sought to convey to his fellow-countrymen -in <i>Paris of the Parisians</i>, but it lends the -authority that belongs to a judgment founded -upon a right criticism to the sentence which I -may, in conclusion, quote from his article on the -“Paris of To-day,” originally published in <i>The -Fortnightly Review</i>, July, 1915, and reprinted (by -the editor’s kind permission) in his posthumous -book, <i>Two Towns—One City</i>.</p> - -<p>“It has been repeatedly and persistently asserted, -in hastily written articles and books, that the -war has created an entirely ‘new’ Paris. Journalists -and novelists have proclaimed themselves -astonished at the ‘calm’ and the ‘seriousness’ -of the Parisians, and at the ‘composed’ and -‘solemn’ aspect of every street, corner and stone -in the city; and how elaborately, how melodramatically<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span> -have they expatiated upon the abolition -of absinthe, the closing of night-restaurants, -the disappearance of elegant dresses, the silence -of the Apaches, the hush in the demi-monde, and -the increased congregations in the churches!</p> - -<p>“‘A new, reformed Paris,’ our critics reiterate. -‘The flippancy has vanished, the danger of decadence -has passed—and in place of extravagance and -hilarity we find economy, earnestness and dignity.’</p> - -<p>“Now, with these hastily conceived reflections -and criticisms I beg leave to disagree. It is not -a ‘new’ Paris that one beholds to-day, but -precisely the very Paris one would expect to see. -No city, at heart, is more serious, more earnest, -more alive to ideas and ideals: no other capital -in the world works so hard, creates so much, feels -so deeply, labours and battles so incessantly and -so consistently for the supreme cause of liberty, -justice and humanity. Crises, and shocks, and -scandals, if you like—but what generous reparations, -what glorious recoveries! Stifling cabarets, -lurid restaurants, rouge, and patchouli, and startling -deshabille, if you please; but all those -dissipations were provided for the particular -pleasure and well-filled purses of Messieurs les -Étrangers—at least twenty foreigners to one -Frenchman on the hectic hill of Montmartre; and -what a babel of English and American voices <i>chez</i> -Maxim, until five or six in the morning, when the -average Parisian was peacefully enjoying his last -hour’s sleep! The statues and monuments of -Paris, the free Sorbonne University, the quays of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span> -the Seine with their bookstalls, the incomparable -Comédie Française, the stately French Academy, -the Luxembourg Gardens, the Panthéon (with its -noble motto: ‘Aux Grands Hommes, la Patrie -Reconnaissante’), the Arc de Triomphe, Notre-Dame; -do these (and innumerable other) illustrious -institutions, so cherished by the Parisians, -appear compatible with ‘flippancy,’ ‘incoherency’ -and ‘the danger of decadence’? And the -profound, ardent patriotism of the Parisians—how -else could it have manifested itself save -in the noble, supreme spectacle of courage, determination -and self-sacrifice which we are witnessing -to-day? No; it is not a ‘new’ Paris, but -the very Paris one expected to see; hushed but -proud; stricken yet self-confident; wounded, even -stabbed to the heart after eleven months of war—but -heroic, indomitable”—the Amazing City—the -worthy capital of, as Mr Kipling says,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“the Land beloved by every soul that loves and serves its kind.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Before closing my preface to this Selection from -the sketches, essays and criticisms of Paris life, -under its picturesque, popular, literary and social -aspects that represents John F. Macdonald’s -interpretation of the spirit of the “Amazing -City,” between 1907 and 1914, I have to acknowledge -the kindness of the several Editors, to whom -these different articles were originally addressed; -and who have allowed me to reprint them in the -present volume. <i>The Roué</i>, <i>In a Cellar</i>, and <i>The -Affair of the Collars</i>, appeared originally in <i>The -Morning Post</i>. The three articles, <i>On Strike</i>, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span> -two pictures of the historical <i>Pension de Famille -in the Rue des Poitevins</i> (haunted by the memory -of Gambetta), and of the other <i>Pension de Famille -in the Shadow of St Sulpice</i>, saddened by the -memory of the pathetic story of the gentle and -pious old maids who died broken-hearted, as -victims of the Rochette swindle, appeared in <i>The -Morning Leader</i>, in the days before its association -with <i>The Daily News</i>. The series of short sketches -of French Presidents and Leading Statesmen, and -Personalities, who have helped to make, and are -still living influences in, French politics, were -contributed, later, to <i>The Daily News and Morning -Leader</i>. I have to thank the Editor of <i>The Contemporary -Review</i> for consenting to the reprinting -of the articles upon <i>Henri Rochefort</i> and <i>Royal -Visits to Paris</i>; and the Editor of <i>The Fortnightly -Review</i> for allowing me to reproduce from the -series of articles on <i>French Life and the French -Stage</i>, which appeared in this <i>Review</i> during several -years, three special criticisms, illustrative of the -typical French national “virtue,”—a fundamental -understanding of the essential duty of -man to be an intelligent and kindly human -being—applied to the correction and sweetening -of faulty rules of “Bohemian” morality and -bourgeois respectability; and lending high ideals -to what is generally described as the “realistic” -spirit of the modern French drama. The articles -descriptive of life in the Latin Quarter appeared -originally in <i>The Saturday Review</i>.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Frederika Macdonald.</span></p> - -<p class="smaller"><i>February 1918.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I<br /> -<span class="smaller">IN THE STREET</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>In my almost daily perambulations through -the brilliant, through the drab, and through -the ambiguous quarters of Paris, I constantly -come upon street scenes that bring me -inquisitively to a standstill. Not that they are -particularly novel or startling. Indeed, to the -Parisian they are such banal, everyday spectacles -that he passes them by without so much as a -glance. But for me, familiar though I am with -the physiognomy of the Amazing City, these street -scenes, amusing or pathetic, sentimental or grim, -possess an indefinable, a never-failing charm.</p> - -<p>For instance, I dote on a certain ragged, weather-beaten -old fellow who is always and always to be -discovered, on a boulevard bench, under a dim -gas-lamp, at the precise hour of eleven. Across -his knees—unfolded—a newspaper. And spread -forth on the newspaper, scores and scores of -cigarette ends and cigar stumps, which have been -industriously amassed in the streets, and on the -terraces of cafés, during the day. Every night, -on this same boulevard bench, at the same hour -of eleven, the old fellow counteth up his spoil.</p> - -<p>“Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven,” he mutters.</p> - -<p>“Eh bien, le vieux, how are affairs?” asks a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span> -policeman. But the old fellow, bent in half over -the newspaper, hears him not. When—O joy!—he -comes upon a particularly fine bit of cigar, he -holds it up to the gas-lamp, measures it closely -with his eye, then packs it carefully away in his -waistcoat pocket. But when—O gloom!—he has -a long run of bad luck in the way of wretched, -almost tobaccoless cigarette ends, he breaks out -into guttural expressions of indignation and disgust.</p> - -<p>The night wears on. Up go the shutters of -the little wine-shop opposite. Rarely a passer-by. -Scarcely a sound.</p> - -<p>“One hundred and two. One hundred and -three. One hundred and four,” counts the -weather-beaten old fellow under the gas-lamp.</p> - -<p>Then, the street singers of Paris, with harmonium, -violin and a bundle of tender, sentimental -songs. Four of them, as a rule; four men -in jerseys, scarlet waistbands and blue corduroy -trousers. They, too, come out particularly at -night and establish themselves under a gas-lamp. -And all around them stand charming, bareheaded -girls from the neighbouring <i>blanchisseries</i> and -milliners’ shops; and the adorers of those -maidens—young, amorous MM. Georges, Ernest -and Henri—from the grocer’s, the butcher’s, the -printer’s; and workmen and charwomen and -concierges; and probably a cabman or two, and -most likely a soldier, a lamp-lighter, a policeman.</p> - -<p>“<i>Love is Always in Season</i>, the latest and greatest -of valse-songs, created by the incomparable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> -Mayol,” announces the vocalist. A chord from -the harmonium and violin, and the singer, in a -not unmelodious voice, proceeds to assure us that -“though the snow may fall, or the skies may -frown, or the seas may roar, Love, sweet love, -is Always in Season.”</p> - -<p>General applause. Cries of “C’est chic, ça” -from the charming, bareheaded girls. Sighs and -sentimental glances from their faithful adorers.</p> - -<p>“Buy <i>Love is Always in Season</i>. Only two -sous, only two sous! The Greatest, the most -Exquisite valse-song of the day,” cries the vocalist, -holding up copies of the song. “Buy it at once, -and we will sing it all together.”</p> - -<p>At least twenty copies are sold. “Attention,” -cries the vocalist. And then, under the gas-lamp, -what a spectacle and what song! Everyone -sings; yes, even this huge, apoplectic cabman: -“Though the snow may fall....” Everyone -sings: the soldier, the workmen, the decrepit -old charwomen: “Though the skies may -frown....” Everyone sings: the very policeman’s -lips are moving. And how the charming, -bareheaded girls sing and sing; and how amorously, -how passionately do their adorers raise -their voices: “Though the seas may roar.... -What matter, what matter!... Since love, -sweet love, is always in season!”</p> - -<p>Of course children, with their lively, irresponsible -games, provide delightful street scenes. No -piano-organs, alas! to which they may dance. -We have but three or four piano-organs in Paris,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span> -and these play only in elegant quarters, for the -pleasure of portly, solemn butlers. However, -the children hold theatrical performances on the -pavement, which, if animated and dramatic, are -scarcely convincing; indeed they must be pronounced -bewildering, chaotic. René, aged six, -proclaims himself Napoleon; Jeanne, his sister, -declares herself Sarah Bernhardt; André strangely -states that he is an Aeroplane; others most incoherently -become a Horse, the President of the -Republic, Aunt Berthe, a Steamer on the Seine, -the Dog at the neighbouring chemist’s, and -(this, a favourite, amazing rôle) the Eiffel -Tower! Then, when the parts have been duly -selected, after no end of wrangling, then, the play! -Much extraordinary dialogue between Napoleon -and the divine Sarah; more between the Eiffel -Tower and the President of the Republic; still -more between the Aeroplane, the Seine Steamer -and Aunt Berthe. And then dancing and singing -and skipping and——</p> - -<p>Well, at once the most irresponsible and irresistible -street scene in Paris. Or, at least, second -only in irresponsibility to the fêtes of Mardi Gras -and Mi-Carême.</p> - -<p>Year after year, the cynic is to be heard -declaring that confetti has “gone out” and -that no one really rejoices at carnival time; -but year after year, when Mardi Gras and -Mi-Carême come round, confetti flies swiftly and -thickly and gaily in Paris, and only a rare, -elegant boulevardier, or some dull, heavy bourgeois<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span> -remains indifferent to the excitement of the -scene.</p> - -<p>Confetti, in fact, everywhere! Already at nine -o’clock this morning—blithe morning of Mardi -Gras—it has got on to my staircase, and from -thence into the dining-room and on to the breakfast-table. -Suddenly, confetti in my coffee. A -moment later, confetti on the butter. And when -I unfold the newspapers, a shower of confetti.</p> - -<p>“It is extraordinary,” I murmur to the servant.</p> - -<p>“Most certainly, confetti is extraordinary,” -she assents. “It goes where it pleases; it does -what it likes; it respects nobody and nothing—impossible -to stop it.”</p> - -<p>“And only nine o’clock in the morning,” I remark, -removing a new speck of confetti from the -butter.</p> - -<p>“At seven o’clock, when I went to Mass, it had -got into the church,” relates my servant. “It -was also in the sacristy when I went to see M. le -Curé. Truly, it is the most astonishing thing in -the world; and yet it is only a little bit of coloured -paper.”</p> - -<p>As time wears on the tradesmen’s assistants -bring more confetti into the house. Somehow or -other it enters my boots, and finds a resting-place -in my pockets. At luncheon, lots of confetti. At -dinner, pink, green, yellow, orange and purple -confetti with every course. And when at eight -o’clock I set forth to view the rejoicings on the -Grands Boulevards, my servant, leaning over the -banisters, impudently pelts me with confetti.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span></p> - -<p>A cold night and occasionally a shower—but -the boulevards are thronged with I don’t know -how many thousands of Parisians. Here, there -and everywhere electrical advertising signs dance -and blink dizzily. Each café is brilliantly illuminated. -More pale, fierce light from the street -lamps. And, heavens! what a din of voices, and -whistles, and musical instruments!</p> - -<p>“Who is without confetti? Who is without confetti?” -shout scores of men, women and children, -holding up long, bulky paper bags, supposed to -contain two pounds of the bright-coloured stuff. -And the bags sell and sell. And the little rounds -of paper fly and fly. And down they fall in their -hundreds of thousands on to the ground, making -it a soft, agreeable carpet of confetti.</p> - -<p>Of course, no traffic. In the midst of the crowd -groups of policemen; and the policemen are pelted, -and the policemen must shake confetti out of eyes, -and beards, and ears, and moustaches. However, -they are amiable; and, indeed, everyone is good-tempered. -No rudeness and no roughness. Here -is Edouard, aged eight, in the crowd—dressed as -a soldier, with a wooden gun and a paper helmet. -There is Yvonne, aged seven, in the throng—all -in white, with a wand tied at the top with a -huge creamy bow. And Edouard and Yvonne -are perfectly safe. And that old married couple—plainly -from the provinces—are entirely safe. -And——</p> - -<p>A splash of confetti in my face. Then, a deluge -of confetti over my hat. And I am pleased, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> -I am flattered; for my assailant is an English girl, -with blue eyes, and gold hair, and an incomparable -complexion.</p> - -<p>Despite the cold, every seat and every table on -the terraces of the cafés are occupied. Past the -terraces surges the crowd, casting confetti at the -glasses of beer, coffee and liqueurs, which the consumers -have carefully covered over with saucers. -But, always unconquerable, the confetti enters -the glasses; and thus one drinketh benedictine <i>à -la</i> confetti, and chartreuse <i>à la</i> confetti, and——</p> - -<p>“Who wants a nose? Who wants a nose?” -shouts a hawker, holding up a collection of long, -vivid red noses. And the red noses are bought; -and so, too, are false beards and moustaches, and -artificial eyebrows, and huge cardboard ears.</p> - -<p>Then, what costumes in the crowd! Of course, -any number of pierrots and clowns, who gesticulate -and grimace; and ladies in dominoes, and -men in heavy scarlet mantles and black masks. -Over there, an Arab; here, a Greek soldier in the -Albanian kilt—the picturesque “fustanella.” -And confetti—red, blue, yellow, green, white, -orange, purple—sprinkled over, and clinging to, -all these different costumes, and flying above them -and all around them, a fantastic spectacle!</p> - -<p>Confetti, again, in the fur coats of chauffeurs; -a whirl of it—bright yellow—around three colossal -negroes from darkest Africa; and a fierce battle -of it, waged by an admiring Parisian against two -fascinating young ladies from New York. Darkest -Africa grins, displaying glistening white teeth.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span> -New York utters shrill little cries. And Motordom—represented -by the three chauffeurs—imitates -the many savage sounds emitted by 60-horse-power -machines.</p> - -<p>“Your health!” cries a clown, plunging a -handful of confetti into a glass which, for only -a second or two, has remained uncovered.</p> - -<p>“Vive la Vie! Vive la Vie!” shout a procession -of students from the Latin Quarter.</p> - -<p>“Who is without Confetti? Who wants a -nose? Who desires a moustache?” yell the -hawkers.</p> - -<p>And now, rain. Down it comes, finely, steadily, -soddening the carpet of confetti, spotting the fantastic -costumes, scattering the crowd. Edouard -(in his paper helmet) and Yvonne (with her wand) -are hurried along homewards—much against their -will—by their parents; the hawkers disappear -with the remaining paper bags; the dizzy advertising -signs give a last blink and go out; the -policemen congregate beneath the street lamps -and in doorways—the carnival is over.</p> - -<p>However, memories remain, and these memories -are—confetti.</p> - -<p>It has flown, but it has not gone. Every hour -of every day, for many a week, it will turn up in -one’s home, in one’s clothing, at one’s meals... -still bold, vivid, ungovernable, unconquerable....</p> - -<p>And now, after colour and gaiety—ambiguity, -gloom. Away to remote, neglected corners of -Paris; to the <i>terrain vague</i>—the waste ground—of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span> -the Amazing City, which, this particular -afternoon, lies steeped in a damp fog, and strewn -with sodden newspapers and broken bottles, -and pots and pans without handles, hats without -brims, and battered old shoes. On the waste, -prowling about amidst the wreckage, a gaunt, -vagabond cat. Gathering together odds and -ends, the aged, bent <i>chiffonnière</i>—a hag of a -woman, half demented, with fingers like claws, -that go scraping and digging about in the refuse. -Then three ragged children—skeletons almost—also -interested in the rubbish, who are savagely -snarled at by the <i>chiffonnière</i> when they approach -her preserves. Fog, damp and puddles. Mounds -of overturned earth, subsidences, crevices. A -rusty engine lying disabled on its side. Quantities -of coarse, savage thistles. Gloom unrelieved. -The <i>chiffonnière</i> and the ragged children becoming -more and more ghostly and ghastly in the half-light. -The kind of scene depicted so tragically -by the great-hearted Steinlen, and sung of so -despairingly by the humane poet, Rictus. Sung -of, too, by lesser poets than the author of the -<i>Soliloque d’un Pauvre</i>. For <i>terrain vague</i> is -a favourite theme with the <i>chansonniers</i> of -Montmartre, and in their songs they are fond -of describing how they have passed from comfortable, -bourgeois neighbourhoods on to “waste -ground.” The bourgeois was dozing in his chair; -Madame la Bourgeoise was knitting a hideous -woollen shawl; Mademoiselles the three daughters -were respectively tinkling away at the piano,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span> -pasting picture cards into an album, absorbing a -sickly novel. As a heartrending, an overwhelming -contrast, behold—after the snugness of the -bourgeoisie—the wretchedness, the <i>misère noire</i> -of the human phantoms poking about on the -waste ground!</p> - -<p>“Would that I had a bourgeois here on this -<i>terrain vague</i>; a bourgeois I might terrify and -harrow!” declaim the realistic <i>chansonniers</i> of -the Montmartre cabarets. “‘Bourgeois,’ I would -cry, ‘what do you see? Bourgeois, look well, -look again, look always. Bourgeois, do you -understand? It is well, wretched, cowardly -Bourgeois—you tremble!’”</p> - -<p>No less attracted by <i>terrain vague</i> are the frail, -wistful poets of Paris, the poets (as they have -been so admirably denominated) of “mists and -half-moons, dead leaves and lost illusions.” On -to the waste they bring Pierrot, their favourite, -eternal hero. Midnight has long struck. A half-moon -casts silvery shafts on to the wreckage—and -on to Pierrot, who, as he stands there forlornly -amidst the debris, proceeds to disclose the -secret: “Pourquoi sont pâles les Pierrots....” -Only the cheeks of the vulgar are rosy; for the -vulgar cannot feel. But the artist is stung day -after day by ironies, cruelties, bitter awakenings—and -so is frail, and so is pale. How he suffers, -how tragically is he disillusioned! There was a -blonde... but she was capricious. There was -a brune... but she, too, was fickle. There -was a rousse, an auburn-haired goddess... but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span> -alas! she also was false. And Pierrot sobs. And -Pierrot goes on his knees to the half-moon. And -Pierrot prays. And suddenly a radiant figure -appears on the waste ground, and a sweet, melodious -voice murmurs: “Why sigh for the blonde? -Why grieve for the brune? Why weep for the -rousse? Am I not enough?” And Pierrot, -looking up with his pale, tear-stained face, beholds -his Muse, smiling down upon him—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Sur ce terrain va—aa—gue.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Farther away—away, this time, to one of the -environs of Paris, and down there, by the river-side, -the annual fête. Not an empty corner, not -a vacant space; nothing but booths, “side-shows,” -shooting-galleries, roundabouts, caravans—“all -the fun of the fair.” Confusion, exhilaration, -and a hundred different, frenzied sounds. -All this babel lasts a week; but at the end of the -week, departure and gloom. Gone the caravans -and their picturesque inmates. Gone the “distractions.” -There stood the shooting-gallery, -with its targets, grotesque dummies and strings -of clay pipes. One fired twice for a penny. If -successful, one was rewarded with paper flowers, -or a shocking cigar, or (in exceptional cases) a -strident alarm clock; if a bad marksman, one -was consoled with a slice of hard, gritty ginger-bread. -Farther on revolved the roundabout. -One rode a rickety steed, with only one stirrup. -One turned to the accompaniment of a husky, -exhausted old organ. What appalling liberties it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span> -took with the <i>Valse Bleue</i>! Next, one visited -the palmist, inspected a seedy lion, stared at -optical illusions, shook hands with a dwarf, -bought sticks of nougat, rode again on the round -about, returned to——</p> - -<p>But all over now, and nothing but memories -and souvenirs about: broken clay pipes, splinters -of bottles and wood, shavings, scraps of cloth, -hand-bills and rusty, bent nails, the eternal old -battered hat, the equally inevitable old boot, and -a hoof or two from the rickety horses that revolved -to the haunting tune of the <i>Valse Bleue</i>.</p> - -<p>The usual mounds of refuse. Also, the turf -damaged with ruts, and burnt away in places by -the fair people’s fires. The annual fête over, not -a soul but myself loiters on this portion of the -Seine river-bank. Only gloom and desolation. -Nothing but waste. Again, <i>terrain vague</i>.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II<br /> -<span class="smaller">IN A CELLAR</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>Bright things and sombre things, tarnished -things and threadbare things, frail things, -fast-fading things; things and things, and -all of them old things.... The past in this -cellar; in every nook and corner of it—the -past. Come here through a hole in the wall of -a narrow, cobbled Paris street—come down a -number of crooked stone steps—I now look curiously -about me, and wonder what to do next. -No one challenges me: the cellar appears to be -uninhabited. Yet above its crude, primitive -entrance, on a weather-beaten board, I discern -the name—Veuve Mollard.</p> - -<p>An autumnal mist filled the street outside; and -the mist, pouring through the hole in the wall, -has invaded the cellar and made it chilly and -ghostly. It is a rambling, chaotic place—suggestive -of three or four cellars having been thrown -into one; for it twists and it turns, and it bulges -and recedes, and it slopes and ascends; and the -grimy brick ceiling—lofty enough at the entrance—suddenly -dips towards the middle, and almost -precipitates itself to the ground at the far end. -Here and there an unshaded lamp, of the kitchen -description, burns dimly. On a stool I perceive<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span> -a workbox, crowded with sewing materials—but -not a sign, not a sound of “Widow” Mollard. I -cough loudly. I advance farther into the cellar. -And, as I advance, I pass bright things and -sombre things, tarnished things and threadbare -things, frail things, fast-fading——</p> - -<p>“Monsieur?”</p> - -<p>An apparition, a spectre! There, in the background, -appears a tall, gaunt woman, with a pale, -wrinkled face, large, luminous dark eyes and -tumbled white hair. In the dim light from the -lamps Veuve Mollard looks a hundred years old. -There she stands, old and alone, in a rambling -old cellar, amidst old, discarded things.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur?”</p> - -<p>A deep, even a sepulchral voice—and then from -myself an explanation. I should like to examine -the old things—all of them, not knowing myself -what I want. I have a fancy for old things; like -to wonder over them; like, O most respectfully, -to handle them. No; unnecessary to turn up the -lamps; they give, just as they are, the very light -for old things. “Faîtes donc, faîtes donc,” -assents the deep voice. Retiring to a corner, -Widow Mollard seats herself on a stool and proceeds -to darn a rent in a faded yellow velvet -curtain.</p> - -<p>Silence in the cellar. Shadows, ambiguities, -and the mist from the street.</p> - -<p>Against the walls, boards have been laid on the -floor; and heaped on the boards are tapestries, -draperies, all kinds of stuffs. Then, tables, wooden<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span> -trays, and flat, open receptacles of wicker-work. -Also pegs, for gowns. Again, battered, lidless -boxes of odds and ends. Thus, <i>embarras de -choix</i>: which of the old things shall I examine -first? At last I decide on the tapestries. They -are of all shapes and sizes, but most of them -have been severed, are but parts—no head to this -horse, no top to the lance of this knight, and of -that saint only the half. Next, a circular piece -of tapestry representing what might be a throne—but -faded, faded; and the figure on the throne -as shadowy as a phantom. Gobelins? Veuve -Mollard no doubt knows: but I prefer to pursue -my researches alone, unaided; and then the -gaunt widow is darning and darning away at -the yellow velvet curtain.... Whose velvet curtain? -Where has it hung, what fine window has -it screened? Once, evidently, a rich, magnificent -yellow; now faded, crumpled, damaged. A -curtain from the Faubourg St Germain? from a -ruined château? even from the palaces of Versailles -or Fontainebleau? Again I glance at -Widow Mollard. Old, old. Her fingers tremble, -and a long lock of white hair has fallen over one -pale, wrinkled cheek.</p> - -<p>Out of this tray a snuff-box, enamelled, oval-shaped -and delicate. A Watteau peasant girl on -the lid—but the pretty, pink-cheeked girl, fast -fading. Whose snuff-box? Then a shoe buckle. -Whose massive, old-fashioned silver buckle? And -of whom this miniature: blue eyes, sensitive -mouth, delicate eyebrows and powdered hair?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span> -Then, a tiny Sèvres tea-cup; a gilt key; a chased -silver book-clasp; a string of coral; an ornament -of amethysts; bits of embroidery; stray pieces -of velvet and silk; lace, satins, furs, and spangled -and soft and transparent stuffs. Whose finery? -Perhaps a débutante’s, a débutante of years ago—now -old, like the things.</p> - -<p>Graceful, charming débutante of the past! -Behold her dressing—or rather being dressed—for -her first, her very first ball, amidst what excitement, -what confusion! Her mother on her knees, -the maids also on their knees, putting the last -touches; and the débutante turned round and -round, and exhorted to keep still, and told to walk -a little, and ordered to return, and commanded to -remain “there,” and not to move, not to move! -Radiant, irresistible débutante of long ago. At -once dignified and shy, now flushed and now pale -when in the ballroom she made her first bow to -the world, received her first compliments, achieved -her first triumphs, and experienced, no doubt, her -first emotions, her first illusions, her first doubts. -Here in this cellar, in the half-light and the mist -from the street, here lies her first ball-dress; and -here too, perhaps, are the shoes in which she -danced her first official waltz, her first real <i>cotillon</i>—a -pair of small satin shoes which repose on the -top of a heap of other frail shoes.</p> - -<p>Long, narrow shoes, tiny ridiculous shoes—some -of them with loose, dangling rosettes, others -showing a bare place where the rosette or a jewel -had once been fastened. High heels, and the soles<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span> -scarcely thicker than a sheet of paper. Sometimes -a rent in the satin, and the maker’s name -stamped in dim gilt letters. Shoes, no doubt, -that long ago stepped daring quadrilles at the <i>bal -masqué</i> of the Opera; the shoes of Mademoiselle -Liane de Luneville, a former blonde and brilliant -courtesan; and next to them remnants from -Mademoiselle de Luneville’s wardrobe. A white -satin dress, sewn with artificial pearls, dismembered -silken sleeves, spangled stuffs, daring gauzes, and -other extravagances and audacities. Courtesan -finery. Sold, no doubt, in the twilight of the -<i>demi-mondaine’s</i> career; or seized roughly by -the bailiffs when not a shadow of the beauty or -glory of Mademoiselle de Luneville remained.</p> - -<p>Now does a moth fly out of a piece of tapestry -I have shaken. Now do I behold a black cat, with -lurid yellow eyes, perched motionless upon a pile -of draperies in a corner. Now do I perceive -gigantic cobwebs overhead. Thus, some life—but -life of an eerie nature—in the cellar.</p> - -<p>“Je ne vous dérange pas, Madame?”</p> - -<p>“Faîtes donc, faîtes donc,” replies the deep, -sepulchral voice of Veuve Mollard.</p> - -<p>A cracked water-colour landscape signed, ever -so faintly, “R. E. F.” Disposed of, perhaps, for -a five-franc piece; and to-day the painter either -dead, or a shabby, lonely, struggling old fellow? or -a rich and distinguished “master”? A sword—used -in a duel? A small silver mug—from a god-father? -Pink, white and black dominoes: they -should have been placed amongst the courtesan’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> -finery. The <i>bâton</i> of a <i>chef d’orchestre</i>, silver-mounted, -of ebony. A bunch of tarnished seals; -chipped vases and liqueur glasses; a cracked, -frameless mirror; a collection of old legal and -medical books; a heap of dusty, fantastic -draperies of the kind used extensively by the -students of the Latin Quarter. Deceptive -draperies that once turned a bed into a divan, -discreet draperies that hid the scars on the walls—the -draperies of Paul and Pierre, of Gaston and -René, sons of Henri Mürger, genuine, veritable -Bohemians, who, if they lived recklessly and -irresponsibly, were nevertheless full of generous -impulses, imagination, ideals, but who to-day are -become stout, bourgeois, double-chinned inhabitants -of such dreary provincial towns as Abbeville -and Arras.</p> - -<p>Thus the past in this cellar; in every nook and -corner of this rambling, chaotic cellar, the past. -Changes and changes—but not one change for the -better. All around me evidence of somebody’s -indifference and faithlessness to old possessions. -On all sides, symbols of somebody’s downfall and -ruin.</p> - -<p>“Je vous remercie, Madame.”</p> - -<p>“C’est moi qui vous remercie, Monsieur.”</p> - -<p>On my way out—on the crooked stone staircase -leading upwards to the hole in the wall—I look -back.</p> - -<p>And down there, in the dim light from the -lamps, the gaunt, white-haired woman darns -away at the faded velvet curtain. Down there,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span> -from its throne of draperies, the black cat watches -the widow with lurid yellow eyes. Down there -in vague disorder—in an atmosphere of shadows -and ambiguities, of moth, cobweb and mist—down -there, lie bright things and sombre things, tarnished -things and threadbare things, frail things, fast-fading -things; things and things, and all of them -old, discarded, forgotten things.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III<br /> -<span class="smaller">IN A MARKET-PLACE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>The market!... We holiday-keepers in -Moret-sur-Loing have been looking forward -to it, imagining it, scanning the spot -where it is held, recalling other French market-places, -ever since we first bowed before the amiable -<i>patron</i> and <i>patronne</i> of our hotel. Our immediate -inquiry was when is the market. “Tell -us,” we cried, “when we, like the villagers, may -go forth in our newest clothes, in high spirits, -as though to some fine ceremony, to view fruits -and vegetables, gigots and <i>rôtis</i> if we like, stalls -of chiffons and trinkets, patent medicines, soaps, -scents and——”</p> - -<p>“A week hence, mon pauvre Monsieur,” interrupted -the <i>patronne</i>. “The market takes place -on Tuesdays only: as it is Tuesday night, you -have just missed it.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” we replied, “the week will be empty, -sombre; the week will be a year, a century; but -for you, Madame, and your admirable hotel, the -week would be intolerable.” And the <i>patronne</i> -bowed and smiled; we bowed and smiled, “comme -dans le monde,” in fact, “en mondains.” Never was -there sweeter smiling, better bowing, in Moret....</p> - -<p><i>Moret at the Market.</i>—The time of day differs<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span> -in Moret-sur-Loing; differs, also, in neighbouring -villages. For miles around, the clocks strike independently, -instead of in chorus, so that it is ten -at the station, when it is ten minutes to, in our -hotel; a quarter to ten, inside the local <i>bijoutier’s</i>—but -all hours within. When these clocks have -done striking, the church clock starts; there is -no corroboration, no unanimity. However... -who cares, who worries? It is “almost” eleven; -“about” twelve; a “little past” four; that suffices. -We are late, or we are early. We get accustomed -to being strangely in three places at the very same -hour. Should a friend be pressed we can say: -“That clock is fast”; if he weary us, we need -not hesitate to declare it slow. And watches -vary; time is of no moment, in Moret. Farther -still from Fontainebleau, in the village of Grez, -the two or three hundred inhabitants rely chiefly -on the Curé for the hour. He alone controls the -church clock; but he, an irascible old gentleman, -often quarrels with the Mayor: and on these occasions -stops the clock immediately, revengefully. -Once the quarrel lasted three whole months: for -three whole months the hands of the clock remained -stationary. The Mayor protested: but -the Curé ignored him. When at last the Mayor -withdrew his objection to the point at issue, the -Curé allowed the clock to go again. And now, if -ever the Mayor and the Curé disagree, the Curé -stops the clock, the Mayor protests, the Curé -ignores him: and Grez has no church clock to tell -the time until the unhappy Mayor gives in.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span></p> - -<p>Fortunately for us in Moret, the Mayor and Curé -are friends. We depend more or less on the -Curé’s clock—most dilapidated of dials—whose -solemn summons at ten on Sunday bids us attend -High Mass; whose brisker chimes at the same -hour on Tuesday set us hastening towards the -market. Indeed, in our hotel, disdainful of its -dubious timepiece, we wait for the ten strokes -and after counting them join the villagers outside: -knots of villagers, rows of villagers, solitary -villagers, but all of them fresh, immaculate. -Each woman wears a print dress, or a print skirt -and camisole, a spotted handkerchief tied in a -knot at the top of her head. Each man has drawn -on a clean cotton shirt and his newest coat, or a -blouse; his tie invariably is bright. Each girl -is clad lightly, charmingly, and has becomingly -arranged her hair. As for us... well, we do -not seem shabby beside a painter, a Parisian in -“le boating” costume: our scarf is as silken as -theirs, our waistcoat is equally white and <i>piqué</i>, -but our cane is undoubtedly handsomer, and we -think we dangle it more elegantly.</p> - -<p>Over the cobble-stones, avoiding the <i>ruisseau</i>, -we go—smoking and chatting—the peasants -swinging their baskets, the girls giving a last -touch to their hair—an amazing spectacle.</p> - -<p>At the end of the narrow street—the “Grande -Rue,” no less!—is installed the first market-woman, -with a vast basket of vegetables. And -she, a wizened old thing, wrinkled and bent in -half, appears to be reflecting over her poor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span> -potatoes, her shabby cauliflowers. Still, she refuses -to bargain. She has but one price, and she -sniffs when a would-be customer turns over her -wares, inspecting them; and sniffs again when -she is told that they are “bien médiocres et bien -chères.” So she sells nothing: falls into reflection -again, quite forgets the would-be customer, who, -turning up the next street, faces a double row of -market-people established on either kerbstone, and -thus comes upon the chiefest commerce.</p> - -<p>All Moret is present, all Moret is bargaining -and buying, and all the market-people are seamed -with wrinkles, browned, bent; and all of them -wear blouses or camisoles or print dresses, handkerchiefs -or peaked caps—old, old people all of -them; at all events seemingly old; weather-beaten, -of the earth. Each has his or her -basket, so that there are two uninterrupted lines -of baskets, of little piles of paper, of measuring -utensils. Every vegetable is available, every -fruit. There is crying, croaking, quarrelling; -there is laughter, the chink of sous. Above the -din one hears:</p> - -<p>“Trois sous, Madame.”</p> - -<p>“Non, Madame, deux sous.”</p> - -<p>And: “Regardez ces raisins.”</p> - -<p>“Voyez, voyez, les melons.”</p> - -<p>And always: “Cinq sous, Madame.”</p> - -<p>“Non, Madame, trois sous.... Sous, sous, -sous.”</p> - -<p>Slowly we progress, meet the <i>patronne</i> of our -hotel, the postman, the <i>garde champêtre</i>, the barber<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span> -and, all of a sudden, a bevy of fair Americans, -daintily dressed, who inhabit a “finishing” -school near by. In the village it is hinted that -they are heiresses, all of them. Certainly their -clothes are rich, but they carry paper bags of -grapes, and eat the grapes, and dawdle... just -like Mesdemoiselles Jeanne and Marie, village -girls who “do washing” on the river bank every -other day of the week. Also, they utter little -cries:</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that old woman the funniest thing that’s -ever happened!”</p> - -<p>And: “My! Isn’t it all too quaint!”</p> - -<p>Here a foreigner sketches. Farther on, by the -side of the church, a painter has established his -easel; next him, stands a group of village women -who have already done their shopping and bear -their spoil. And they compare their purchases, -gesticulating over this cauliflower, that salad; -and soon we hear much about a certain Madame -Morin who has gone home furious because Madame -Petilleau carried off an amazing melon she had -her eye on... just by a minute. But Madame -Morin is always like that; Madame Morin would -flush, lose her temper, over a single bean.</p> - -<p>Now stalls rise—stalls of ribbons and jewellery, -stalls of cheeses, stalls of sheets, curtains, all -stuffs. And the stuffs are held up to the sun and -considered in the shade, and compared with a -complexion and wound round a waist, so that we -hear:</p> - -<p>“Ça vous va bien.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span></p> - -<p>And: “Je trouve que c’est trop clair.”</p> - -<p>And, of course: “Trois francs, Madame.”</p> - -<p>“No, Madame, deux francs... francs, francs, -francs.”</p> - -<p>Baskets become veritable burdens. Gesticulations -grow wilder, the cries louder, the exchange of -francs and sous quicker and quicker. Everyone -has vegetables and fruits; many have coloured -stuffs.</p> - -<p>To and fro go the <i>patronne</i> of our hotel, the -postman, the <i>garde champêtre</i>, the barber, the -Americans. To and fro go the village girls—but -pause all at once before a ragged fellow whose -eyes are crossed, whose face is unshaven, whose -dirty hands clasp an accordion. The church -clock strikes eleven. But above all these sounds -rises suddenly and discordantly the voice of the -man with the accordion. As he sings he leers. -The village girls titter. To them, impudently -and grotesquely, he addresses his eternal refrain:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Tu sais bien que je t’ai-ai-me.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Still we linger; soon we admire a group of -women and children whose home is on the barges -of the river bank. Barefoot, with shining black -eyes and black hair, bright shawls and handkerchiefs, -they add to the picturesqueness of the -spectacle as they wander to and fro with wicker-work -wares. A graceful English girl presents the -children with grapes, and the children smile, displaying -the whitest teeth. The women pounce -upon stray slips of salad, broken atoms of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span> -cauliflower, and are watched suspiciously by the -market-people. The foreigner sketches them; -the painter evidently intends to include them in -his scene—and we, also fascinated, would follow -them, were we not tempted to listen to a noisy -fellow who, flourishing a scrap of soap, boasts -that it will blot out every stain.</p> - -<p>How simple, how easy is it to stain your coat, -he cries; then proceeds to point out stains on -various coats. Fear not, however. Be not cast -down. <i>He</i> is here, he, the enemy of stains—<i>he</i> -with “The Miraculous Tablet.”</p> - -<p>And the “Miraculous Tablet” is held on high -and flourished to and fro, ready to render old -clothes new, and soiled hats fresh, in exchange -for two vulgar sous.</p> - -<p>“Seize this surprising opportunity,” shouts the -man. “Take out your stains, all of you. The -Miraculous Tablet will away with them all... -except stains on your conscience. I swear it, and -I am honest.”</p> - -<p>And then, continuing, he announces that the -“Miraculous Tablet” has made him famous -throughout the land; that clients return to him -in thousands to express their gratitude; that a -certain mother once shed tears of joy when he -took an ink-stain out of her little boy’s white suit; -that only yesterday, in Orleans, the inhabitants -cheered and cheered him and, rushing forward, -begged leave to shake his hand. “And,” he concludes, -“believe me, ladies and gentlemen, I had -not hands enough.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span></p> - -<p>Suddenly a tambourine sounds, and up the -street come a man and a woman with a dancing -bear, another woman with a monkey. The -monkey screams, the bear on its hind legs bobs up -and down, up and down, and the man encourages -him gruffly and the woman shakes the tambourine.</p> - -<p>Of course a crowd assembles, and of course -cries go up. Cries rise everywhere: from the -market-place, from the crowd, from the enemy of -stains, from the man with the accordion, from the -group around the bear; all cries, the strangest -cries, all languages also—English, French, many -a patois, “bargee,” the unknown tongue of -the almost black people with the bear—and all -accents.</p> - -<p>Then several nuns issue forth from church -and pause for a moment. The Curé appears. -A “Savoyard” with statues—as white as his -statues, for his clothes are white and his face -is covered with chalk-dust—approaches. And -all these different people, in all their different -costumes, with different accents and different -gestures, mingle together, elbow one another, and -all around them are the stalls of bright stuffs, -the vast baskets of vegetables and fresh fruits. -In the background—grey and quaint—stands the -church.</p> - -<p>However, time is flying and luncheon hour is -near. The purchases have to be borne home, -washed, prepared, and so the inhabitants of Moret -raise their baskets, exchange adieux. Off starts -the <i>patronne</i> of our hotel; off go the postman, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span> -<i>garde champêtre</i>, the barber and the fair Americans—still -eating grapes—to their “finishing” school. -The village girls disperse, and here and there -the market-people are already dislodging their -baskets, counting up sous. Once again we hear -of the hot-tempered Madame Morin, the triumphant -Madame Petilleau. Other familiar sounds -reach us as we near the end of the street: -“This, then, is the Miraculous Tablet... and -only yesterday in Orleans...” and for the last -time, “Cinq sous, Madame,” “Non, Madame, -trois sous,” and the hour being told by the church.</p> - -<p>In the far distance, the bear is evidently dancing, -for we faintly hear the tambourine. But his -audience must now be small: before us, up the -Grande Rue, moves a slow procession of men and -women with baskets, sometimes two baskets to -each person.</p> - -<p>Still, the first market-woman does not appear -to have provided them with their spoil. She -alone has done no business, and sits, wizened and -bent in half, over her shabby cauliflowers, her -poor potatoes. Occasionally she sniffs.</p> - -<p>But her sniff develops into a snort, when the -cross-eyed, unshaven fellow with the accordion -slouches up and, pausing for a moment, winks -... a fearful wink... leers, addresses her -impudently and grotesquely with his eternal -refrain:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Tu sais bien que je t’ai-ai-me.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV<br /> -<span class="smaller">BOURGEOISIE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<h3>1. <span class="smcap">M. Durand at Marie-le-Bois</span></h3> - -<p>A French friend, M. Durand, thus writes -to me:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“To-morrow morning at 11.47 my wife, myself, -the three children and our deaf old servant -Amélie, all leave for Marie-le-Bois; and to-morrow -night, whilst you, <i>mon cher ami</i>, are -eating the rosbif and drinking the pale ale of -<i>la vieille Angleterre</i>, the Durand family will be -dining off radishes, sardines, chicken, and cool -salad, in the garden of the Villa des Roses.</p> - -<p>“I have taken the villa for a month—our holiday. -The Duvals and the Duponts occupy villas near -by; and we shall play croquet together, and be -amiable and happy. I, your stout friend, <i>le gros</i> -Durand, will wear white shoes and no waistcoat, -and I shall also smoke many pipes and enjoy long -siestas under my own tree.” (What an idyllic -picture—the large citizen Durand asleep in a vast -cane chair, under a tree!)</p> - -<p>“But to-day, <i>mon vieux</i>, what anxiety, what -chaos, what despair, in our Paris home! We are -distracted, we are in peril of losing our reason, so -terrible, so sinister is the work of moving to Marie-le-Bois. -The packing, the labelling, the ordering<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span> -of the railway omnibus (it is engaged for ten -o’clock precisely, but will it—O harassing question—arrive -in time?), the emotion of the children, -the ferocity of my wife, the deafness of superannuated -Amélie—all these miseries have left me -as weak as an old cat. You, who have travelled, -will appreciate the agony of the situation. No -more can I say, for I hear my wife crying: -‘Hippolyte, Hippolyte, what are you doing? -You must be mad to write letters in such a crisis.’</p> - -<p>“Adieu, therefore. Here, very cordially, are the -two hands of,</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Georges Auguste Hippolyte Durand.</span>”</p> - -</div> - -<p>Excellent, simple M. Durand! From his letter -one would suppose that he is about to make the -long journey from Paris to the Pyrenees; and that -his luggage is proportionately considerable and -elaborate. But, as a matter of fact, Marie-le-Bois -lies humbly on the outskirts of Paris. A slow -train from the St Lazare Station covers the distance -in thirty-five minutes. And once arrived -there, one clearly perceives, from the top of a small -hill, the Sacré Cœur, the dome of the Panthéon, -the sightseers (almost their Baedekers) on the -Triumphal Arch! Only five and thirty minutes -distant from Paris—and yet Madame Durand is -“ferocious,” her husband is as “weak as an old -cat,” and the omnibus has been ordered one hour -and forty-seven minutes in advance, to drive over -the mile that separates M. Durand’s dim, musty -little flat from the station!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span></p> - -<p>Luggage? As the Villa des Roses is let -furnished, only wearing apparel and little particular -comforts are required, and so the Durand -luggage consists of no more than a shabby large -trunk, two dilapidated valises, a bundle, and a -collection of sticks, umbrellas, spades for the -children and a fishing-rod for their father.</p> - -<p>Why spades? There is no sand at Marie-le-Bois. -Why that fishing-rod? Not a river floweth -within miles and miles of the Villa des Roses. -And it must furthermore be revealed that the -“wood” of Marie-le-Bois consists in reality of a -few acres of shabby bushes, dead grass and gaunt -trees; that the villa itself is a hideous, gritty -little structure, rendered all the more uninviting -by what the estate agent calls an “ornamental” -turret, and that never a rose (never even a -common sunflower) has bloomed in the scrap of -waste ground joyously designated by M. Durand -a “garden.”</p> - -<p>No matter; M. Durand, a simple, small bourgeois, -is happy, his good wife rejoices, the three -children run wild in the hot, dusty roads, deaf old -Amélie is to be heard singing in a feeble, cracked -voice in the kitchen; and the Duvals and the -Duponts—also of the small bourgeoisie—are -equally happy and merry in the equally hideous -and gritty villas named “My Pleasure” and -“My Repose.”</p> - -<p>Between them they have hired a rough, bumpy -field, in which they play croquet for hours at -a time—the ladies in cotton wrappers and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span> -gentlemen in their shirt-sleeves. But not enough -mallets to go round and constant confusion as to -whose turn it is to play.</p> - -<p>“It is Durand’s turn,” says Dupont.</p> - -<p>“No, it is Madame Durand’s,” states M. Duval.</p> - -<p>“No, it is my turn—I haven’t played for -twenty minutes,” protests the shrill voice of -little Marie Dupont.</p> - -<p>“Apparently it is somebody’s turn,” says -M. Durand ironically.</p> - -<p>And then do the three gentlemen respectively -declare that the “situation” is “extraordinary” -and “abominable” and—yes, “sinister”; and -then, also, do the three wives proclaim their lords -“egoists” and—Oh dear me—“imbeciles,” and -then (profiting by the dispute) do the many -children of the Duponts and the Durands and -Duvals kick about the balls, and hop over (or -dislodge) the hoops, and (when reprimanded) -burst into tears.</p> - -<p>“It’s mad,” cries M. Durand.</p> - -<p>“Auguste, you disgust me,” says Madame -Dupont to her husband.</p> - -<p>“Mamma, Henri Durand has pulled my hair,” -sobs little Germaine Duval.</p> - -<p>At length on goes the game. But ten minutes -later the same confusion, the same cries: “It’s -my turn,” and “No, it is the turn of Madame -Dupont,” and “I’ve only played once in the last -hour,” and “The situation is becoming more and -more sinister.”</p> - -<p>Still, in the scraps of garden of the three villas<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span> -there is peace. The gentlemen doze a great -deal under their respective, their “own” anæmic -trees. Flies buzz about them—but, as M. Durand -observes, they are “country flies,” and therefore -“innocent.” In the late afternoon M. Durand -puts on his glasses, opens his <i>Petit Parisien</i> and -says: “Let us hear what is happening in Paris.” -As a matter of fact, M. Durand can almost hear -what is happening in Paris from his chair; but -he studies his paper deeply and gives vent to -exclamations of “Ah!” and “That dear, extraordinary -Paris—always excited, never tranquil!” -as though he were an exile in the remotest of -foreign lands.</p> - -<p>As for M. Dupont, he is of the opinion that -although newspapers are out of place in the -country, “still a good citizen should keep in -touch with affairs.” And says M. Duval: “A -Parisian, wherever he be, should never altogether -forget that he is a Parisian. Therefore it is his -duty—I speak, of course, figuratively—to keep -one eye on the capital.” Figuratively, indeed! -M. Duval has only to mount upon his chair to behold -Paris with both eyes, most clearly, most vividly.</p> - -<p>And now night-time, and a lamp burning on -a table in the garden of the Villa des Roses, and -around the table, covered with coffee cups, the -Durands and the Duponts and the Duvals. -Happily they lie back in their chairs. Now and -again the peevish, spiteful hum of the mosquito. -Odd green insects dash themselves against the -glass of the lamp.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span></p> - -<p>“The air of the country, there is nothing like -it; it is exquisite, sublime,” says M. Durand -rapturously. “Breathe it in, my friends, breathe -it in, with all your might.”</p> - -<p>“Durand is right,” assents M. Dupont. “Let -us not speak; let us only breathe.”</p> - -<p>“Are we ready?” inquires M. Duval.</p> - -<p>And the three M. D.’s and the three Madame D.’s, -lying back in their chairs, breathe and breathe.</p> - -<h3>2. <span class="smcap">Pension de Famille. The Beautiful Mademoiselle Marie, who loved Gambetta</span></h3> - -<p>As a consequence of the death, in her ninety-third -year, of Mademoiselle Marie Rosalie Losset, -many a successful French barrister, politician and -<i>littérateur</i> is recalling the early, struggling days of -the past. He sees the Rue des Poitevins, a narrow -little street in the heart of the Latin Quarter. He -remembers the board over one of its doorways: -“Pension Laveur. Cuisine Bourgeoise. Prix -modérés.” He can almost smell the strong evening -odour of cabbage and onion soup that assailed -him in the dim entrance hall when he returned to -the boarding-house exhausted, perhaps depressed -from his lectures at the Sorbonne, his studies in -the medicine schools, his first visits to the Law -Courts.</p> - -<p>As I am nothing of a greybeard, I am only able -to write of Mademoiselle Marie Rosalie Losset and -of the <i>pension de famille</i> in the Rue des Poitevins -at second hand. It was as far back as 1838<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span> -that Mademoiselle Marie, then a <i>jeune fille</i> of -eighteen, came up to Paris from tranquil, beautiful -Savoy to help her sister and brother-in-law, -M. and Madame Laveur, to conduct their new -boarding-house. Tall, graceful, masses of golden -hair—the “Greek Statue,” the great Gambetta -called her, and the name clung. I must be excused -from stating names and events in chronological -order—so much has happened since the -year 1840! But I can give the precise terms of -the <i>pension</i>: five or six francs a day for full board, -including white or red wine. Also I am able to -record that whereas the sister and brother-in-law, -M. and Madame Laveur, were suspicious, severe -and close-fisted, Mademoiselle Marie Rosalie -Losset—“Mademoiselle Marie” for short—was -all gaiety and generosity, and sympathised with -the struggles, disappointments and financial -ennuis of the boarders.</p> - -<p>Fortunately for the latter it was Mademoiselle -Marie who made up the bills and had charge of -the cash-box; the Laveurs occupied themselves -exclusively with the kitchen and the household -arrangements. Inevitably, the student boarders -lost their hearts to the “Greek Statue”; but she -laughed at their gallantry, and gaily wanted to -know how on earth they could keep a wife when -they couldn’t pay their own way. Bill of M. Paul -a month and thirteen days overdue. Laundry -account of M. Pierre five weeks in arrears, and -the washerwoman making persistent “inquiries.” -The washing-basin of M. Jacques, broken an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span> -eternity ago, still standing against him in the -boarding-house ledger. And yet they wanted to -marry her, all of them—the foolish sentimentalists, -the dear, simple imbeciles! No, no; she would -try to keep the Laveurs in ignorance of the unpaid -bills; she would sew buttons on to M. Paul’s -shabby coat, and blot out the stains from M. -Pierre’s; she would say no more of the washing-basin; -she would reassure the angry <i>blanchisseuse</i>; -she would, in a word, do everything for -the student boarders except marry them. “Tant -pis,” cried the latter dramatically, “you have -broken my heart. I shall never do anything in -this world. You have ruined me!” Replied -the radiant Savoyarde: “Nonsense! Work -hard, and make a name for yourself. And when -you are famous come and see me, and I promise -not to remind you of the washerwoman, or the -basin, or your faded old coat.”</p> - -<p>Their studies finished, away from the narrow -little Rue des Poitevins went the “heartbroken” -boarders to make a “name for themselves.” Not -so heartbroken but that they became either heroic -or distinguished “citizens” of France. At the -end of the plain, bourgeois dinner Mademoiselle -Marie came to Gambetta’s table for dessert, and, -amidst a cracking of nuts and the drinking of sour -wine, the future great and noble Gambetta tempestuously -held forth. A Republic for France -was his cry. How the glasses danced as he -thumped with his fist on the table! What cheers -from the boarders; what a blush and a flush on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span> -the face of the “Greek Statue”! Gambetta -stirred that sombre, musty boarding-house as -later he roused the whole of France with his -eloquence, enthusiasm, his glorious patriotism. -His Republican programme was first conceived, -his famous social battle-cry—“Le Cléricalisme, -voilà l’ennemi”—was first sounded in that <i>pension</i> -of the narrow, obscure Rue des Poitevins. -Emotion, we may be sure, of the “Greek Statue” -whilst her hero was away with the Army of the -Loire. Gloom and hunger in the Pension Laveur -during the Siege of Paris; never a sniff of the -strong onion soup. Years later—1881—Gambetta -Prime Minister, accession of “le Grand -Ministère,”—and joy and pride of the “Greek -Statue.” But downfall of the “Grand Ministère” -after only two months’ power, and death of -Gambetta in the following year—and then, yes, -then, so, at least, I surmise, grief and tears of -the Savoyarde, the “Greek Statue,” now become -grey-headed, now a sexagenarian, now known to -her boarders as “Tante Marie.”</p> - -<p>So have we arrived at the twilight of the once -radiant Savoyarde’s career. She is sixty, and -the golden hair has gone grey, and familiarly and -affectionately she is known amongst her boarders -as “Auntie.” Still, however, does she sew on -the missing buttons of the <i>jeunesse</i> of the Latin -Quarter, and allow the <i>pension</i> bills to stand over, -and overlook the matter of broken washing-basins, -and pacify the angry <i>blanchisseuse</i>, and encourage -her struggling boarders with the old words of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span> -long ago: “Work hard, and make a name for -yourself, and come and tell me of your fame....” -Years roll on—and “Tante Marie” becomes deaf -and frail, and holds a hand to her ear when the -<i>pensionnaires</i> of the past return to the Rue des -Poitevins—elderly, many of them wealthy and -distinguished—and pay her homage, and thank her -emotionally for her kindnesses, and leave behind -them autographed photographs bearing, amongst -many other signatures, the names of Alphonse -Daudet, François Coppée, Waldeck-Rousseau -(Gambetta’s disciple), Reclus, the great physician, -Millerand (ex-Minister of War), Pichon, the actual -French Foreign Secretary, and a former President -of the Republic, Émile Loubet.... More years -roll by and “Tante Marie” becomes bent, shaky -and wizened—a nonagenarian. Against her will, -she is removed from the sombre, musty old -Balzacian <i>pension</i> to a small, modern, electric-lighted -apartment—where she dies. Dies, in spite -of her beauty, brilliancy, irresistibility, a spinster. -Dies with the admission: “It was Gambetta I -loved. Impossible, of course. But he called me -a Greek Statue!”</p> - -<h3>3. <span class="smcap">Pension de Famille. French and Piano Lessons. Les Saintes -Filles, Mesdemoiselles Périvier</span></h3> - -<p>Three years have elapsed since Henri Rochette, -the dashing young French financier with the handsome -black beard, fell with a crash.</p> - -<p>“Le Krach de Rochette. Arrest of the Financier.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span> -Millions of Losses. Ruin of Small Investors,” -yelled the <i>camelots</i> on the boulevards. It was -another <i>affaire</i>, a gigantic swindle reminiscent of -Panama, in that the greater part of the victims -were small, thrifty people, who now stood in thousands -outside Rochette’s closed, darkened offices, -weeping, raging, pathetically or passionately demanding -the return of their savings.</p> - -<p>“That Rochette, he came from nowhere—how -did he manage it?” asked the prudent bourgeois, -who had steeled himself against Rochette’s alluring, -rattling circulars.</p> - -<p>Yes, Rochette had come from nowhere—or -rather, he had come from the country town of -Melun, where he was a waiter in a greasy hotel; -then he passed as clerk into a financial establishment; -next he opened spacious offices of his own -and successfully floated a dozen different companies. -I believe the chief factor in Rochette’s -success was the black beard he began to grow -and to cultivate assiduously, elaborately, after his -departure from Melun. With ambition, audacity -and, above all, an ornamental black beard, no -Frenchman should fail to make his fortune. Lemoine, -the alchemist, Duez, the liquidator of the -Religious Congregations, both of them had splendid -black beards; and the first lived in great style, at -the expense of even so astute a financier as Sir -Julius Wernher, and the second kept up costly -establishments on money belonging to the State. -True, MM. Duez and Lemoine were shorn of their -beards and sent to prison. But for a long while,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span> -at all events, a really fine black beard in France -can excite admiration, inspire confidence, command -capital and make millions.</p> - -<p>Well, Rochette fell with a crash—and so a panic, -so ruin in Paris. Cases of suicide. Other cases -of death from the shock. Bailiffs in possession of -small homes and dim shops, and the small people -expelled. Up with the shutters in Rochette’s -splendid offices; away to prison with the swindling -financier, and off with his beard. Victims and -victims—dazed, broken, distracted. Amongst the -forlornest victims, the two Mesdemoiselles Périvier.</p> - -<p>“Saintly creatures,” the stout, red-faced Curé -of the church of St Sulpice used to say of the Mesdemoiselles -Périvier. For years and years they -had resided in his parish, attending a Low Mass -and High Mass every morning, and Vespers every -evening; for years and years they had subscribed -to M. le Curé’s “good works,” and provided his -favourite dishes of <i>vol-au-vent</i> and <i>poulet-au-riz</i> -upon those monthly occasions when he dined with -them in their dreary, six-roomed flat. It was the -most sunless, the most joyless of homes; and -the Mesdemoiselles Périvier were the frailest, the -simplest, the most frugal of old spinsters, with -scarcely a friend and not a relative in the world, -and with no experience of the shocks and hardships -of life until their small income was lost in -the Rochette crash.</p> - -<p>Their eyes stained with tears, the two lonely -sisters sought out M. le Curé. He consoled them -as best he could; urged them to bear their loss<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span> -with resignation; exhorted them to seek relief -in prayer. And day after day, in shadowy St -Sulpice, the Mesdemoiselles Périvier prayed long, -earnestly, humbly. Never did a complaint escape -them. But they looked frailer and lonelier than -ever in their rusty black dresses, as they crossed -themselves with holy water on their way out of -St Sulpice to their sunless, stricken home.</p> - -<p>A few thousand francs invested in French -<i>rentes</i>, but returning a sum insufficient to satisfy -even the Mesdemoiselles Périvier’s frugal needs, -was all that remained. Imperative, therefore, -to do something. And one morning the elder -Mademoiselle Périvier (aged sixty-three) and her -sister, Mademoiselle Berthe Périvier (three years -her junior) affixed a black-edged visiting-card to -their door. Under their joint names appeared the -intimation: “Pension de Famille. French and -Piano Lessons. Moderate Terms.”</p> - -<p>Then, in the Paris edition of <i>The New York -Herald</i>, the Mesdemoiselles Périvier offered a -home to English and American girls desirous of -studying painting in the Latin Quarter; the six-roomed -flat, in the shadow of St Sulpice, being -also in the neighbourhood of Julian’s and Vitti’s -art schools. A few flower-pots for the flat. The -half-dumb, yellow-keyed old piano repaired. Far -into the night the Mesdemoiselles Périvier studied -French and English grammars; at intervals -during the day the elder Mademoiselle Périvier -was to be heard practising feebly on the piano... -against the arrival of pupils and <i>pensionnaires</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span></p> - -<p>“Saintly creatures!” repeatedly exclaimed -M. le Curé in the houses he visited. Earnestly he -recommended the <i>pension</i>. Warmly, too, was it -spoken of by kindly, well-meaning people.</p> - -<p>But it was such a sunless, cheerless place, and -the Mesdemoiselles Périvier looked such dim, old-fashioned -spinsters in their rusty black dresses, -that the recommendations proved fruitless. After -a glance at the piano and flower-pots, intending -<i>pensionnaires</i> took their leave, and found attractive, -sociable quarters <i>chez</i> Madame Lagrange -(“widow of a diplomat”), or at the “Villa des -Roses,” or the “Pension Select,” where there -were “musical evenings,” five-o’clock teas, electric -light, comfortable corners and gossip and -laughter.</p> - -<p>A year went by; another twelvemonth—and -then it became known round and about St Sulpice -that the Mesdemoiselles Périvier had been disposing -little by little of their Government stock. -Yet they were never heard to complain. When -dust had dimmed the visiting-card on the door, -the card was replaced, and the advertisements -still appeared in the Paris <i>New York Herald</i>.</p> - -<p>It was noticed, however, that the eyes of the -Mesdemoiselles Périvier were often swollen and -red, that their cheeks showed traces of tears, and -that the two lonely spinsters were more assiduous -than ever in their visits to St Sulpice. At all -times, in all weathers, they made their way to the -church, and bowed their heads in prayer in the -half-light, amidst the shadows.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span></p> - -<p>It was on her return home from St Sulpice, -one bitter afternoon, that Mademoiselle Berthe -Périvier, the younger by three years of the two -spinsters, contracted pneumonia, and died.</p> - -<p>“Une sainte fille, une sainte fille,” reiterated -M. le Curé, himself sobbing by the bedside.</p> - -<p>And to-day the black-edged visiting-card—“Pension -de Famille. French and Piano Lessons. -Moderate Terms”—appears no longer on the door. -With her last remaining French <i>rentes</i> passed -the elder Mademoiselle Périvier. Gone, without a -complaint, are the frail, frugal old spinsters. And -M. Henri Rochette, on the eve of his release from -prison, is growing a new beard.</p> - -<h3>4. <span class="smcap">The Affair of the Collars</span></h3> - -<p>It is a popular superstition that amongst the -smaller French bourgeoisie one day is like another -day, and all days are empty, colourless and banal. -None of the joys of life—none of its shocks and -surprises—up there in the Durands’ gloomy and -oppressive fifth-floor <i>appartement</i>. From morning -till night, infinite monotony, relieved only by -Madame Durand’s periodical altercations with -the concierge, the tradespeople, and deaf and -dim-eyed old Amélie, the cook. The family -newspaper is the <i>Petit Journal</i>, because of its two -<i>feuilletons</i>. In a corner a little, damaged piano, -upon which angular and elderly Mademoiselle -Durand laboriously picks out the <i>Polka des -Joyeux</i> and the <i>Valse Bleue</i>. In another corner<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span> -Madame Durand knits away at a pink woollen shawl. -And from a third corner M. Hippolyte Durand, -in huge carpet slippers, tells his wife what has -happened to him during the day.</p> - -<p>The omnibus that took him to his office was -full; his lunch consisted of <i>navarin aux pommes</i> -and stewed pears; after leaving his bureau he -played two games of dominoes with Dupont in -the Café du Commerce, and the omnibus that -brought him home was even fuller than that in -which he travelled to business.</p> - -<p>“There should be more omnibuses in Paris,” -remarks Madame Durand.</p> - -<p>“And how odious are the conductors!” exclaims -elderly and embittered Mademoiselle -Durand from the piano.</p> - -<p>Then lights out at eleven o’clock, and the dull, -dreamless sleep of the unimaginative, the worthy.</p> - -<p>However, this popularly conceived idea of the -life and mind of the smaller French bourgeoisie is -something of a libel. Their existence is not eternally -uneventful, nor their temperament hopelessly -colourless. Now and again the dim, oppressive -fifth-floor <i>appartements</i> are shaken by “Affairs” -quite as exciting and incoherent in their own way -as those that have convulsed the Palace of Justice -and Chamber of Deputies. There was once a -Dreyfus Affair. There were also the Syveton and -Steinheil Affairs. All three caused the Parisians -(who dearly love imbroglios and incoherencies) to -exclaim: “C’est le comble!”—in colloquial English: -“It’s the limit!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span></p> - -<p>But, in the Montparnasse quarter of Paris, there -rages to-day an Affair that must be awarded the -first place amongst all other Affairs for sheer -confusion, dizziness and irresponsibility.</p> - -<p>Thus:</p> - -<p>Three weeks ago M. Henri Bouzon, a stout, -middle-aged bourgeois, bought a dozen new collars -from a “general” clothing establishment known -as “The Joy of the Gentleman.” In due course -the collars went to the laundry, but twelve other -collars were returned in their place, and these -M. Bouzon rejected. A second lot of collars—again -somebody else’s. Then a third wrong delivery, -and a fourth. By the time a fifth contingent had -arrived M. Bouzon was collarless and desperate.</p> - -<p>“Once again, these are not my collars,” he -cried. “But as they fit me, I will keep them.”</p> - -<p>Next day, appearance of Madame Martin, the -<i>blanchisseuse</i>, in a state of emotion. The fifth -contingent of collars belonged to a M. Aristide -Dubois, who was clamouring for them. He had -acquired them only recently at “The Paradise of -the Bachelor,” and was furious at their loss.</p> - -<p>“Bother Aristide Dubois,” shouted M. Bouzon. -“Where are my own dozen collars from ‘The Joy -of the Gentleman’? Return them and I will give -up the Dubois collars—which I am wearing.”</p> - -<p>Despair of the <i>blanchisseuse</i>. She searched and -searched for the Bouzon collars, but in vain; and -tearfully, then frantically did she implore Henri -Bouzon to be “amiable” and “gentil” and surrender -up the collars of Aristide Dubois.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span></p> - -<p>“He is a terrible man—such a temper,” pleaded -the <i>blanchisseuse</i>. “I had to tell him you were -wearing his collars, and he threatened to call on -you and tear them off your neck.”</p> - -<p>“Let him come,” cried M. Bouzon. Then, -following Madame Martin out on to the staircase -he shouted over the banisters: “And tell Dubois -from me that he is a brigand and a bandit.”</p> - -<p>Inevitably, the concierges and tradespeople of -Montparnasse got to hear of the dispute. It was -discussed in doorways and at street corners, and -in her steamy <i>blanchisserie</i> Madame Martin held -little levees of the Montparnasse servants, who -took the story home to their masters and -mistresses, who in their turn became garrulous -and excited over the Dubois and Bouzon collars. -Then, one memorable afternoon, Aristide Dubois—another -stout and middle-aged bourgeois—called -upon Henri Bouzon. And the following -dialogue took place:—</p> - -<p>“Sir, you are wearing the collars I bought -recently at ‘The Paradise of the Bachelor.’”</p> - -<p>“Sir, I have no wish to speak to you, and I beg -you to withdraw.”</p> - -<p>“Monsieur, vous aurez de mes nouvelles.”</p> - -<p>That was all, but it caused a commotion in -Montparnasse. Aristide Dubois’ last words, -“Sir, you will hear from me,” signified nothing -less than a duel. Yes; Bouzon and Dubois -on the field of honour, sword or pistol in hand, -with doctors in attendance! “Both of them -are terrible men,” related Madame Martin, whose<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span> -<i>blanchisserie</i> now became a popular place of rendez-vous. -“Impossible to reason with them. They -will fight to the death.” Equally sought after were -the respective concierges of the Dubois and Bouzon -families, and the tradespeople who served them.</p> - -<p>The discussion spreading, all Montparnasse -soon found itself indirectly and chaotically mixed -up in the Affair of the Collars. It was Collars -in a hundred bourgeois homes, in cafés, in the -shady Luxembourg Gardens, even amongst the -enormous, apoplectic <i>cochers</i> on the cab-ranks.</p> - -<p>“I am for Dubois,” declared some.</p> - -<p>“Henri Bouzon has my sympathy,” announced -others. “It is the most distracting of affairs,” -agreed everybody. Thus, fame of Henri Bouzon -and Aristide Dubois! After fifty years of obscurity, -there they were—suddenly—the Men of the -Hour. Such was their importance, their renown, -that when they appeared in the Montparnasse -streets people nudged one another and whispered:</p> - -<p>“Here comes Henri Bouzon.”</p> - -<p>And: “There goes Aristide Dubois.”</p> - -<p>... Such has been the state of Montparnasse -during the last three weeks, and to-day that -usually tranquil neighbourhood is literally convulsed -by the Affair of the Collars. No duel has -taken place: but MM. Dubois and Bouzon exchange -lurid letters, in which they call one another -“traitors,” and “Apaches,” and “sinister assassins.” -Thus, shades of the Dreyfus Affair and of -the Affairs Syveton and Steinheil! Here, in the -Café du Dôme, sits M. Bouzon, surrounded by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span> -Bouzonites. There, in the Café de la Rotonde, -M. Dubois and his own supporters are established,—and -in both places, night after night, hot controversies -rage, the marble tables are thumped, -and MM. Dubois and Bouzon are severally applauded -and toasted by their admirers. Become -celebrities, they have blossomed out into silk hats -and frock coats, and the waiters bow before them, -and the café proprietors actually address them -as “cher maître.” At times they dramatically -exclaim: “Ah, my poor head! This affair is -destroying me: but I will fight to the last,” and -there are murmurs of sympathy, which MM. -Bouzon and Dubois (always in their respective -cafés) acknowledge with the condescension of a -Briand or a Delcassé or a Clemenceau. For, most -indisputably, they are great public characters. -The post brings them letters of congratulation or -abuse; the policemen salute them: and “The -Paradise of the Bachelor” has named a collar -after Aristide Dubois, whilst “The Joy of the -Gentleman” has issued the intimation: “For ease, -chic, durability, wear the Collar Bouzon.” Then, -to live up to their renown as the Men of the Hour, -MM. Dubois and Bouzon go about with bulky -portfolios under their arms, and a grim, determined -expression. “They are doing too much. -They will certainly collapse. It is even worse -than the Dreyfus Affair,” says Montparnasse. -And, exclaims Madame Martin, in her steamy -and crowded <i>blanchisserie</i>: “Terrible men! I -have tried to make peace between them by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span> -offering them all kinds of collars. I have even -declared myself ready to buy them collars out of -my own pocket. But they only go red in the face, -and shout, and won’t hear a word.”</p> - -<p>And now—in the words of the journalists—a -“sensational development.” It is announced, -breathlessly, hysterically by Madame Martin, -that at last she has traced the dozen missing -collars, bought by M. Bouzon at “The Joy of the -Gentleman,” to the bourgeois fifth-floor <i>appartement</i> -of a M. Alexandre Dupont. He has been -wearing them all these weeks. And he refuses -to surrender them. And he, too, is a “terrible -man.” And he has called M. Dubois a “convict,” -and M. Bouzon “le dernier des misérables.” -And, if they come within his reach, he will hurl -both of them into the Seine.</p> - -<p>“Le comble” [the limit], gasps Montparnasse. -All over the neighbourhood goes the -statement that M. Alexandre Dupont bought <i>his</i> -dozen collars at that other Montparnasse clothing -establishment, “The One Hundred Thousand -Supreme Shirts.”</p> - -<p>“The man Alexandre Dupont is as great a -scoundrel as the man Aristide Dubois,” cries -M. Bouzon to his admiring supporters in the Café -du Dôme.</p> - -<p>“It is impossible to determine which of the two -is the more infamous and diabolical, the creature -Bouzon or the lunatic Dupont,” shouts M. Dubois, -amidst the cheers of his followers in the Café de -la Rotonde.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span></p> - -<p>“Bouzon and Dubois—I consign them to the -Seine and the Morgue,” storms Alexandre Dupont, -addressing his newly gathered partisans in the -Café du Repos.</p> - -<p>Out comes that other “general” clothing -establishment, “The One Hundred Thousand -Supreme Shirts,” with the announcement: “The -Only Collar in Paris is the Collar Dupont.”</p> - -<p>“All three of them are terrible,” affirms -Madame Martin to her audience in the stifling -<i>blanchisserie</i>.</p> - -<p>“The collars of Bouzon, then the collars of -Dubois, and next the collars of Dupont—but -where have they all gone to? Where are we? -What is going to happen!” cries, emotionally and -distractedly, Montparnasse.</p> - -<p>Nobody knows. Nobody will ever know. But -Bouzon, Dubois and Dupont, so obscure three -weeks ago, are the Men of the Hour in Montparnasse -to-day. And one of the three will, almost -indubitably, represent Montparnasse in the Hôtel -de Ville after the next Municipal Election,—then -be promoted to the Chamber of Deputies—then -will eloquently, passionately inform the Palais -Bourbon that Incoherency is the Peril of the -Present Age.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V<br /> -<span class="smaller">ON STRIKE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<h3>1. <span class="smcap">When it was Dark in Paris</span></h3> - -<p>Eight o’clock at night, and the electric -lights burning brightly, and the band -playing gaily, and the customers chatting -happily in this large, comfortable café. Although -it is the “dead” season, business is brisk. Here -and there an elegant Parisienne, eating an ice. In -corners, groups of card-players. And next to me, -three stout, red-faced, prosperous-looking bourgeois, -to whom the proprietor of the café pays -particular attention. He hopes they are well. -He hopes their ladies and their dear children are -well. He hopes their affairs are going well. -From their replies, I learn that the three bourgeois -are important tradesmen of the quarter.</p> - -<p>Suddenly their conversation turns to strikes—and -naturally my three neighbours are indignant -with the strikers. The strikers spoil affairs; the -strikers should therefore be arrested, imprisoned, -transported. Half-a-dozen of them might be -executed, as an example. The Bourse du Travail -and the offices of the General Confederation of -Labour should be razed to the ground. No other -country but France would tolerate such anarchy. -One is on the verge of a revolution, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span>——</p> - -<p>At this point the scores of electric lights jump -excitedly—turn dim—go out. And it is darkness.</p> - -<p>“The strikers!” exclaims the first bourgeois.</p> - -<p>“The electricians!” cries the second.</p> - -<p>“Ah, the scoundrels, the brigands, the assassins!” -shouts the third.</p> - -<p>Mercy me, the excitement! The three bourgeois -light matches, everyone lights matches,—and -in the light from the matches I see the proprietor -standing on a chair in the middle of the café. -Loudly he claps his hands; loudly he cries to the -waiters: “Candles.” Then, for some mysterious -reason, the customers also mount chairs. The -lights have gone out, so one mounts chairs! If -you don’t immediately mount a chair when the -lights have gone out, heaven only knows what will -not happen to you. And so I, too, stand on a -chair, and light matches, and join in the cries of: -“It’s a strike; it’s a strike.”</p> - -<p>For my own part, I rejoice. I love the cries, -the confusion, the amazing aspect of Paris—when -it is dark. Here, in this café, the band is idle; -the card-players have stopped their games; the -proprietor is still clapping his hands and clamouring -for candles. However, no candlesticks: so, -vulgarly, as in low places, one uses bottles. A -bottle for every table and the grease (another low -spectacle) trickles down the bottles. The lady at -the desk, whose highly important duty it is to -keep the accounts, is given a dilapidated old -lantern. Very old and very dilapidated, too, are -the petroleum lamps brought up from the cellars<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span> -where they have remained hidden so long as to -acquire a sinister coating of verdigris. “It’s -deadly poison,” says one of the bourgeois next to -me. “I won’t have it. Fetch me a candle.” -So the waiter bringeth the bourgeois a candle, -and, no sooner has he placed the bottle on the -table than it topples over and falls against the -breast of the bourgeois.</p> - -<p>“A cloth, a cloth!” he shouts. “I am covered -with grease.” And he storms. And he goes -purple in the face. And violently he rubs his -waistcoat, making the stains worse. And as he -rubs he cries furiously, of the strikers: “Ah, the -scoundrels, the brigands, the assassins.”</p> - -<p>In the street, only gas. And as I make my -way to the <i>grands boulevards</i>, I perceive waiters -speeding about in all directions, and hear them -asking policemen for the nearest grocer’s shop. -The waiters are in quest of candles. The waiters -dare not return to their cafés without packets -and packets of candles. But most of the grocers -are closed: and so on speed the waiters, flushed, -breathless, through the gloom.</p> - -<p>No theatres to-night. Out went the lights just -as the curtain was about to rise, and on to the -stage stepped the manager, lamp or candlestick in -hand—a sepulchral figure—to beg the audience -to disperse in good order. No telephones to-night. -Out went the lights in the Exchange, to -the confusion, to the terror of the ladies. They -are there in the darkness, waiting for candles. -Then, gloom in most of the newspaper offices.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span> -Out went the lights, suddenly, unanimously. -“Lamps, candles!” shouted the editor. Thus, -office-boys also in desperate quest of candles. -And they come into collision with the waiters. -And there are tumultuous scenes in the grocers’ -shops. And the grocers cry desperately: “One -at a time; one at a time. I shall faint. I shall -lose my reason. I shall die.”</p> - -<p>Thousands and thousands of candles in the -handsome cafés of the <i>grands boulevards</i>, and all -of them in vulgar bottles. Thus, infinite candle -grease; also, more verdigris. But what a difference -between the tempers of the bourgeois and the -boulevardier! M. le Boulevardier laughs, jokes, -rejoices. He is in search of a friend,—and so -picketh up a bottle and makes a tour of the café. -“Clever fellows; they struck just at the right -hour,” he says, of the strikers. Amiable, too, are -the English visitors to Paris in Darkness. A -charming young girl near me produces picture -post cards and writes hurriedly by candlelight. -And I expect she is writing: “<span class="smcap">My Dear</span>,—Such -fun, such excitement, I wish you were here. All -the electric lights have gone out and we’ve only -got candles. It’s too funny. I’ll tell you all about -it to-morrow. Best love from <span class="smcap">Ethel</span>.”</p> - -<p>On the terraces of the cafés strings of Chinese -lanterns are being put up by the waiters; down -the boulevards rush frantic hawkers with revolutionary -newspapers, <i>The Social War</i> and <i>The -Voice of the People</i>; along them, at a trot, comes -a detachment of cuirassiers. “The troops,” cries<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span> -a Parisian. “Clemenceau is at it again,” says -another. “A few years ago Clemenceau fiercely -denounced the practice of sending troops against -the strikers,” remarks a third. “But to-day M. -Clemenceau is Prime Minister,” replies a fourth.</p> - -<p>Now, candles burn down and have to be replaced. -Now, too, theatrical managers, newspaper -men and all those most affected by the -darkness discuss the probable length of the strike. -“A couple of days at the most,” says a manager. -“Perhaps only twenty-four hours,” says his -friend. “Clemenceau is already taking measures -to——”</p> - -<p>But even as he speaks the electric lights break -into a dull glow,—jump excitedly,—then flash. -The strike is over; it was but a two-hours’ strike, -intended as a protest against the killing of three -strikers by the troops at Villeneuve-St-Georges -and as a proof of what the Electricians’ Trade -Union can do.</p> - -<p>So away go the candles and the old lamps. -The bands strike up; the card-players resume -their games; the newspapers go to press. “The -assassins had to give in,” says the bourgeois -exultingly. “The electricians will surprise us -again,” says the boulevardier, with a laugh. -“I’m so sorry it’s all over,” says the charming -young English girl, glancing at her post cards. -And so am I: for I love the cries, the confusion, -the amazing aspect of Paris, when it is dark.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span></p> - -<h3>2. <span class="smcap">Birds of the State at the Post Office</span></h3> - -<p>From a very fascinating English girl, domiciled -in Yorkshire, I have just received the following -request:—“I hear you are having another postal -strike in Paris, and that carrier-pigeons are being -used. How charming! And what a lucky man -you are to be living in such an exciting country! -Down here nothing ever happens. So do be a -dear and send me a letter by a pigeon—it would -be lovely.”</p> - -<p>Thus news travels slowly to my very fascinating -correspondent’s home in Yorkshire. The -postal strike, the general strike and all the other -strikes are over: and yet it is certain that if I -could but gratify Miss Ethel Grahame’s desire -I should rise considerably in her esteem. Strike -or no strike, she would dearly love to have a -pigeon, that had flown all the way from the <i>grands -boulevards</i> to Scarborough, come tapping at her -window. To her friends she would say: “Look! -A letter from Paris! And brought all that long, -long distance by a pigeon!” Naturally, cries of -astonishment from the friends. Then, great -headlines in the local papers: “Pigeon-Carrying -Extraordinary,” and “Pigeon as Postman,” and -“The Pigeon from Paris.” Next, consternation -of Miss Ethel Grahame’s innumerable admirers, -who would immediately proceed to fear and hate -me as a formidable rival. And finally, and best of -all, my letter put carefully away, and preserved -for ever and for ever, in a scented desk.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span></p> - -<p>Dreams, only dreams! I know nothing about -pigeons; and then it has been stated that every -pigeon in France, who is anything of a carrier, -has been requisitioned by the Government. The -postal strike is over, but the carrier-pigeons of -Paris and of the provinces nevertheless remain at -the exclusive disposal of the Cabinet. They have -become State birds; they may fly only for the -Republic.</p> - -<p>So, what a life! As I cross the Luxembourg -Gardens (the pleasantest of all the Paris parks), -this fine, sunny afternoon, I reflect bitterly over -the absurdity and irony of things. Gorgeous, -costly birds, such as the parrot or the peacock, I -could easily obtain; but a plain carrier-pigeon, -no! Since the French Government is responsible -for my predicament, may it fall! And may the -State birds (if ever employed) play M. Clemenceau -and his colleagues false! And——</p> - -<p>A pigeon! Yes—there, on the path before me—a -fine, strong, handsome pigeon; the very -pigeon to make the trip from Paris to Scarborough. -And my heart beats. And my brow throbs. And -I am all excitement, all emotion, when—O bitter -disappointment!—it suddenly occurs to me that -this must be an ordinary pigeon, one of those idle, -good-for-nothing pigeons that hop about public -gardens in quest of crumbs. That is his life; -that is all he is capable of doing. O fool that I -was, to have thought for a moment that here -was the very bird to go tapping at Miss Ethel -Grahame’s window!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span></p> - -<p>Yes, what a life! As I make my way to the -<i>grands boulevards</i> it dawns upon me that I have -never seen a carrier-pigeon, and that therefore I -have no idea what he looks like. Also, suppose -I wonderfully succeeded in securing one, what -should I say to him, what should I do with him? -In fact, how does one tell a carrier-pigeon where -to go? And——</p> - -<p>Two pigeons on the steps of this church, but -of the before-mentioned greedy, good-for-nothing -kind. Then, more pigeons in this poulterer’s, -but dormant, dead. And next, on the menu of -a café, the intimation in bold, red letters: “This -Day: Braised Pigeon and Green Peas.”</p> - -<p>In this café, in their accustomed corner, I find -M. Henri Durand and M. Marcel Bertrand, two -amiable, chatty, middle-aged little Frenchmen -with whom I am on cordial, confidential terms. -Thinking they may help me, I tell them of my -trouble, and extraordinary are their expressions -when I have finished.</p> - -<p>“My admirable but unfortunate friend, you -are ill,” gasps M. Bertrand. “My excellent but -unhappy neighbour from Across the Channel, the -heat has disturbed you,” cries M. Durand. And -then (after I have denied that I am suffering -either from illness or from the heat) M. Bertrand -solemnly holds forth:</p> - -<p>“You ask for a carrier-pigeon to take a letter -to a very adorable miss who lives in Yorkshire. -But, my poor old one, French pigeons have never -heard of Yorkshire,—and neither have I and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span> -neither has our friend Durand here, and neither, -I am sure, has anyone in France. But I will -not insist: this Yorkshire is not the point. The -point is, every carrier-pigeon in France has been -proclaimed a bird of the State. In Paris, there -are 15,000; in the provinces, 150,000, thus -165,000 in all; and all of them have been -mobilised—yes, mobilised by order of the Government. -In fact, a carrier-pigeon to-day occupies -the same position as a soldier or a sailor. True, -he cannot fight; but upon command, he must -fly. And yet you ask for one of these State -birds! Unfortunate friend, you might as well ask -for a regiment or a military balloon, or a war-ship.”</p> - -<p>But still more extraordinary revelations follow. -I hear, for instance, that the 15,000 carrier-pigeons -in Paris are housed in the various ministries—yes, -every ministry in Paris is a vast dovecot. Two -thousand pigeons for the Minister of War; three -thousand pigeons for the Minister of Justice, -and six thousand pigeons for the Prime Minister.</p> - -<p>“He also keeps pigeons at his private residence,” -states M. Bertrand. “If he heard you -wanted one of his State birds, he would have you -arrested.”</p> - -<p>“So,” I sigh, “there is nothing to be done.” -And sympathetically M. Bertrand replies: “Alas, -my poor, lovesick one, nothing. I regret it with -all my heart, but you must tell the blonde, -adorable miss that birds of the State may fly -only for their own country.”</p> - -<p>Then up speaks M. Durand, and I learn that the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span> -15,000 State birds in Paris are being wonderfully -looked after, even spoilt. Never such comfortable, -pleasant dovecots; never such plentiful, -excellent fare! “It is to be hoped,” concludes -M. Durand, “that they are not being overfed, -and that they are not contracting idle, luxurious -habits; for that would be disastrous.”</p> - -<p>And here I rise. And after I have taken leave -of MM. Durand and Bertrand, I go to the nearest -post office and send Miss Ethel Grahame the -following expensive telegram:—</p> - -<p>“Deeply sorry no pigeon available. Have -done my very best. Writing full particulars. -Can only say meanwhile that every pigeon in -France has been proclaimed a Bird of the State.”</p> - -<h3>3. <span class="smcap">After the Storm at Villeneuve-St-Georges</span></h3> - -<p>Down here at Villeneuve-St-Georges, the sandpit -district ten miles away from Paris, there has -been a savage collision between the soldiers and -the strikers. The sandpit men—some five or -six thousand powerful navvies in all—raised -barricades in the narrow, cobbled streets. When -the dragoons and cuirassiers advanced, they were -met with shower upon shower of flints, bottles, -bricks. Revolvers, too, were fired at them. From -windows, guns were discharged. Rising in his -stirrups, an officer at last shouted forth the -terrible official ultimatum: “Retire! Let all -good citizens withdraw, for we are about to use -force and arms.” Then, three bugle calls: the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span> -final warning. But still the officer hesitated to -give the order to open fire. Again, the three -bugle calls; and yet again. The horses plunged -and reared; now and again a soldier, struck by -a huge brick, was thrown from his saddle to the -ground. Fierce shouts of execration from the -strikers, the captain of the cuirassiers unsaddled -by half a paving-stone. For the last time, the -three bugle calls. And immediately after them -the command: “Fire!”</p> - -<p>There were yells of agony, there were frightful -oaths—and there was a frantic retreat. The -strikers fled to the open fields, a few hundred -yards away. The troops demolished the barricades, -and occupied every street. When darkness -had descended upon Villeneuve-St-Georges -it was known that three strikers had been shot -dead, and nearly a hundred more or less seriously -wounded. Four officers and a number of soldiers -had been injured. At nine o’clock a group of -strikers, pushing a barrow containing the body -of one of the dead strikers, stopped before the -general commanding the troops, and said: -“Salute your victim.” The general gravely -saluted. Away went the strikers with their -barrow. All night long the cuirassiers and -dragoons patrolled Villeneuve-St-Georges and the -surrounding open country. In the town itself -no one could sleep for the clatter on the cobble-stones -of the horses’ hoofs.</p> - -<p>Such were the scenes in the sandpit district -yesterday; but to-day—the day after—a comparative<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span> -calm has succeeded the storm. When -I enter Villeneuve-St-Georges, officers and soldiers -are walking and riding about the streets, and -now and again a patrolling party goes by. Here -and there, groups of strikers, in their baggy blue -trousers. And in the wine-shops, which are full, -long, animated conversations. Who was in the -wrong? No one denies that it was the strikers -who fired first; no one disputes the patience of -the troops, who remained imperturbable, motionless -in their saddles, amidst a storm of bricks and -bottles, for two whole hours. Then, most of the -soldiers fired in the air: had they fired on the -men the slaughter would have been terrific. -Here in this wine-shop, I hear all this, and not -only from the soldiers, but from the strikers, -who are present. Yes; the soldiers and strikers, -twenty-four hours after the conflict, are drinking -and conversing together: fraternising, resting -their hands on one another’s shoulders. Very -rough and very large are the hands of the navvies: -the hands that hurled the bottles and bricks. -And very grimy, very weary, very eyesore are the -dragoons and cuirassiers, after having patrolled -the district all night.</p> - -<p>Extraordinary this “fraternising”! The -enemies of yesterday sit at the same table. The -men in uniform and the men in the baggy blue -trousers clink glasses together.</p> - -<p>“Of course I have done my military service, -but I was never sent to a strike,” says one of the -navvies.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span></p> - -<p>“You were lucky,” replies a dragoon, with a -laugh.</p> - -<p>Who was at fault? “It is all the fault of -les patrons—the masters,” states a striker; and -he proceeds to relate how he and his colleagues -are underpaid and overworked: how they are -treated as slaves by the masters. It is also -“Clemenceau’s fault.” Why did he send troops? -There was no disorder: there was no need for -soldiers. “Clemenceau has treated us as he -treated the miners at Courrières.” And the men -in the blue trousers mutter angrily against the -French Premier.</p> - -<p>Another wine-shop, and the same scene: strikers -and soldiers fraternising. Says one of the former: -“Let us have another coffee; for to-night we -may be fighting again.” Replies a cuirassier: -“One never knows. But remember we are the -stronger.” Officers passing down the street -glance into the open doors of the wine-shops, -and smile indulgently at the strange spectacle. -“The General!” suddenly cries a navvy. And -the General it is: a tall, slim man, keen-eyed, -grey-headed, dignified. After looking up and -down the street, he enters a café with three -officers. Coffee and a liqueur for M. le Général. -A penny cigar for M. le Général. A dozen navvies -crowd into the café, sit down, and scrutinise -M. le Général. He smiles, then resumes his -conversation with the officers. But he rises all -of a sudden to shake hands warmly with the -Captain of the cuirassiers who was thrown off<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span> -his horse by half a paving-stone in yesterday’s -conflict. The Captain’s head is bandaged; one -sees only his nose and his ears, and his left hand -is in a sling.</p> - -<p>“Ça va mieux?” asks the General.</p> - -<p>“Ce n’est rien, mon Général,” replies the -Captain.</p> - -<p>“It was not his fault. And he saluted the -body of our comrade,” says a navvy, of the -General.</p> - -<p>“He must suffer, but he does not show it. -And he looks sympathetic,” says another striker, -of the Captain.</p> - -<p>Amazing this good-fellowship! Only in France -could it be witnessed, and for the reason that in -France every man is, or has been, a soldier. -The officers call their men “my children.” The -officers also call the strikers “my children”; -how often, down at bleak, tragical Courrières, -did I hear them implore the miners to retreat, -whilst the flints and bricks were flying savagely -about them; and how often were the three bugle -calls sounded, when, according to stern military -law, they should have been sounded but once! -“My children,” cried an old Colonel at Courrières, -“for the love of heaven, retire. It will break -our hearts to shoot. Once again, for the love -of heaven, retire.”</p> - -<p>Such then is the condition, the temper of -Villeneuve-St-Georges to-day: twenty-four hours -after the battle. Nor will the battle be resumed. -The strike of the sandpit men—like all strikes in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span> -France—has been quashed by the soldiers. Only -memories remain, and relics, and landmarks. -By the side of the street lies the debris of the -barricades. On the walls are dents, scratches, -holes made by the bullets. Now and again an -injured man, soldier or striker, more or less -bandaged, passes by. In the wine-shops and -cafés, the men in uniform and the men in the -baggy blue trousers continue to discuss yesterday’s -conflict over their coffee, and fraternise.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI<br /> -<span class="smaller">COTTIN & COMPANY</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>Here, under the shadow of the great Porte -St-Martin, congregate old actors and old -actresses, who are engaged either at vast, -shabby, outlying theatres (Batignolles, Ternes, -Belleville, Bouffes du Nord), or who are only -awaiting an engagement somewhere, anywhere.</p> - -<p>Old actors and actresses on the kerbstone, old -actors and old actresses in this dingy little café, -with the hard benches, grimy windows and dusty -floor. Among the old actors, old Cottin.</p> - -<p>How, as he stands dejectedly on the kerbstone -or sits gloomily before his glass of coffee, how, if -he liked, could old Cottin amuse and surprise us -with his tales! His Majesty King Edward VII., -when Prince of Wales, was pleased to compliment -old Cottin on his humorous expression and wink -and grin; old Cottin who has lost that grin, and -whose expression is more tragic than comic, and -whose dim eye winks no longer. The name—“Cottin”—appeared -in gigantic characters on -the bills; the entrance of Cottin was the signal -for laughter and applause. But if ever the name -of Cottin again appear on a theatrical poster it -will be in some obscure, out-of-the-way theatre; -and if ever Cottin again addresses an audience it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span> -will be feebly, unspontaneously, from a rough, -draughty old stage. And if we could witness the -awakening and rising of old Cottin in his chilly -little attic, we should not see him attended by a -valet as in former days: but assist at the spectacle -of old Cottin brushing vehemently away at his -threadbare clothes, and stitching up a rent with a -darning needle, and clipping the fray from off his -collars and cuffs with blunt, rusty scissors, and -generally aspiring to smarten himself up, with the -object of obtaining an engagement somewhere, -anywhere.</p> - -<p>Under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, -on the kerbstone or in the dingy little café, in his -greasy hat and threadbare clothes, old Cottin -awaits the arrival of small suburban or provincial -managers. It is their practice to come -here when in need of an actor who will play innumerable -rôles, at forty or fifty francs a week; -and they pick out their actors brusquely, roughly, -and with many a coarse joke. But once old Cottin -dealt only with renowned, illustrious managers.</p> - -<p>“Mon bon Cottin,” said the renowned, illustrious -managers.</p> - -<p>“Mon cher directeur,” said the renowned, -illustrious Cottin.</p> - -<p>“Epatant, étourdissant, extraordinaire,” was -the boulevardier’s enthusiastic appreciation of -Cottin.</p> - -<p>Poor old Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre!</p> - -<p>Let us not go prying into the secrets of Cottin’s -life; the cause of his gloom and downfall is not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span> -our affair. Nor are we entitled to search the -careers of these other old actors and actresses who, -perhaps in their day, were almost as famous as -Cottin; and who, like him, have very much come -down in the world. Anyhow, there is genuine, -friendly sympathy between these shabby, clean-shaven -old fellows—and also between their -sisters, who are over-stout or over-thin, over-“made-up” -or over-pale, over-garrulous or over-still. -In this café, they are <i>chez eux</i>, they are <i>en -famille</i>. In this café, they speak frankly, easily -of themselves. Madame Marguerite de Brémont, -for instance: a woman of sixty, with great black -eyebrows, a powdered face, and a deep, deep voice. -Enormous is Madame Marguerite de Brémont, -who is cast for the part of <i>chiffonnière</i>, mad-woman, -hideous, unnatural mother, at the Batignolles -Theatre, at forty-five francs a week. -With her, a shabby black bag, and also, as a last -<i>coquetterie</i>, a black satin reticule, from which she -occasionally produces an old powder puff, and a -handkerchief edged (by her own hand) with -coarse yellow lace. Such a deep, deep voice, and -such sweeping, melodramatic gestures with, alas! -rough, large hands. Forty-five francs a week, -but, honour of honours, a benefit performance -this summer. And Madame Marguerite de Brémont -is telling a group of superannuated comedians -that, upon this glorious occasion, the manager will -allow her to have the pick of the Batignolles wardrobe. -She will appear in no fewer than five melodramatic -rôles, “created” by her twenty, thirty<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span> -years ago; and, in looking over the Batignolles -wardrobe, she has been particularly impressed by -a heavy, yellow velvet dress trimmed lavishly -with pearls.</p> - -<p>“Yellow was my colour,” says Madame -Marguerite de Brémont, “and, for jewellery, I -always wore pearls.”</p> - -<p>“Our Marguerite,” observes an emaciated old -fellow, “will have an extraordinary reception. -We shall all cry: ‘Vive la de Brémont!’”</p> - -<p>“Ma chère,” puts in a faded, wrinkled woman, -with bright (and bad) gold hair, “I have always -said that yellow was your colour. All women -have their hair, but the actresses of to-day wear -any colour, and the result is deplorable.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” says the de Brémont, “I shall -appear in yellow.” And she powders her face -feverishly, at the prospect of once again appearing -in yellow and pearls.</p> - -<p>“C’est bien, ça”: exclaims old Cottin, at the -conclusion of an anecdote. A charming anecdote, -related thus, by a little imp of a man, with -the comedian’s large mouth and ever-changing -expression.... In an actor’s charitable home -the doyen of them all is an old fellow of eighty-four, -who was a favourite in his day. He passes -the time pleasantly enough, in toddling about the -garden on a stick, and in reading faded, yellow -Press criticisms of years and years ago that -describe him as “marvellous,” “incomparable,” -“irresistible.” But, one morning, he hears that -his sister-in-law—once a brilliant vaudeville<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span> -actress—is homeless and penniless, at the tragic -age of seventy-nine, and he becomes gloomy and -silent: and he asks to see the manager of the -home. “We are full,” replies the manager, -“and so we cannot receive your sister-in-law.” -The old fellow’s eyes become dim, and at last the -old fellow explains: “I wish to marry my sister-in-law.” -Gently the manager observes: “But -even if you marry her, there will be a difficulty. -Our rations are limited, and if you marry her -there will only be one portion for the two.” A -meeting between the old fellow of eighty-four and -the old woman of seventy-nine. And a marriage -between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old -woman of seventy-nine, attended by all the old -actors and old actresses of the Home, not one of -whom tells less than sixty, not one of whom can -toddle about without a stick. Bottles of champagne, -from the manager of the Home. An -address, from the aged inmates of the Home. And -to-day the old couple toddle about together in -the garden, and together read the Press criticisms -of years and years ago, and together recall the -days when the one was a brilliant vaudeville -actress, and the other was a “marvellous, an -incomparable, an irresistible” comedian.</p> - -<p>A flashy-looking young man in a check suit -and pink shirt looks in, and tells old Cottin and -others that “there is nothing to-day”—an agent -for the suburban, the provincial theatres.</p> - -<p>“By all means, yellow,” he says carelessly, -in reply to Madame Marguerite de Brémont’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span> -anxious question as to what colour she should -wear. Then, more amiably: “I subscribe for -twenty francs, and if you receive a bouquet of -roses, yellow roses, preserve it in memory of your -devoted Jules.”</p> - -<p>“Ce bon Jules!” exclaims the de Brémont, as -Jules, the agent, hurries out of the café. “Il a -du cœur, celui-là.” And opens the black bag. -And scribbles down something—probably -“20 francs”—in a little greasy book, with a -stump of a pencil. And heaves a deep sigh of -satisfaction. And expresses the hope that she -will not be too <i>émotionnée</i> on the night of her -benefit.</p> - -<p>At least thirty old actors and old actresses in -the café: and most of them with empty glasses. -A lull, during which many look vacantly before -them, while others tap with their boots on the floor -and drum with their fingers on the tables. Great -yawns, and occasional stretching of arms, and -often the exclamation: “Mais je m’ennuie, je -m’ennuie!” In a corner, a dingy waiter is -sprawled over a racing paper, and behind the -counter, the burly proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, -dozes. Outside, the hoarse shouts of the <i>camelots</i>, -selling the evening papers. Outside, the animation -of the boulevards.</p> - -<p>“Messieurs, Mesdames.”</p> - -<p>A quick, brusque voice, and a short, stout little -man, with a huge watch-chain, an umbrella, a -thick black moustache, a double chin and a great -swollen neck.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span></p> - -<p>“Has Jules been here? What is the use of -Jules? What is the use of any agent? I call at his -office; he is not there. I ask where he is; no -one can tell. I come here—although I have not a -moment to spare.”</p> - -<p>A manager; at last, a manager! And the -manager of one of the vast, shabby, outlying -theatres, who also sends companies out on tour.</p> - -<p>“I have need of four men, two ladies, and a -child, for <i>The Terror of the Fortifications</i>. Tour -starts at St Quentin on Monday week, and lasts -twenty-one weeks. I want workers. Salary for -men, not more than fifty francs; for women, forty -to fifty; for the child, twenty-five.”</p> - -<p>“Mais c’est bien, c’est très bien, Monsieur le -Directeur,” says old Cottin, say old Cottin’s -comrades. And old Cottin and three of his friends, -and the faded, wrinkled lady with the bright -(and bad) gold hair, and one of her friends, all rise -before Monsieur le Directeur.</p> - -<p>“I will try to find the child,” says the faded -woman.</p> - -<p>“Girl,” says the director. “Small, thin and -not over eleven. Come to see me to-morrow -morning at twelve.” And the stout director -waddles out.</p> - -<p>“They say it is <i>épatant</i>, the <i>Terror of the Fortifications</i>,” -observes an old actor.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” replies old Cottin absentmindedly: old -Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre.</p> - -<p>“Au revoir,” says Madame Marguerite de -Brémont, picking up her reticule and bag. “Au<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span> -revoir, and good luck. I shall tell the director to-night -that I have chosen the yellow and pearls.”</p> - -<p>Four old actors, and two old actresses, at one -table, with their heads together.</p> - -<p>“The curtain rises in a hovel,” says one of the -old actors, and proceeds to narrate the plot of -<i>The Terror of the Fortifications</i>.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE LATIN QUARTER</span></h2> - -</div> - -<h3>1. <span class="smcap">Mère Casimir</span></h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Il était une fois.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>After weeks of summer idleness the students -of the Latin Quarter return in October to -the Boul’ Mich’ more exhilarated, more -extravagant, more garrulous than ever. They -are delighted to be back; they are impatient -to <i>conspuer</i> certain professors; to parade the -streets with lanterns and guys; to disturb -the sleep of the bourgeois; to run into debt with -their landlords, to embrace the policemen—to -commit a hundred other follies. Clad in new -corduroys, covered with astonishing hats, they -call for big <i>bocks</i>—then question the waiter. -But ere he can give a recital of what has taken -place on the Rive Gauche during the holidays, -the waiter—<i>ce sacré</i> François—has to hear -how Paul (of the Faculty of Medicine) has been -bathing, Pierre (of the Law) bicycling, Gaston -(of the Fine Arts) gardening; and how all three -of them wore “le boating” costume (whatever -that may signify), with white shoes, pale blue -waistbands and green umbrellas; and how their -food was of the simplest, and their drink, pure, -babylike milk.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span></p> - -<p>Adventures? Romances?</p> - -<p>Well, for an entire month, Paul was as sad, as -lovesick, as pale as a pierrot. <i>She</i> was a blonde -... in a cottage... as sweet and fresh as a -rose... as modest as the violet... as innocent -as a child... who got up with the lark and -retired with the sun. And Paul rose equally early, -to peep over the hedge of her garden and to hear -her sing, as she fed greedy, speckled poultry; and, -from a lane, watched her window—then wandered -sentimentally and wistfully abroad—at night. -Suddenly, she vanished. And when Paul learnt -that she had departed for Normandy to become -the bride of a cousin, Paul of the Faculty of -Medicine—Paul, the gayest character in the Latin -Quarter and the hero of many an affair of the -heart—Paul, lost his appetite, Paul, experienced -the agonies of insomnia, Paul, aged at least a -hundred years all at once.</p> - -<p>Thus Paul. No less reminiscent Pierre and -Gaston. So that their lady friends, Mesdemoiselles -Mimi and Musette—at once jealous and -impatient—proceed to relate their own experiences; -which, by the way, are but flights of -imagination, conceived with the idea of infuriating -the students.</p> - -<p><i>He also</i> was blonde—and wore an <i>incomparable</i> -suit of “le boating.” How <i>he</i> swam—far more -magnificently than Paul! How <i>he</i> bicycled—far -more swiftly than Pierre! How <i>he</i> gardened: -producing infinitely choicer flowers than Gaston’s!</p> - -<p>“Enough! You have never left Paris. All<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span> -those wonderful friends of yours do not exist,” -cry the students. And the <i>sacré</i> waiter François -(who has been toying all this time with his -napkin) at last is permitted to relate what has -been happening in the Latin Quarter during the -summer holidays.</p> - -<p>As a rule, however, he has little to say. Of -course, the Boul’ Mich’ has been dull. Tourists -from “sinister” Germany and from <i>la vieille -Angleterre</i> have “looked” for students and -amusements—naturally in vain. Mademoiselle -Mimi owes nine francs for refreshments. And -Mademoiselle Musette two francs eighty centimes -for a cab fare. That is all.</p> - -<p>But when the students “ushered” in the -present autumn season, François the waiter had -important, solemn news to impart. And it was -with sincere sorrow that they learnt that death, -in their absence, had claimed the queer little old -woman who carried a match-tray in her trembling, -bony hands; who performed feeble, vague dances; -who piped old-time airs, and related old-time -anecdotes; and who had lived amongst Mürger’s -sons, ever since they could remember, under the -name of Mère Casimir....</p> - -<p>No city but Paris could have produced the -little old woman: and no other community would -have put up with her. Were there a Mère -Casimir in London, she would be living in a work-house, -strictly superintended, constantly reprimanded, -and constantly, too, she would appear -in the dock of the police court, and the magistrate<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span> -would say: “I don’t know what to do with you. -You are perfectly incorrigible.” Then this headline -amidst the evening newspaper police reports: -“Her Seventy-Seventh Appearance. Magistrate -Doesn’t Know What To Do With Her. But She -Gets One Month All the Same.”</p> - -<p>In Paris, however, Mère Casimir was free. A -shabby old creature, bent over her tray of matches, -no taller than your walking-stick. Like her -amazing friend, Bibi la Purée, she rarely strayed -from the Latin Quarter. Just as he spoke of -himself as “Bibi,” so she invariably referred to -herself as “la Mère Casimir.” But whereas -“Bibi” had ever led a vagabond life, Mère -Casimir had known luxurious times, triumphant -times: times when worldlings ogled and worshipped -her, as she posed on the stage of the -Opera and drove out in semi-state to the Bois.</p> - -<p>And she laughed in a feeble, cracked voice, when -she described those brilliant days; and rubbed -her withered, trembling old hands; and nodded -and nodded her bowed, white head; and piped -the first line of that haunting, melancholy refrain:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Il était une fois.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Il était une fois. Once upon a time! But -the descent from luxury to poverty had neither -saddened nor hardened Mère Casimir. Deeply -attached to the students and to Mesdemoiselles -Musette and Mimi, she professed a greater affection -for them than ever she had borne M. le -Marquis or Monseigneur le Duc.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span></p> - -<p>“Des idiots,” she said of the latter.</p> - -<p>“Des cœurs—real hearts,” was her favourite -way of describing the kindly Bohemians of the -Latin Quarter.</p> - -<p>Many years have elapsed since first I saw Mère -Casimir in the Café Procope—“le café de M. -de Voltaire,” now, also, no more. It was one -o’clock in the morning. The olive-man and the -nougat-merchant had paid their last call; the -flower-woman had said good-night; the next -visitor was Mère Casimir. So feeble was she that -she could scarcely push open the door: and when -a waiter let her in, she curtsied to him, then -curtsied to the customers. No one bought her -matches: but she was given <i>bock</i>. Sous were -collected on her behalf by a student; they were -to persuade her to dance. But Mère Casimir -had grown stiff with time. She could do no more -than hop and curtsy, bob and bend, smile and -crow, kiss and wave her withered old hand.</p> - -<p>“Il était une fois,” she protested, at the end.</p> - -<p>“Once upon a time.” Invited to seat herself -at my table, Mère Casimir told me how she had -shone at the Opera; how she had attended -notorious, extravagant suppers and balls; how -she had broken hearts; how Napoleon III. himself -had noticed her; how she used to sing -Béranger ditties.... She would sing one now -... one of her favourites.... “Listen.” Rising, -she piped feebly again.</p> - -<p>Ah, the Elysée! Mère Casimir compared -it contemptuously to the Tuileries, and sighed.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span> -What was a President to an Emperor? What -was the Opera to-day? and the Bois? and -the Jockey Club? “The vulgar Republic has -changed all that,” she complained. “It disgusts -me—this Republic.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly the old woman became silent. Bent -in half behind the table, she was scarcely visible. -Minutes went by, but she remained motionless. -And at last the waiter, thinking her asleep, -called out:</p> - -<p>“Eh bien, la vieille?”</p> - -<p>Then, Mère Casimir started, and nodded her -head, and rose, and thanked the customers with -a last curtsy, and told them she hoped to dance -to them on another occasion; and, before going -out into the darkness, murmured again:</p> - -<p>“Il était une fois.”</p> - -<p>A few nights later I met her on the Boul’ -Mich’ whilst she was passing from table to table -on the terrace of the Café d’Harcourt.</p> - -<p>The students were kind to her; so were -Mürger’s daughters, Mesdemoiselles Musette and -Mimi. And she was given olives and nougat, -and a number of sous, and even a rose. And the -waiters were friendly also; and so was the stout, -black-coated proprietor.</p> - -<p>In return, Mère Casimir sang her song and -danced her dance, and was applauded and -encored—even by the policeman at the corner.</p> - -<p>At two o’clock in the morning, when the Latin -Quarter cafés close, the old woman disappeared.</p> - -<p>No one knew where she lived. But she could<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span> -be seen feebly making her way up the Boul’ -Mich’ and, turning, to pass the Panthéon. There -the streets soon become narrow and dim. Apaches -and <i>chiffonniers</i> abound. One or two sinister-looking -wine-shops remind one of those in the -<i>Mystères de Paris</i>. Through the grimy windows, -one can watch the customers, seated at rude -tables within.</p> - -<p>And once, while exploring this neighbourhood, -I perceived Mère Casimir seated next to Bibi -la Purée behind one of those windows; with a -bottle of wine in front of them. And I entered -and approached them, apologising for my -intrusion.</p> - -<p>Bibi was the host: Bibi, “the original with an -amazing past,” who in days gone by had been -Verlaine’s valet and friend: and who—after the -death of the “Master”—became obsessed with -an unholy passion for umbrellas; anyone’s -umbrellas—all umbrellas—new, middle-aged, -decrepit. Bibi, tall and gaunt, with sunken -cheeks, lurid green eyes, an eternal, wonderful -grin, and—— But Bibi cannot be described -in passing. Bibi deserves a chapter to himself, -and Bibi has had that chapter elsewhere.<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p>Well, Bibi was the host, and Mère Casimir his -guest. Several nights a week they met in this -manner. There in the grimy wine-shop they -exchanged reminiscences: Bibi, of Verlaine; Mère -Casimir, of M. le Marquis and other <i>roués</i> under -the Empire. There they drank sour red wine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span> -and took pinches of snuff: Bibi provided the -wine, Mère Casimir the snuff. There they chanted -Béranger ditties: Bibi huskily, Mère Casimir -in her feeble, cracked voice. There they were -happy and at peace: an extraordinary couple.</p> - -<p>At intervals rough-looking men slouched in -and out. Whispering went on in corners. But -no one heeded Bibi and Mère Casimir, and they -themselves paid no attention to the dubious -drinkers in the place.</p> - -<p>“He is gay, isn’t he, my Bibi?” the old -woman would inquire.</p> - -<p>“She is still young, isn’t she, la Mère Casimir?” -the old fellow demanded.</p> - -<p>Then Mère Casimir laughed in her feeble, -cracked voice, and rubbed her withered old -hands, and nodded her bowed white head, and -piped the first line of the sad refrain:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Il était une fois.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> <i>Paris of the Parisians.</i></p> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>2. <span class="smcap">Gloom on the Rive Gauche</span></h3> - -<p>Sometimes in the Latin Quarter come grave -moments, grim and gloomy moments—moments -when the students shun the cafés; when their -lady friends, Mesdemoiselles Mimi and Musette—Mürger’s -daughters, Daughters of Bohemia—look -pale and anxious, and whisper together as -though alarmed; when the spectator, observing -this depression, becomes himself depressed. At -such a time the women whose clothes are shabby, -whose faces are tragical (the faded Mimis, the -Musettes of years ago) come out of those corners<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span> -to which their unattractiveness has condemned -them; come out, and congregate—skeletons some -of them, swollen, shapeless creatures the rest—all, -considering their usual comparative obscurity, -ominous. When the temper of the Quarter is -blithe, they must look on forlornly from the background. -No one heeds them; no one invites -them to accept an olive or sip a <i>bock</i>. But when -the Quarter has been horrified by some tragedy, -some crime, they, on account of their memories -and experiences, on account, too, of their own -connection with tragedy—they, then, are sought -after; they, then, talk the most; they, then, -hold the longest and completest version of the -matter that has brought on the gloom.</p> - -<p>Recently, at three o’clock in the morning, I -heard these shabby, solitary women chattering -more ominously than usual in Madame Bertrand’s -hospitable milk-shop. There, after the cafés -have been closed, the students assemble to -devour sandwiches, <i>brioches</i>, hot rolls; but upon -the occasion in question the only customers -present were Mürger’s elderly, unattractive -daughters. And whilst sipping hot milk or coffee, -and biting hungrily into a penny roll, they -listened to the tale of a woman—the palest, the -most wasted of this forlorn group of women, -whose coat and skirt were red, whose boots were -muddy, whose gloves betrayed stitching done -upstairs in her dim back room.</p> - -<p>Occasionally her narrative was interrupted -by a short, sharp cough. She lost her breath;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span> -pressed her hand to her breast; cleared her -throat.</p> - -<p>“Continue,” said the others impatiently. “I -continue,” she replied.</p> - -<p>And then, whilst listening also, I learnt that -a certain Marcelle played the chief rôle in the -story: Marcelle, blithest of Mürger’s younger -daughters, Marcelle the <i>vraie gamine</i>, Marcelle -the lively little lady who always wore a bicycling -suit, yet never bicycled; who appeared seventeen, -but in reality was twenty-two; who danced -down the Boul’ Mich’ arm-in-arm with the -students—she the gayest of the party, her step -the lightest, her Chinese lantern the largest; who -was liked by one and all, and to whom everyone -was <i>mon cher</i>.... Marcelle the Candid! A -brunette, she took it into her head to become -a blonde. “C’est chic d’être blonde,” she cried: -then some days later appeared on the Boul’ Mich’ -with flaxen hair. And she drew attention to this -striking metamorphosis, exclaiming: “Inspect -me; stare at me! Am I not ravishing? Isn’t -it a success? Such a dye! Only five francs a -bottle—a large bottle—also perfumed!” And -drank a toast... “to the new colour!” And -vowed that, with it, began a new era. And afterwards, -when relating reminiscences, naïvely explained: -“That was in the days when I was -a brunette.” And constantly sang, in a shrill -voice, that favourite sentimental ballad, <i>Les -Blondes</i>.... Marcelle the Sympathetic! Each -student found in her a patient, a friendly listener.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span> -She was ready to bear with chaotic, interminable -narratives of jealousies, worries, woes. She would -propose a drive, a long drive, in an open cab—the -grievance to be unfolded on the way. “Tell -the <i>cocher</i>,” she would say to the student, “to -choose a deserted route—so that you may rage -and despair, and weep as much as you please. -Open your poor heart, <i>mon cher</i>. Keep nothing -back. <i>Allez</i>, you can trust Marcelle.”... -Marcelle the Sentimental, the Nature-loving! -After a noisy luncheon-party in the country, she -would command an adjournment to the wood. -Childlike she sought for flowers, running hither -and thither, uttering shrill little cries of astonishment -and rapture. And lingered and lingered -in the wood. And vowed she would not return -to Paris before the departure of the very last -train. And asked naïve questions about the -moon and the stars. And murmured: “How -sweet is the country, how exquisite!”—shrinking -nevertheless from the bats and mosquitoes. And -went to bed immediately upon reaching Paris—so -as not to spoil “the impression” of the -country. And dreamt happily, dreamt as she -had never dreamt before—“mon cher!”</p> - -<p>Bright Marcelle; and, in spite of her follies, -admirable Marcelle! The shabby, solitary -women—the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years -ago—had in her a friend.</p> - -<p>Had?... Had; but have no longer.</p> - -<p>“<i>Murdered!</i>” said the woman in the red -dress—huskily—in Madame Bertrand’s hospitable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span> -milk-shop, of Marcelle the Blonde. Murdered; -but no matter how. Murdered; and lying in a -room, round the corner, with candles burning -by the death-bed.</p> - -<p>“Tall, tall candles,” continued the woman. -“They burn brightly; and she is not alone. -To-day I have seen her three times. There were -only two wreaths this morning, but there must -be more than twenty now. To-morrow the -concierge will do nothing but take up wreaths.”</p> - -<p>And the woman coughed, the other women -murmured; then the husky voice was heard -again:—</p> - -<p>“They have telegraphed for her brother; her -parents are dead. He is a peasant. He has -never been to Paris. He is twenty-three. He -adored her. I have seen letters of his which -called her ‘ma petite sœur bien aimée.’ He -would have cut himself into pieces for Marcelle.”</p> - -<p>A husky, husky voice. Gestures accompanying -each word, and now and again the short, sharp -cough.</p> - -<p>As the hour advanced, Madame Bertrand’s -stout, bearded manager (installed behind the -counter) began to doze. The servant who distributed -the cups of milk and coffee settled herself -on a stool in the background and closed her eyes. -From the coffee urns, the urns of milk, arose -fumes; the urns of boiling water hissed. Past -the shop, crawled a market-cart, packed thick -and high with vegetables, and, on the top of -the vegetables, sat a sturdy peasant woman, her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span> -head enveloped in a handkerchief. Through the -windows one might see two policemen gossiping -over the way; a vagrant limping by; the eternal -<i>chiffonnier</i>, stooping over the gutter in quest of -stumps of cigars and cigarettes. Only in the -milk-shop was there light, a pale, unbecoming -light from the lamp overhead. Only here was -there colour, the colours of the shabby women’s -dresses: faded blue, dingy yellow, red. Only -<i>chez</i> Madame Bertrand was there a group—a -group of frightened, haunted women, fifteen or -so. No woman went her way. None felt strong, -secure enough to endure the solitude of her dim -<i>chambre meublée</i>. Perhaps they remained there -until dawn. Perhaps they were still there, when -the first workman passed. And no doubt he, -after glancing through the windows, shrugged his -shoulders and soliloquised: “There they are, the -abandoned ones, making another merry night of it.”</p> - -<p>Gloom, next day. Gloom, on the day after. -And greater gloom on the gloomiest day of all—the -day of the funeral.</p> - -<p>A sombre day: clouds hanging close over the -Latin Quarter. A damp day; in the air, mist. -A day when the householders of a certain narrow -street came to their doors; when other residents -appeared at their windows; when spectators -assembled on the kerbstone; when a group of -shabby, forlorn women stood silently beside a -hearse—the shabbiest, the most wasted, a woman -in red.</p> - -<p>She had no other dress. Those in faded blue<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span> -and dingy yellow, had no other dresses. In -Paris, black failing... “one does one’s best.”</p> - -<p>The hearse had just received its light burden, -and the coffin was being covered—thrice covered—with -flowers: mere nosegays, bouquets, wreath -after wreath. By the doorstep, stood Marcelle’s -concierge—a stout woman—crying. Farther -away, three policemen—erect and motionless. -Few students to be seen. But they had sent -their tributes of affection, for the flowers continued -to come—came and came—accompanied -by cards and ribbons: one card bearing the -inscription: “To Our Blonde Marcelle.” Then, -after the last flower had been laid, Mürger’s -young and charming daughters, Mürger’s elderly -and tragical daughters, gathered behind the -hearse. Slowly it advanced, slowly it disappeared—the -policemen saluting, the concierge weeping, -the spectators removing their hats, the bourgeoise -householder crossing herself, the Daughters of -Mürger following immediately behind the hearse; -the woman in red, still the most noticeable.</p> - -<p>The most noticeable, perhaps, because her arm -was drawn through the arm of a young man: -bareheaded, dressed in a coarse black suit: red-eyed, -red-eared, ungainly, uncouth: of the fields, -of the earth, unmistakably, a peasant. With -stooping shoulders and bowed head; stupefied, -wrecked; Marcelle’s peasant brother followed -his “petite sœur bien aimée” to her grave—in -the compassionate charge of the shabby, husky-voiced -woman in red.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span></p> - -<p>Across the bridge, past Notre-Dame: past -theatres, banks, cafés and fine shops: past -hospitals, past hovels, past drinking dens. On -and on, on and on—the mourners silently and -sorrowfully following Marcelle. Still on: the -mourners accompanying Marcelle, once most -blithe of Mürger’s daughters, farther and farther -from Mürger’s land. Onward always, through -the gloom, through the mist, to Marcelle’s last -destination. Then back again, through the mist, -through the gloom, without Marcelle: and -Marcelle the Blonde, Marcelle the <i>Vraie Gamine</i>, -only a memory, only a name.</p> - -<h3>3. <span class="smcap">The Daughter of the Students</span></h3> - -<p>The month of July—eleven years ago. The -year was one of those dear, amazing years when, -in Paris, everybody has a foe, a feud and a fear; -everybody a flush on his face and a gleam in his -eye; everybody a little adventure with the plain -police, the mounted police or the Garde Républicaine. -We are on the march, on the run.</p> - -<p>The Ministry of the moment is—well, who <i>is</i> -Prime Minister this morning? Never mind his -name; he is sure to be a swindler, a “bandit.” -Nothing but “bandits” among the public men. -No purity among the public men; they have all, -all “touched” money in the Panama affair. -No; M. Duval is <i>not</i> an exception. He is as -villainous as the rest. If you persist in your -declaration that he is an exception, you must -have some sinister, interested reason. <i>You</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span> -Monsieur, are no better than M. Duval. You, -too, are a bandit. I say it again, bandit, bandit, -bandit. Come out and fight. Come out and——</p> - -<p>Such a tumult, such a panic in Paris! Houses -searched by the police, and hundreds of suspected -persons arrested. And in the midst of the panic -the good Bohemians of the Latin Quarter also -rise, and march with sticks and lanterns to the -house of Senator Bérenger, and smash his windows, -and groan, and call upon him to come out and be -slain on the spot.</p> - -<p>Unhappy Senator Bérenger, who deemed that -the Quat-z-Arts ball—the great annual ball of -the students—was improper!</p> - -<p>“It was Art,” shout the students.</p> - -<p>“It was a shocking spectacle,” pronounces the -Senator.</p> - -<p>“Come out and be slain,” shout the students.</p> - -<p>“Arrest them,” orders the Senator. And then—O -then—a revolution in the Quarter; then, the -wild, terrifying “Seven Days’ Bagarre.”</p> - -<p>There blaze bonfires; there, arise barricades; -there, lie omnibuses overturned on the Boul’ -Mich’; there, march furious bands of students -who charge and are charged by the police. Mercy, -how we march and how we run! On the fifth -day, we are bandaged, and we limp, but we resume -our manifestations.</p> - -<p>“Come out and be slain,” we yell, below the -Senator’s window.</p> - -<p>“Arrest them,” orders the Senator. “It was -Art,” we almost sob, in the ear of the interviewer.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span></p> - -<p>“It was a shocking spectacle,” declares the -Senator.</p> - -<p>“You must, you shall be slain,” we cry in -frenzy. And then, in the Quarter, appears the -Army; and the Army goes for us; and before -such overwhelming odds, we fly; and twenty of us -who fly and fly find ourselves at last, dishevelled -and breathless, in a dim, deserted side street.</p> - -<p>Not a sound; we are too much exhausted to -speak.</p> - -<p>A moon and stars, silence and peace. Twenty -dishevelled and exhausted students, who sit on -the kerbstone, on doorsteps, to rest. And then, -all of a sudden, a Cry. A feeble, plaintive Cry -from a doorstep: and on the doorstep, a bundle. -Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students before -the bundle; a bundle—that cries. An amazing -discovery, a sensational surprise! The bundle -is a Child; the bundle is a <i>Gosse</i>; the bundle is -a bud of a Girl.</p> - -<p>Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students -strangely in possession of a baby; and who nurse -the baby, and who seek to win her confidence, -with awkward caresses, and by swinging her to -and fro, and by assuring her that she is safe and -sound. And, finally, twenty good Bohemians -who resolve to adopt the Child, and introduce -her formally to their colleagues, and proclaim her -before all the good Bohemians of the Rive Gauche: -“The Adopted Daughter of the Students of the -Latin Quarter.” But, the name, the name? -The Saint for the day is Lucie: so, Lucie. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span> -<i>gosse</i> was found on the last night of the Bagarre: -so, Bagarre. Thus, with the polite prefix, we get:</p> - -<p>Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre.</p> - -<p>Does Paul buy books on the nursing of infants, -or the bringing up of children? And Gaston; -does he go blushing into a shop and stammer out -a request for a baby’s complete outfit? At all -events, awkwardness and unrest in the Quarter. -It is such a responsibility to have a Daughter; -it is such an anxiety to attend adequately to -her needs! And so, after infinite discussion, it -is determined that Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre -shall reside in the home of Enfants Trouvés, until -the best-hearted of foster-mothers in the whole of -France shall have been found.</p> - -<p>Says Paul, gravely: “Country air is indispensable.”</p> - -<p>Says Gaston: “Milk and eggs.”</p> - -<p>Says Pierre: “Companions of her own age.”</p> - -<p>Do the good Bohemians of the Latin France -go forth gravely in quest of foster-mothers? Do -they pass from province to province, comparing -foster-mothers, testing the milk and eggs, studying -local death-rates, wondering and wondering -which is the healthiest and most invigorating of -the various airs? At all events, Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre is ultimately taken to a farm.</p> - -<p>Says Paul: “Nothing better than a farm.”</p> - -<p>Says Gaston: “Fresh milk and eggs every -morn.”</p> - -<p>Says Pierre: “Cows and ducks and hens to -marvel at.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span></p> - -<p>Says Aimery: “None of the pernicious influences -and surroundings of the city.”</p> - -<p>Concludes Xavier: “We have done admirably.”</p> - -<p>Thus, the Committee; a Committee of Five, -whose duty it is to deal with the foster-mother, -whose privilege it is to “look after the affairs” -of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre. Always “sitting,” -this Committee; sitting before ledgers and -ink in the Taverne Lorraine, gifts and subscriptions -to be acknowledged; instructions to be sent -to the foster-mother; inquiries after the health -of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre to be answered; -interviewers to be received; in fine, much business -in the Taverne Lorraine.</p> - -<p>And then, all the students of the Latin Quarter -have a right to demand news of Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre; for all the students are her -fathers; and so, naturally enough, they are -anxious to know whether she has spoken her first -word, and cut her first tooth, and staggered her -first step. It is well that the Committee is patient -and amiable; it is fortunate that the Committee -rejoices in its work; else there would be cries of: -“Laissez-moi tranquille,” and “Fichez-moi la -paix” and “Décampe, ou je t’assomme.”</p> - -<p>Now and then, the Committee visits Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre at her farm; and on their -return a general meeting is held in the Taverne -Lorraine—with Paul in the chair, Paul on the -health, appearance and pastimes of Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre. Paul on the foster-mother, on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span> -the farm; Paul, also, on Mademoiselle Lucie -Bagarre’s diet. Paul, finally, on Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre’s approaching birthday. And, -indeed, on each of her birthdays, the students’ -adopted Daughter receives gifts and an address; -and on Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, more -gifts; and upon every visit of the Committee, a -souvenir of some kind or another. Explains Paul -most wisely: “Children like that.”</p> - -<p>Ah me, the responsibility, the anxiety of having -a Daughter! The moment comes when she -has measles and chicken-pox; and then, what -dark days for the father. And Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre is no exception; Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre has chicken-pox, has measles. In -the Latin Quarter, alarm and emotion. All -Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s many fathers -<i>énervés</i> and agitated. All the fathers suggesting -precautions and remedies. All the fathers trying -to remember what their parents did when -they had chicken-pox and measles. Does the -Committee study books on those diseases? At -all events, the Committee is in constant communication -with the farm. Also, the Committee -proceeds solemnly to the farm. The telegram to -Paris: “No complications. Malady following -its ordinary course.” Another telegram: “Think -it wiser to remain the night.” A third telegram: -“Good night. Took nourishment this morning.” -And in the <i>Etudiant</i> and the <i>Cri du Quartier</i>, the -brilliant organs of the Quarter, the announcement -in large type: “We rejoice to announce that the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span> -adopted Daughter of the students of the Latin -Quarter is now allowed to take air in her garden. -To all her fathers she returns her warmest thanks -for their sympathy, messages and offerings. But -the quite unusual number of her fathers render -it impossible to thank each one of them individually.” -Follows Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s -signature, the scrawling letters, L. B., faithfully -reproduced. Says Paul: “I gave her a pencil-box. -Children adore that.”</p> - -<p>However, four years have elapsed since Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre pained her many dear -fathers by having chicken-pox. To-day, she has -turned eleven, but she still resides far away from -“the pernicious influences and surroundings of -the city.”</p> - -<p>Says Paul: “Country air is still indispensable.”</p> - -<p>Says Gaston: “Always milk and eggs.”</p> - -<p>Says Pierre: “Honest folk about her.”</p> - -<p>Down to the farm goes the Committee: and -back comes the Committee with the report that -Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre can now dive her -hand into the pockets of the Committee’s dear -corduroy waistcoat. She has grown; she is -almost a <i>jeune fille</i>. How, by the way, stands her -banking account? Well: but since the occasion -for increasing it now presents itself, let the occasion -be used to the utmost. The fête of Mi-Carême: -the proceeds of the fête to be set aside -for “la fille adoptive des étudiants, la petite -Lucie Bagarre.” A grand <i>bal masqué</i> at Bullier’s.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span> -Says Paul: “In order to attract the public, we -must be amazing.” All the fathers scheming -how to be amazing. All the fathers painting -themselves and donning fantastic costumes. All -the fathers calling upon Paris to swell their fund -by visiting Bullier’s. And Paris responds: Paris -flocks to Bullier’s.</p> - -<p>An amazing spectacle, and an amazing night: -the good Bohemians have succeeded in being -entirely amazing. Bullier’s packed; Bullier’s all -light, all colour, all movement, when the Committee -of Five proudly surveys the scene.</p> - -<p>Says Paul: “Gold.”</p> - -<p>Says Gaston: “Bank-notes.”</p> - -<p>Says Pierre: “A dot.”</p> - -<p>Says Aimery: “A fortune.”</p> - -<p>Says Xavier: “A veritable heiress.”</p> - -<p>Say the innumerable fathers: “The <i>richissime</i> -Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre.”</p> - -<p>And then, toasts. And then, cheers.</p> - -<p>And then, the resolution that an address, -signed by all her fathers, shall be presented to -their dear adopted Daughter: who, at this advanced -noisy hour, is lying fast asleep in her -farm.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII<br /> -<span class="smaller">MONSIEUR LE ROUÉ</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le -Roué—who could fail to admire him -for the constant, anxious endeavours -he makes, the innumerable secret devices he -employs to appear juvenile and sprightly! That -his figure may be elegant, he wears stays. That -the crow’s feet may not be conspicuous he (or -rather his valet) covers them over with a subtle, -greasy preparation. That his moustache may -not droop, he has it waxed to the extremest degree -of rigidity. And that people may not say: -“Old le Roué is a wreck” and “Old le Roué is -played out,” he goes about the Amazing City—here, -there and everywhere—with a glass in his -eye and a flower in his button-hole, like the gayest -of young worldlings.</p> - -<p>However, it has to be recorded that despite all -his endeavours, despite all his artifices, M. le Roué -remains a shaky, shrunken old fellow, with scanty -white hair, a tired, pallid face and a thin, feeble -voice. Once upon a time—say forty years ago—he -was deemed one of the most brilliant, the most -irresistible ornaments of <i>le Tout Paris</i>; but to-day—forty -years after—he has attained that tragic -period in the life of a vain, superannuated <i>viveur</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span> -when no one, except his valet, is permitted -to see him until two o’clock in the afternoon; -and thus no one, save that faithful attendant, -could give us a picture of M. le Roué when, -after the curtains have been drawn and daylight -has been let into the room, the old gentleman is -served with his cup of chocolate and morsel of dry -toast.</p> - -<p>Still, if we cannot witness his awakening, we -may assuredly assume that M. le Roué is not a -pleasant spectacle in the morning. And it is -equally safe to suppose that his temper is detestable, -his language deplorable, when the valet -shaves his wan cheek, and fastens his stays, and -helps him into his heavy fur coat; and thus, in a -word, turns him into the impeccable if rickety old -beau who lunches every day on the stroke of two -o’clock in Sucré’s white-and-gold restaurant.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur se porte bien?” inquires the -<i>maître d’hôtel</i>, respectfully handing him the menu.</p> - -<p>“Pas mal, pas mal,” replies M. le Roué, in his -thin, feeble voice. And although the old gentleman -has been advised to keep strictly to a diet of -plain foods and Vichy water, both the dishes and -the wines that he orders are elaborate and rich.</p> - -<p>Once again I exclaim: “Wonderful, O most -wonderful M. le Roué,” and once again I demand: -“Who could fail to admire him?”</p> - -<p>He declines to belong to the past, he refuses -to go into retirement; so long as he can stand -up in his stays he is heroically determined to lead -the life of a <i>viveur</i>, a rake. See him, here in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span> -Sucré’s restaurant, revelling over his lobster; -behold him kissing his trembling, white hand to -the lady book-keeper, a handsome young woman -with sparkling diamond earrings; and hear him, -moreover, entertaining Joseph, the <i>maître -d’hôtel</i>, with an account of the lively supper-party -he presided over last night, at which Mesdemoiselles -Liane de Luneville and Marguerite de -Millefleurs (beautiful, brilliant ornaments of the -<i>demi-monde</i>) were present, and Mademoiselle -Pauline Boum, of the Casino de Paris, performed -her latest “eccentric” dance.</p> - -<p>All this from a gentleman half-way through the -seventies! All this from a shaky, shrunken old -fellow who ought, at the present moment, to be -taking a careful constitutional in the Parc -Monceau on the arm of some mild, elderly female -relative—instead of rejoicing over lobster -and Château-Yquem in Sucré’s white-and-gold -restaurant.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur is extraordinary,” says the <i>maître -d’hôtel</i>, by way of flattery.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur is a monster,” says the handsome -lady book-keeper, shaking her diamond earrings.</p> - -<p>And old le Roué the “Extraordinary,” old le -Roué “the Monster,” smiles, winks a dim eye and -laughs. But it has to be stated that his smile is a -leer and that his laugh is a cackle.</p> - -<p>From Sucré’s restaurant M. le Roué proceeds -slowly, leaning heavily on his walking-stick, to a -quiet, comfortable café, where he meets another -heroic old rake—the Marquis de Mô.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span></p> - -<p>But there is this striking difference between the -two: whereas old le Roué is delicately made, -frail, shrunken, old de Mô is enormous, apoplectic, -with flowing white whiskers, a round, bumpy bald -head, a fiery complexion and a huge gouty foot -which is ever encased in a wonderful elastic shoe. -Le Roué and de Mô rejoiced extravagantly together -in the latter brilliant days of the Second -Empire. And to-day, in the year of 1912, they -love to recall their past conquests, duels, follies, -and never tire of abusing the Republican régime.</p> - -<p>“What a Government, what an age!” complains -le Roué.</p> - -<p>“Abominable—odious—sinister,” declares de -Mô.</p> - -<p>Also, our superannuated <i>viveurs</i> recall affectionate -memories of a dear, mutual friend, the late -Comte Robert de Barsac, who died last year, of a -vague illness, shortly after he had riotously celebrated -his seventieth birthday. The truth was, -old de Barsac could not keep pace with old le Roué -and old de Mô. His face became leaden in colour -and his speech rambling and incoherent. And -one night, he suddenly passed away in his sleep -from exhaustion.</p> - -<p>“Ce pauvre cher Robert!” exclaims le Roué -sadly. “Ce pauvre cher Robert!” sighs de Mô.</p> - -<p>Then there is another old friend, still living, -of whom le Roué and de Mô speak affectionately -as they sit together in their corner of the quiet, -comfortable café.</p> - -<p>She is “Madeline”—who, once upon a time, was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span> -the “star” actress at the Variétés theatre. In -truth, Marguerite de Prèsles (as she figured on the -bills) was something of a queen: the queen of the -half-world. The newspapers of that period, in -alluding to her wit, beauty and charm, called -her the “exquisite Madeline”; the “adorable -Madeline”; the “incomparable” Madeline de -Prèsles. Le Roué and de Mô worshipped at her -shrine. And to-day—forty years after—they -often visit her at Pichon’s gaudy night restaurant: -where the “adorable” Variétés actress of years -ago makes constant rounds of the place—with -tinselled boxes of chocolates and a basket of -flowers!</p> - -<p>Yes; “Madeline” sells chocolates and flowers -<i>chez</i> Pichon! And the gold hair has turned white -and the slim figure has swollen, and the once -pretty, bejewelled little hands have become -knotted and coarse; and the old lady herself—the -former radiant “star” of the Variétés—lives in -a sombre <i>hôtel meublé</i> on the outskirts of Paris, -where she passes most of the day in making up -bouquets and button-holes for the painted, rackety -company that assembles nightly at Pichon’s.</p> - -<p>Thus some romance is left in old le Roué and -old de Mô. They still seek out “Madeline.” -They make her presents on New Year’s Day; -nor do they ever fail to remember her birthday. -Once they offered her an annuity—but whilst -expressing her thanks and declaring herself -“touched,” she assured her old admirers that -she was content with the income she derived<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span> -from her speculations in flowers and chocolates: -although (so she added) she held but a scornful -opinion of the modern young worldlings—the -young worldlings of the “odious,” “sinister” -Republic—who were her customers <i>chez</i> Pichon. -And so, attached, by force of memories and by -reason of their long, constant gallantry, so -attached is “Madeline” to old le Roué, and old -de Mô, that when those two valiant old rakes -are seized with rheumatism or gout, and are -obliged most unwillingly and angrily to lie up, -she pays them daily visits; and refreshes and -embellishes their rooms with her flowers; and -reminds them vivaciously and wittily of the epoch—the -wonderful epoch—when all three of them -were gay, brilliant ornaments of the Amazing -City....</p> - -<p>And now, night-time.</p> - -<p>Behold M. le Roué dining royally, and -haunting the <i>coulisses</i> of the Opera, and playing -baccarat, with trembling hands, in the Cercle -Doré, and entertaining (as we have already recorded) -Mesdemoiselles Liane de Luneville and -Marguerite de Millefleurs, and the eccentric -Mademoiselle Pauline Boum, to supper in a -gilded, bemirrored <i>cabinet particulier</i>.</p> - -<p>All this he does long after the innumerable -electric advertising devices (Fontain’s Perfumes—Carré’s -Gloves—Cherry Brandy of the Maison -Joyeux et Fils) have begun to blink and dance -on the boulevards; and long after M. le Roué, -with his five and seventy years, should have been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span> -tucked up in bed—his old brain at rest and his -old head enveloped in a night-cap.</p> - -<p>But M. le Roué declines to return home, M. le -Roué refuses to close his dim eyes, until he has -visited one of those modern rackety “American” -bars—the “High Life,” for instance—where the -young worldlings of to-day sit upon high stools, -and absorb cocktails, <i>crème de menthe</i> and icy -“sherry-cobblers.” And it is wonderful to witness -frail, shaky M. le Roué climb up on to his stool; -and the spectacle becomes still more wonderful -when apoplectic, gouty old de Mô laboriously -follows his example.</p> - -<p>Thus M. le Roué goes to the “High Life,” goes -here, there and everywhere, like the gayest and -most adventurous of young worldlings. And -wherever he goes, the waiters and attendants -exclaim: “Monsieur is astonishing!” and -“Monsieur is extraordinary!” and their flattery -pleases the old gentleman.</p> - -<p>“Pas mal, pas mal,” he replies in his thin, -feeble voice, and with his leer.</p> - -<p>However, there come times when M. le Roué -is particularly shaky and shrunken, when he -looks peculiarly superannuated and frail; and -at these times he resents the obsequious compliments -of the waiters.</p> - -<p>“No, no,” he cries shrilly. “I am a very -old man, and I am feeling very weak and very ill.” -After which confession, he buries his head in his -trembling, white hands, and mutters to himself, -strangely, beneath his breath.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span></p> - -<p>The waiters then look at him curiously. And -old de Mô protests: “What nonsense, <i>mon -ami</i>; what folly, <i>mon vieux</i>. There is nothing -the matter with you. You are perfectly well.”</p> - -<p>But old de Mô’s expression is nevertheless -anxious.</p> - -<p>Is he about to lose his last remaining companion -of years ago? Is he shortly to sit in that corner -of the quiet, comfortable café—alone?</p> - -<p>He cannot but acknowledge to himself that in -old le Roué’s face there is the same leaden colour -and in old le Roué’s speech the same incoherency -that manifested themselves in their mutual dear -friend and contemporary, the late Comte Robert -de Barsac, a short while before he vaguely passed -away.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX">IX<br /> -<span class="smaller">FRENCH LIFE AND THE FRENCH STAGE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<h3>1. <span class="smcap">M. Paul Bourget, the Reactionary Playwright, -and M. Pataud, who put out the Lights of Paris</span></h3> - -<p>In a boulevard café, over his favourite, -strange mixture of strawberry syrup and -champagne, a well-known Paris journalist -recently called my attention to the profusion of -playwrights of high, indisputable ability now -writing for the French stage.</p> - -<p>“There are not enough theatres to accommodate -them all,” he said. “The papers inform us that -X—— has just finished a new <i>chef-d’œuvre</i>, but -often four, six, even ten months will elapse ere -the masterpiece can be produced. Why? Because -there is no room for X——. He must wait -his turn; and in his leisure—O admirable -fertility—he writes yet another play.”</p> - -<p>“Nevertheless you have three important -<i>répétitions générales</i> this week,” I remarked. -“Capus to-morrow, Donnay at the Français -on Wednesday, and de Flers and Caillavet, the -Inexhaustible, on Friday.”</p> - -<p>“Charming Capus, delightful Donnay, amazing -de Flers and Caillavet,” exclaimed my companion. -“Listen; we are free for an hour. Let us run over<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span> -the names of our leading playwrights—a formidable -list. Garçon, another glass”—and away went -the waiter in quest of more syrup and champagne.</p> - -<p>Of course, no mere “running over” of the -great name of Rostand. Both of us soon found -ourselves reciting passages from <i>Cyrano</i>, <i>Chantecler</i>, -<i>La Princesse Lointaine</i>—my friend eloquently -and emotionally, myself alas! with the natural -embarrassment and self-consciousness of the -foreigner. “Au trot, au galop,” said my companion, -glancing at the clock. And rapidly we -proceeded to review the “formidable list” of -France’s leading dramatists:—Paul Hervieu, the -cultured, polished author of <i>Le Dédale</i> and <i>La -Course au Flambeau</i>. Violent, destructive Henri -Bernstein—<i>La Griffe</i>, <i>La Rafale</i>, <i>Samson</i>. Henri -Lavedan, brilliantly audacious in <i>Le Nouveau Jeu</i>, -delightfully ironical in the <i>Marquis de Priola</i>, but -serious, profound (a veritable <i>tour de force</i>) in -<i>Le Duel</i>. Then Capus, the tolerant, the sympathetic: -<i>Nôtre Jeunesse</i>, <i>Les Passagères</i>, <i>Monsieur -Piégois</i>. Émile Fabre, wonderful manipulator -of stage “crowds,” <i>Les Ventres Dorés</i>. Lively, -brilliant de Flers and Caillavet, <i>Le Roi</i>, <i>L’Ane de -Buridan</i>, <i>L’Amour Veille</i>. Worldly, cynical Abel -Hermant, <i>Les Transatlantiques</i>, <i>Monsieur de -Courpière</i>. Jules Lemaître, tender in <i>La Massière</i>, -tragical in <i>Bertrad</i>. Brieux: the amusing -<i>Hannetons</i>, sombre, harrowing <i>Maternité</i>. Georges -Porto-Riche, <i>L’Amoureuse</i>, perhaps the finest -modern comedy in the repertoire of the French -National Theatre. Sound admirable Donnay,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span> -<i>Amants</i>, <i>Le Retour de Jérusalem</i>. Anatole France, -the incomparable <i>Crainquebille</i>. MM. Arquillière -and Bernède, with their masterly pictures of -military life, <i>La Grande Famille</i>, <i>Sous l’Epaulette</i>. -Romantic, vigorous Jean Richepin, <i>Le Chemineau</i>. -Sardonic, anarchical Octave Mirbeau, <i>Les Affaires -sont les Affaires</i>, <i>Le Foyer</i>. Humane, chivalrous -Pierre Wolff, <i>L’Age d’Aimer</i> and <i>Le Ruisseau</i>. -Georges Ancey, earnest investigator into the -hidden crafty practices of the Catholic Church, -<i>Ces Messieurs</i>. Gentle, elegant Romain Coolus, -<i>L’Enfant chérie</i> and <i>Une Femme Passa</i>. Grim, -lurid André de Lorde of the Grand Guignol. -Ardent, passionate Henri Bataille, <i>Un Scandale</i>, -<i>La Vierge Folle</i>, <i>La Femme Nue</i>.</p> - -<p>“Formidable, formidable!” exclaimed our -Paris journalist, wiping his brow.</p> - -<p>“There remains M. Paul Bourget,” I said.</p> - -<p>“M. Paul Bourget is ponderous, prejudiced, -pedantic,” objected my companion. “I have -just seen his latest photograph, which shows him -seated at his writing-desk in a frock coat. Novels -of life in the Faubourg St Germain, such as -M. Bourget has produced, may possibly be written -in a frock coat—<i>not</i> plays.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt the coat was only put on for the -visit of the photographer,” I charitably suggested.</p> - -<p>“M. Paul Bourget’s plays convey the impression—no, -the conviction—that they were written -in the conventional, cramped armour of a frock -coat,” was the solemn, categorical retort.</p> - -<p>Now for M. Bourget, on his side it would be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span> -permissible to object that a gentleman who takes -thick strawberry syrup in his champagne commits -no less of an enormity than the dramatist -who writes his plays in a frock coat; and that -therefore, he, M. Bourget, considers himself untouched -by the allegations directed against him -from that hostile and eccentric quarter. Nevertheless, -an examination of M. Bourget’s dramatic -work—<i>Un Divorce</i>, <i>L’Emigré</i>, <i>La Barricade</i>—compels -the comparison that whereas his fellow-playwrights -adopt the theatre exclusively as a -sphere in which to hold up a vivid, faithful, -scrupulously impartial picture of scenes from -actual life—<i>la vie vivante</i>—M. Bourget uses the -stage, ponderously, as a platform or a pulpit. -His views on social questions—the dominant -ideas, the passions of the hour—are well known. -They are autocratic, severe: in the French sense -of the word, “correct.” But it unfortunately -happens that <i>l’homme correct</i> possesses none of -those indispensable attributes required of the -playwright—an open mind, imagination, a sense -of humour. A firm clerical and the irreconcilable -antagonist of divorce, M. Bourget naturally -maintains that in a spiritual emergency, women, -as well as men, are more efficaciously helped to -right conduct by priestly government than by -habits of self-reliance. Then his sympathies -have ever rested undisguisedly with the classes he -has portrayed in his novels—the languid worldling -of the Faubourg St Germain, the <i>haute bourgeoisie</i>, -the despotic <i>châtelain</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span></p> - -<p>“M. Bourget is not interested in humble people. -The vicissitudes, the amours, the miseries of the -lower classes, he deems beneath his notice. He -concerns himself only with the emotions of the -elegant and the rich,” bitter, sardonic M. Octave -Mirbeau makes one of his characters remark. -And, truly enough, it has to be affirmed that -however hard he may have tried to repress his -aristocratic proclivities and prejudices when writing -for the stage, the author of <i>Un Divorce</i> and -<i>La Barricade</i> has remained, despite his endeavours, -<i>l’homme autoritaire, l’homme correct</i>.</p> - -<p>“Je ne connais pas des idées généreuses,” he -has announced. “Je ne connais que des idées -vraies ou fausses, et il ne vaudrait pas la peine -d’écrire si ce n’était pas pour énoncer les idées -que l’on croit et que l’on sait vraies.” And in -the press, in conferences, in prefaces, the “eminent -Academician” (as the clerical <i>Gaulois</i> monotonously -designates M. Bourget) has furthermore -declared that <i>Un Divorce</i> and <i>La Barricade</i> were -written in a rigorously impartial spirit. But -other critics maintain that the controversies that -have raged around M. Bourget’s dramatic efforts -(started with no little pretentiousness by the -author himself) establish nothing. The plays -speak for themselves.</p> - -<p>M. Bourget’s observations have persuaded him -that the rebellious spirit prevailing amongst the -working classes is a menace to his country:</p> - -<p>“C’est cette sensation du danger présent que -j’aurais voulu donner dans <i>La Barricade</i> sûr, si<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span> -j’avais pu y réussir, d’avoir servi utilement ma -classe, et par conséquent mon pays.”</p> - -<p>But according to M. Pataud, the notorious -ex-Secretary of the Syndicate of Electricians, -M. Bourget carried away with him a totally false -impression of the men and places he professes so -closely, and also so impartially, to have studied.</p> - -<p>A word about M. Pataud. It was shortly after -he had ordered the Electricians’ strike that -plunged Paris almost into darkness for two hours,<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> -and at the zenith of his fame, that the “Roi de -la Lumière” attended a performance of <i>La -Barricade</i> at the Vaudeville Theatre. It had -been reported that he had served M. Bourget as -a model for the character of Thubeuf, the professional -agitator in the play. This, M. Bourget -emphatically denied. “Let me see for myself,” -said M. Pataud. And he requested M. Bourget -to send him a ticket of admission to the theatre, -and humorously offered to return the compliment -by placing a seat in the Bourse du Travail at the -dramatist’s disposal.</p> - -<p>Well, M. Bourget granted the request: but -ignored the invitation to the Labour Exchange. -And one night “King Pataud” seated himself, -amidst <i>le Tout Paris</i> in the most fashionable of the -boulevard theatres. He himself, in spite of his -pink shirt, red tie, and “bowler” hat, belonged -in a sense to <i>le Tout Paris</i>. Was he not “Le Roi -de la Lumière”? There were columns about -him in the newspapers; he was “impersonated”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span> -in every music-hall <i>revue</i>, and his picture post -cards sold by the thousand. Then, pressing (and -sentimental) requests for his autograph; invitations -out to dinner and gifts of cigarettes and -cigars; and what a stir, what excited cries of -“There goes Pataud,” when the great man -swaggered down the boulevards with a fine -Havana stuck in a corner of his mouth, and the -“bowler” hat tilted rakishly over the right eye!</p> - -<p>Nor in the Vaudeville Theatre was his triumph -less complete. The interest of the brilliant -audience was centred on “Fauteuil No. 159”; -not on the stage. There sat the man who had -but to give the signal and—out would go the -lights! So was every opera-glass levelled at him, -and so—at the end of the performance—were all -the reporters in Paris eager to obtain “King” -Pataud’s impressions of the play. “Not bad,” -he was reported to have said. “But M. Bourget’s -conception of how strikes are conducted is -ridiculous. And his strikers are equally absurd.”</p> - -<p>I fancy M. Bourget must have regretted that -gift of “Fauteuil No. 159” at the time. But -to-day he has his revenge—for it was the free seat -in the Vaudeville Theatre that led to “King” -Pataud’s downfall! After the agitator’s visit -to <i>La Barricade</i> it became the fashion amongst -the managers to invite the “Roi de la Lumière” -to their theatres. Behold him, actually, at the -first performance of <i>Chantecler</i>—and at the -Gymnase, the Variétés, the Palais Royal. But -if the public rejoiced over “King” Pataud’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> -presence at the theatre, his colleagues in the -labour world were to be heard grumbling. Pataud -(and it was true) was “getting his head turned.” -Pataud was neglecting the Bourse du Travail for -theatres and brilliant restaurants. But the “Roi -de la Lumière” paid no heed to these reproofs, -nor to complaints and warnings vigorously expressed. -And the crisis came, the storm burst, -when “King” Pataud and an electrician came -to blows on the boulevards, and were marched off -to the police station on a charge of breaking the -peace. At the station, the “Roi de la Lumière” -was searched. “Ah, you do yourself well, you -enjoy life, you have a gay time of it,” grinned the -<i>police commissaire</i>, after examining the agitator’s -pocket-book. It contained bank-notes for a large -sum, receipted bills from luxurious restaurants -and hotels, and (what of course, particularly -delighted the Parisian) the autographed photograph -of a certain very blonde and very lively -actress. So, indignation and disgust of the -Syndicate of Electricians, who had contributed -to their secretary’s support. He was called upon -to resign. And to-day M. Pataud is an agent for -a champagne firm; and the street <i>gamins</i> who -once cheered him, now—O supreme insult—apostrophise -him as “sale bourgeois.”</p> - -<p>Two questions remain for those whose opinion -in the Amazing City counts. The first is: Does -an Eminent Academician, who, whether he writes -in a frock coat or no, professes the conviction that -it would not be worth while to produce plays <i>only</i><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span> -to reveal the influence and power of men’s -emotions, passions and ideals in the shaping of -life, unless one had some ulterior clerical, social -or political object to serve, stand in the hopeful -ways of thought that distinguish the first order -of Dramatists? The answer to the question is -delivered with an emphatic decision. “Mais—Non”—“Mais,”—a -pause and a gesture by an -emphatic falling hand—“Non.” Second question: -Is a social agitator, who displays himself in a -pink shirt and bowler hat in the best seats of -fashionable theatres, and who enjoys himself at -fashionable restaurants with worldlings—whom -he affects to terrorise—a satisfactory Democrat? -Same answer, but the “Non” and the confirmatory -gesture is more emphatic. “Mais—Non.”</p> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> <a href="#Page_69">See page 69.</a></p> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>2. <span class="smcap">M. Alfred Capus. “Nôtre Jeunesse” at -the Française</span></h3> - -<p>Through a novel published some years ago, -under the title of <i>Qui Perd Gagne</i>, I made the -acquaintance of a number of Parisians who committed -all manner of faults and follies, got into -all kinds of dilemmas; and yet compelled a -certain sympathy by reason of their good-heartedness -and good humour. Never a dull moment -in this novel; never, indeed, a moment when -there was not some anxious situation to face, -some formidable difficulty to overcome. The -leading personages were a retired <i>blanchisseuse</i> -and her husband. Their names I cannot recall—let -them be christened the Belons; and let it be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span> -admitted that the atmosphere in which they lived -would most assuredly be condemned by the -orthodox English critic as “unsavoury.” Laid -bare before us in all its tawdriness, all its feverishness, -all its swift delirious ups and downs, was -the life of the adventurer. A good round dozen -of these gentlemen, but the most “enterprising,” -the most audacious, the most entertaining amongst -them was our friend Belon, who, before becoming -the husband of the <i>blanchisseuse</i>, and the master of -the money realised by the sale of the <i>blanchisserie</i>, -had been a seedy figure in shady newspaper -offices and suspicious gambling clubs. In his -unmarried days Belon rejoiced when a bet at -baccarat, or a successful operation in the line -of canvassing for advertisements, yielded him a -louis. He was always “hard up”—always (as -he described it) in a “crisis”—but adversity -neither disheartened him nor turned his temper.</p> - -<p>“Times will change,” predicted Belon, when he -surveyed his shabby form in the mirror of a café.</p> - -<p>“One of these days you will dine magnificently -at Paillard’s,” Belon murmured, when he issued -forth (his hunger still unsatisfied) from a greasy -restaurant.</p> - -<p>“Paris,” he soliloquised, as he swaggered along -the boulevards, with a shocking little black cigar -in the corner of his mouth, and his hat tilted -rakishly on one side, “Paris, I know you well—know -your weaknesses, your failings, your vanities. -And with this precious knowledge to assist me, -I shall undoubtedly succeed.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span></p> - -<p>Certainly, Belon knew Paris thoroughly—or -part of it. He was full of anecdote and scandal. -He had amazing stories to tell of personages high -up in the <i>grande monde</i>, the <i>monde d’affaires</i>, -and the <i>demi-monde</i>, and he told them well. He -could be gallant—in a way. Also, when it served -his purpose, he could feign a seriousness that -inspired confidence. And it was his gaiety, his -gallantry, his flashy worldliness, that fascinated -the <i>blanchisseuse</i>—not a foolish woman by any -means, but a practical, amiable soul, still in her -thirties, still attractive, still (as the French -novelist has it) “<i>appétissante</i>,” who saw in her -marriage to Belon not only a means of escape from -the steamy, stifling atmosphere of her laundry, -but a position of importance, even of luxury and -brilliancy. Belon she believed capable of great -things; Belon, with his enterprise, his audacity, -his knowledge of the world, needed only a small -capital, such as the sale of the laundry would -provide, to become a master of <i>affaires</i>, and a -leader of men. And then—was not Belon -fascinating, and ardent, and tender? Thus, -half prosaically, half sentimentally, did the -<i>blanchisseuse</i> consider Belon’s eloquently worded -proposal; and the result of her deliberations -was good-bye to the <i>blanchisserie</i>. Affectionately -she embraced, liberally she rewarded, -Charlotte and Amélie, her assistants. Charlotte -and Amélie wept. The future Madame Belon -wept. Belon himself was moved to tears by the -scene.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span></p> - -<p>“Adieu, mes filles,” sobbed the future Madame -Belon.</p> - -<p>“Adieu, Madame,” sobbed back Charlotte and -Amélie.</p> - -<p>“Allons-nous-en, allons-nous-en,” said Belon -huskily. And so—in this touching fashion—farewell -to the <i>blanchisserie</i>.</p> - -<p>What changes, when next we beheld the Belons! -Madame dressed attractively; and Monsieur, when -he went a-gambling, was an ornament of brilliant, -if not exclusive, clubs, and a power in busy, handsome -newspaper offices. There were, as Belon -prophesied, “magnificent dinners” at Paillard’s. -There were constant visits to race-courses, theatres -and music-halls, and he played high, and he conceived -colossal “business” schemes, and he -mixed familiarly with personages high up in the -<i>monde d’affaires</i>, and in the <i>demi-monde</i>; one -even had <i>des relations</i> with certain personages in -the veritable <i>monde</i>. But the reader, as he -followed Belon et Cie here, there and everywhere, -still found himself in a whirl of adventurers, and -the adventurers (despite their display) were still -surrounded by difficulties. For Belon was too -audacious, too “enterprising.” Wonderfully ingenious -were his schemes, but their fate was -disastrous.</p> - -<p>In a word, Belon, with all his knowledge of -Paris, overestimated the credulity of the Parisians, -and was brought face to face with that unimaginative, -relentless personage, the Commissaire de -Police. Happier had been Madame Belon in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span> -steamy days of the <i>blanchisserie</i>; happier had -been Belon when he surveyed his shabby form in -the café mirror, saying: “Times will change.” -In the Belon <i>ménage</i>, not only a constant dread -of M. le Commissaire de Police, but bitter, -domestic quarrels, even infidelities. But the -quarrels were “made up,” the infidelities were -pardoned—for, as the troubles thickened, as the -situation grew increasingly alarming, so did the -Belons become drawn closely together; so did -they display many, yes, admirable, yes—even -heroic qualities. And when at last the “crisis” -arrived, and when the practical, amiable, retired -<i>blanchisseuse</i> saved her husband from a disgraceful -fate, it was the good heart and good -humour that had lived through, and survived, -these difficulties which made the point—the very -un-English moral—of the story! Thus, after -discussing their short, stormy married career in -every detail, and with the utmost candour, the -Belons agreed that no great harm had been done, -since they were better friends than ever! But -Paris had become distasteful to them; what a -blithe, refreshing change, then, to take up their -abode in a quiet villa on the outskirts of the -city! A little villa with a porch! A little villa -with a garden! A little villa where one would -be entirely <i>chez soi</i>. “We will plant cabbages,” -cried Madame Belon enthusiastically. “We will -be happy,” responded Belon, with emotion. So, -another and a final change of scene. Behold—as -a last tableau—the Belons installed tranquilly,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span> -comfortably and affectionately on the outskirts -of Paris in a neat, innocent little villa.</p> - -<p>Thus, very briefly, the story of <i>Qui Perd Gagne</i>. -The author, I need scarcely say, was M. Alfred -Capus; for who but that inimitable dramatist -would have discovered good-heartedness and good -humour as underlying qualities in such shady -people as the Belons; and who but that genius -at clearing up awkward, anxious situations could -have got the retired <i>blanchisseuse</i> and her husband -so generously and unexpectedly out of their moral, -as well as their practical, scrapes?</p> - -<p>Thus, a good many years ago, M. Capus, then -a comparatively unknown journalist, already -possessed those qualities which have made him -by far the most popular playwright of to-day: a -wonderful tolerance, a wonderful bonhomie, and -a wonderful and incomparable talent at finding a -way of carrying the treasure of faith in human -goodness safely through perilous circumstances! -As a consequence of these qualities M. Capus has -been called an “optimist.” We are always and -always hearing of the “optimism” of M. Capus; -but if I may be permitted to differ from the vast -majority of his admirers, I would suggest that, so -far from being an optimist, M. Capus is, from the -ideal point of view, a cynic. True, an amiable -cynic. He regards mankind with a smile—not of -mockery, because there is nothing unkind in it; -a smile of raillery at the idealist’s effort to take -the mote out of his brother’s eye and to afflict -himself too seriously in his endeavour to get rid<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span> -of the beam out of his own eye. From the point -of view of M. Capus, motes and beams, big faults -as well as little ones, belong to human nature. It -is a pity, but it cannot be helped. “C’est la vie”—and -so let us make the best of it.</p> - -<p>And it might be worse! Mankind might be -cruel, whereas the average man, the average -woman, is kind—the hearts of average men and -women are in the right place. Thus, let mankind -not be judged too harshly. Since we are what we -are, it is inevitable we should commit follies. -But let us see to it that our hearts <i>are</i> in the right -place, and when the moment arrives we shall -know how to make atonement for those follies -and pass on undisgraced. “Amusez-vous bien, -soyez gais; mais soyez bons.” Such might be -M. Capus’ message to mankind; and that message, -indeed, he has delivered from the stage. For -amongst French playwrights who bring home to -us vividly, by means of illustration, French ways -of feeling and methods of judgment that are not -English methods, M. Alfred Capus stands out as -the efficient interpreter of the typical personage -recognised by general consent in France as -“l’homme qui est foncièrement bon.”</p> - -<p>Do not, however, let us suppose that we are in -any way helped to a correct understanding of this -personage by makers of dictionaries, who tell us -that “l’homme qui est foncièrement bon” is a -“thoroughly good man.” No. If we leave the -thoroughly bad man out of account, no two more -opposite types of human character can be compared<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span> -with one another—no two worthy men can -be brought together more certain to quarrel, and -mutually to dislike and condemn each other than -the “thoroughly good man,” approved by the -English standard, and “l’homme qui est foncièrement -bon,” recognised as such by general consent -in France. Nor is this all. Not only have we -here two worthy human beings who, by reason of -the different directions wherein the special worthiness -of each of them displays itself, cannot agree -as friends, but for the services of friendship also -their qualifications are so different that upon the -occasions when one can help us the other will get -us into trouble; and in the moods when we should -cleave to the one, we should indubitably avoid -the other. The cause of this essential difference -is not entirely explained when the fact is stated -that righteousness constitutes the predominant -characteristic of goodness in England, and kindliness -the predominant characteristic in France, -because the Englishman is kind also—in his own -way. In other words, his righteousness <i>does</i> -exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, -and the Frenchman who is <i>foncièrement bon</i> -has virtues also of his own; he has not merely the -good nature of the easy-going publican. What -these special virtues really are, and how, whilst -they do not make “l’homme qui est foncièrement -bon” a “thoroughly good man,” in the -English sense of the term, they do make him a -lovable and sympathetic human character, one can -discover by passing an evening in the society of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span> -Chartier, Lucien Briant, Hélène and Laure of -<i>Nôtre Jeunesse</i>, Monsieur Piégois of the delightful -comedy of that name, and Montferrand—the -amazing Deputy Montferrand—of <i>L’Attentat</i>.</p> - -<p>The bonhomie of M. Capus represents a life -philosophy as well as a dramatic method, that -might not be applied with equal success to British -institutions. But used among French social conditions, -it demonstrates how neglect of logic, and -force of good feeling, may help an intelligent and a -humane people to render faulty systems habitable, -and make good nature serve as a substitute for, -and even as a corrective of, a rigid, an unheroic, -an unchristian worship of “respectability” at -the expense of human kindness—that is to say, -a form of respectability which does not necessarily -mean a very ardent love of virtue.</p> - -<p>The characters of <i>Nôtre Jeunesse</i> are essentially -French. Take Chartier, for instance, the <i>bonhomme -philosophe par excellence</i>. Chartier, at forty years -of age, amused by his own past; tranquil as to -the future; well satisfied, in the present, to make -the best of his life upon a moderate income—the -quarter of a once handsome fortune, considerately -left him by a former mistress, the then famous -“Pervenche,” who, after she had cost him a -million and a half, herself broke off their <i>liaison</i>, -in the amiable and reasonable fashion related by -the Forsaken One himself thus:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> One evening she said to me: “<i>Mon chéri</i>, I have -been looking into things. You have spent upon me three-fourths -of your fortune. It is as much as any woman should<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span> -expect from any gallant man. I am contented; and grateful to -you. I have come across a man who is in love with me; and I -am going to be married to him.”... She married an employé -at the Louvre. It is an excellent <i>ménage</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<p>Take Laure de Roine, Chartier’s sister, the -good genius of the play—bonhomie, not only -personified, but idealised, invested with all the -liveliness and fascination that belong to delightful -French womanhood. Laure, some years older than -her brother, left a widow, also with a quarter of -her handsome wedding portion, remaining through -the opportune decease, in the very hour when he -seemed bent upon ruining her, after himself, of a -husband given to gambling on the Stock Exchange.</p> - -<p>Take Madame Hélène Briant, the very charming, -vivacious wife of M. Lucien Briant, a lady -approaching the perilous age—<i>i.e.</i> nearly thirty—reasonably -attached to, but not passionately in love -with, an amiable but despondent husband, who -has become despondent under the authoritative -rule of M. Briant <i>père</i>, a superior man, and master -of the “correct,” frock-coated attitude towards -life. Briant <i>père</i> is the tyrant of the Briant -household. Hear the charming Hélène in active -revolt against this insupportable father-in-law, -and her husband’s despondency, as a result of his -filial docility, exposing her own case, half playfully, -half seriously, to Laure de Roine, everyone’s -good genius:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Hélène.</i> When I try to react against this general depression; -when, in spite of them both, I make it my task to find something -cheerful, and worth taking pleasure in, I find myself treated<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span> -by both Father and Son as a frivolous worldling. Add on to that -that I have no children, and live in this deadly provincial atmosphere, -full of spiteful gossip, scandal, and vanity. And then try, if -you can, to imagine my condition of mind—not forgetting that -I am an “honest” woman—and that I am beginning to realise it.</p> - -<p><i>Laure.</i> And when a woman begins to realise that she is -“honest”——</p> - -<p><i>Hélène.</i> Yes; the case is grave.</p> - -</div> - -<p>All these personages explain themselves to us, -and claim us, by reason of their vivid humanity, -as intimate acquaintances, in the play. Yet not -one of them has his or her exact counterpart in -English society, for the simple reason that their -choice qualities, and entertaining defects, not only -belong to the French temperament but are the -result of manners, conventions, prejudices and -sentiments that do not enter into our actual experiences, -although we are in a position to judge, -or at any rate correctly to appreciate them, -when we have studied them in this dramatic -picture....</p> - -<p>And now for the situation of the play. It is -also essentially French; what the orthodox -English critic would probably describe as “disagreeable” -and “painful.” But with that -neither M. Capus nor ourselves are concerned. -Our playwright, true to the canons of his art, has -aimed at no more than selecting an episode from -<i>la vie vivante</i>, and revealing it in its most vital -and human moments, and the episode he has -chosen is one that has its counterpart, year in, -year out, in the gay, irresponsible land peopled -by the <i>jeunesse</i> of Paris and the provinces.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span> -“Nôtre Jeunesse”—that period, in France particularly, -of extravagances and follies; “Nôtre -Jeunesse”—those years in the Latin Quarter -when irregularity of conduct does not appear -reprehensible even to the parental eye.</p> - -<p>“C’est de leur âge,” says the bourgeois indulgently, -thinking, no doubt, of his own <i>jeunesse</i>, -when he meets a band of students rejoicing riotously -in their corduroy clothes, long, flowing capes -and amazing hats. And such wild figures were -Chartier and Lucien Briant some twenty years -before we meet them. And it is of those days -that they are speaking, when M. Capus introduces -them to his audience in the Chartier Villa at Trouville. -Chartier, of course, is in excellent spirits. -But Lucien is nervous and despondent, and -becomes still more troubled when his friend reminds -him of his <i>liaison</i> with Léontine Gilard, -a charming and light-hearted girl, whose pet -name Chartier forgets.</p> - -<p>Lucien helps his memory; the name was -“Loulou.” Let me quote the passage:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Lucien [with emotion].</i> Loulou.</p> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> That’s it! I can see Loulou now: fair hair, blue -eyes, very pretty hands. You made a charming couple, the -two of you! Well—there you have a memory which shouldn’t -be disagreeable, surely.</p> - -<p><i>Lucien.</i> Ah, <i>mon ami</i>, one never knows the end of adventures -of that sort!</p> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> The end? Why didn’t the thing end naturally?</p> - -<p><i>Lucien.</i> What do you mean by ending naturally?</p> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> When you left the Latin Quarter, you made Loulou -a handsome present? She took another lover? or, perhaps, -she got married? To-day, if you met each other in the street,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span> -you wouldn’t recognise each other? That is what I call a -natural ending.</p> - -<p><i>Lucien.</i> Yes; that is the way things happen with <i>you</i>, and -with almost everybody. But not with <i>me</i>. I ask myself, What -may not still come of it?</p> - -</div> - -<p>Lucien’s forebodings are prophetic. Soon after, -Chartier is told by his sister Laure that a young -girl (<i>très jolie, très convenable</i>) has called to see -him. It turns out that the young girl visitor -(<i>très jolie, très convenable</i>) is <i>Lucienne</i>. In other -words, <i>she</i> is the visible and terrifying proof of -the unlucky Lucien Briant’s conviction that he -is not to be permitted, like other men, to bury -under the flowers of sentimental memories the -irregularities of his Latin Quarter days.</p> - -<p>Still, Lucienne had no intention of troubling her -father. She was trained to believe that she had -no legitimate, no righteous claim on him. Poor -Loulou was true to the rule of the game that, for -her, had had lifelong seriousness. Even on her -death-bed she has kept faithfully to the terms of -the unequal bargain. She had told Lucienne -that her father had behaved “generously,” that -she has no further legitimate claim on him. But -she remembers Chartier’s kindness of heart and -recommends her daughter to apply to him for -advice and recommendations helpful in the way -of finding her honest employment. So that this -is the reason why Lucienne has sought out Monsieur -Chartier. She is now alone in the world—poor -“Loulou’s” savings nearly exhausted. Can -Monsieur Chartier, perhaps, amongst his friends,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span> -find her a situation as secretary or companion, -where she may earn an honest livelihood?</p> - -<p>Touched to the heart by Loulou’s good remembrance -and confidence in him is Chartier, -and at once interested in Lucienne’s case.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> Yes, yes, certainly—you did well, mademoiselle, to -come to me! I shall at once make inquiries amongst all my -acquaintances. We shall find you a charming post; I give you -my promise, to set about it at once.</p> - -</div> - -<p>Although the good Chartier is perfectly sincere -in his desire and resolution to find Lucienne a -“charming post,” he does not feel that there is -any need to distress and upset the nervous and -despondent Lucien by telling him about the -appearance upon the scene of Loulou’s daughter -(and his own) and of her need of assistance. But -he has no secrets from Laure, and he at once consults -his resourceful sister and confides to her his -charming and discreet plan of finding Lucienne a -pleasant situation as the companion of a lady -who travels a great deal; thus Lucienne will see -different countries, have a good salary and be as -happy as the day is long—<i>also</i>, she will be kept -out of the way of upsetting the nerves of the -timorous Lucien.</p> - -<p>Laure, however, the “good genius,” takes -another view of the case. It is <i>Lucienne’s</i> homelessness, -not Lucien’s nerves, that appears to -her the chief question. She remembers, too, the -“grave” state of mind of Hélène Briant, the -result of her ineffectual efforts to react against -her depressing environment—most repugnant to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span> -a charming woman still young but arrived at an -age when she is forced to realise that one is not -<i>always</i> going to be young and charming, and who -has no children, and no congenial companionship, -and who, nevertheless, is “honest”—so far, -Laure then <i>forms her own plan</i>. And the first -step is to make known the facts of Lucienne’s -identity, situation and presence at Trouville to -Lucien, and to Hélène also. This is how she -announces what, to him, at first appears a -desperately indiscreet proceeding, to Chartier, -who, ultimately, becomes a convert to her -scheme.</p> - -<p>Laure begins by assuring her brother that an -excess of discretion condemns those who make it -their rule to fail in friendly services.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Laure [to Chartier].</i> Let me tell you what you <i>should</i> have -done, what you ought to have done. You should have taken -Lucien on one side, and, without worrying about the consequences, -have simply made him acquainted with the facts. -He had to be confronted with his duty. And since at heart -he is, in spite of everything, an honest man, and that the very -worst actions of his sort—and of your sort—don’t keep you -from being thoroughly kind-hearted, he would certainly have -found a happier and more consoling solution than to leave his -daughter in distress. That is what you ought to have done. -And as I saw you were not going to do it, that is what I have -done.</p> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> What do you say? Good God! You have seen -Lucien?</p> - -<p><i>Laure.</i> Half an hour ago; after <i>déjeuner</i>.</p> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> It is simply insane, what you have done! He must -have been utterly prostrated by such a blow, poor devil?</p> - -<p><i>Laure.</i> Yes. He turned very pale. Then he rushed off to -consult his father. Now what can happen to him, at the worst?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span> -He will have to endure some hours of worry, of anxiety, perhaps -of remorse. What then? He deserves it. Lucienne is seventeen—she -has in front of her the promise of a long existence, -an existence conferred upon her by a light-hearted gentleman -in an hour of distraction. Well, it is <i>Lucienne</i> who interests -me. You will tell me that it is not my concern—that I am -interfering in a delicate matter which is no business of mine?</p> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> Precisely. That was just what I was going to say.</p> - -<p><i>Laure.</i> And my answer is, that if one only occupied oneself -with one’s own concerns one would only accomplish selfish and -mediocre things.</p> - -</div> - -<p>How does Lucien act after he has received the -fateful news? All lamentations is he when he -bursts into the room after his interview with his -father. Chartier, Laure and Hélène wait to learn -what, by the counsel, no doubt, of Briant <i>père</i>, -Lucien proposes to do.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Lucien.</i> Ah, mon ami [<i>addressing Chartier</i>], who would have -believed it? What a fatality! What a drama for my conscience! -Well, well—what one has to do is to occupy oneself -with the present and possible. You will tell Lucienne from -me that she has no longer any need to fear for the future: that -shall be <i>my</i> charge.</p> - -<p><i>Chartier.</i> Well done. Well done.</p> - -<p><i>Lucien.</i> Yes; but upon one condition—oh, a condition of -stringent importance. The condition is that she must return -immediately to this village, near Limoges. She has lived there -up to the present hour—she can quite easily go on living there. -I will send her every month, and I will guarantee to her in the -event of my death, a yearly pension, that will be sufficient for -her support. There. Do you find that I am acting very badly? -And you, madame [<i>to Laure</i>], do <i>you</i> think I am behaving -badly?</p> - -<p><i>Laure.</i> Well, not exactly bad.</p> - -<p><i>Lucien.</i> Well, that comforts me a little. But what a catastrophe! -Ah, if ever I have a son of my own, I shall try that -he may profit by my example.</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span></p> - -<p>But Lucien has not a son of his own. The only -child he has is the daughter he is going to bury -alive in the village near Limoges, without even -seeing her—this, of course, by the counsel of -<i>l’homme correct</i>, Briant <i>père</i>.</p> - -<p>But here Hélène intervenes. She has walked -innocently into the trap prepared for her by -Laure. In other words, she has seen Lucienne, -and her heart has gone out to the motherless girl. -Thus she has come by her own path into Laure’s -plot and plan; she is resolved to adopt Lucienne. -She urges her case, which has the independent -advantage of upsetting the counsels of Briant -<i>père</i>, with warm generosity, but, at the same time, -with her usual vivacity.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Hélène.</i> Lucien, you are my closest friend; and the object -of my dutiful affection, of course—but you can’t be my constant -companion and the confidante, whom I want, in sometimes -empty and tiresome hours. Understand that; and consent to -what I beg of you. Well, the companion I want <i>is here</i>; she -is your daughter. You have not given me a child; make me -the present of Lucienne. I am not a mother; but let me have -the illusion of maternity.</p> - -</div> - -<p>Firm in the belief that happiness lies before her -and her husband in the adoption of Lucienne, -Hélène will hear of no other solution to the situation. -And in this she has the good genius, Laure, -with her; and next the <i>bonhomme philosophe</i>, -Chartier; and finally the timid, despondent -Lucien himself, who, in the last scene, comes face -to face with his daughter.</p> - -<p>All emotion is Lucien. And he breaks down -completely when Lucienne shows him a photograph<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span> -taken of him in the Latin Quarter, when he -was the lover of Loulou, a wild figure in corduroy -clothes, a long, flowing cape and an amazing hat.</p> - -<p>Lucienne, who imagines she is going to be sent -back to the village near Limoges, and may never -possibly see her father again, does not wish to be -separated from the souvenir that stood for the -image of him, in his young days. She stretches out -her hand, asking for the return of the photograph:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Lucienne.</i> You will not take it away? You will leave it -with me?</p> - -<p><i>Lucien.</i> No. I shall keep it. And that is not all, I shall -keep—I should be mad to fight any longer against my own -heart; against your youth and my own—I shall keep the -picture, and <i>you</i> as well!</p> - -</div> - -<p>Chartier, Hélène and Laure enter and behold, -with joy, Lucienne in her father’s embrace. But -now arrives the apostle of correctness, Briant -<i>père</i>. He is not so much astonished, not so much -shocked as filled with contempt, and lifted above -all contact with the irregular sentiments and ill-directed -sympathies of this emotional group of -people, whom he attempts to freeze, with his -superior disdain. And it is at this moment that -he utters the unforgettable sentence which is one -of the master-strokes in the play:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Briant</i> père. It is quite sufficient to-day—and believe me, -when simply stating the fact, I do not allow myself to be the -least bit in the world disturbed by it—it suffices that a child -should be illegitimate in order to find itself the object of universal -sympathy; in the same way, it suffices that a woman is -not a lawful wife to render her immediately the object of -universal respect. Let married women, and children born in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span> -wedlock, make no mistake about it: they are going to have -a bad time.<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> - -</div> - -<p>Lucien attempts to mollify his high displeasure. -But Briant <i>père</i> (happily for his family’s welfare, -perhaps) insists that he must separate himself -henceforth from these offenders. He shakes -hands with his son and with Hélène—salutes, -stiffly, Laure and Chartier. Then, with a curt bow -to Lucienne and the one word, “<i>Mademoiselle</i>,” -he takes his departure.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Lucienne [to Hélène].</i> Qui est ce monsieur?</p> - -<p><i>Hélène.</i> C’est ton grand-père.</p> - -</div> - -<h3>3. <span class="smcap">M. Brieux, “La Déserteuse,” at the Odéon</span></h3> - -<p>“Brieux at the Odéon? Brieux passing from -the grim playhouse of M. Antoine, to the calm, -placid, highly respectable Odéon?” Such must -have been the startled exclamations of hundreds -of playgoers when it was announced that the -“Second Theatre of France” had “received,” -and was actually rehearsing, a new drama by the -author of <i>Les Avariés</i> and <i>Maternité</i>.</p> - -<p>Amazing tidings, certainly. And especially -amazing, even alarming, to the regular mature -patrons of the Odéon, whose peaceful way of life, -whose tranquil train of thought, could not but be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span> -upset by the ardent, revolutionary M. Brieux. -They desire no disagreeable awakenings, and, -above all, no “social problems.”</p> - -<p>I fancy the neighbourhood has affected our -mature ones! They live round about the Senate, -whose members, we know, are renowned for a -constant drowsiness. Is not the Upper Chamber -popularly described as the “Palace of Sleep”? -The alert, frisky Parisian cannot endure the <i>Palais -du Sommeil</i>. He wants emotions, excitement—and -he finds them in the Chamber of Deputies, -which never sleeps.</p> - -<p>“A restful sanctuary” is Mr Bodley’s idea of -the Senate. “It does very little; it is not highly -considered. The idea sometimes suggested is -that of a retreat for elderly gentlemen.”</p> - -<p>Well, the regular mature patron of the Odéon -may be likened to the Senator: his intellect is -impaired by the same constant drowsiness. And -the “Second Theatre of France”—most Parisians -dispute its right to that distinguished title—may -be likened to the Senate. It is not highly -considered; it renders but small services to -the dramatic art; and, at times, it presents -the appearance of a restful sanctuary.</p> - -<p>But—arrives M. Brieux. Arrives, actually, -upon this tranquil, drowsy scene, the ardent, -revolutionary author of <i>Maternité</i> and <i>Les Avariés</i>. -What—oh, what—is in store for the regular -mature patrons? No doubt they were all anxiety, -all indignation, until it was understood that M. -Brieux had not arrived in their demure domain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span> -alone. With him, M. Jean Sigaux. With him, a -collaborator who might be expected to exercise -restraint. Has M. Sigaux fulfilled those expectations? -Is M. Brieux of the Odéon the M. Brieux -of the Théâtre Antoine? Or, has M. Brieux been -intimidated by Odéon traditions?</p> - -<p>Not unanimous on this point are the leading -French dramatic critics. Three or four of them -profess themselves disappointed with <i>La Déserteuse</i>, -because unable to recognise M. Brieux’s change of -attitude. They are still under the spell of <i>Maternité</i>, -where the author so vigorously and so ruthlessly -attacked the “established morality” and “dominant -passions.” The change of attitude is undeniable. -But <i>La Déserteuse</i> is a strong, generous, -human play; and all the more interesting from -our own special point of view, as students of the -French stage in its relation to French life, because -it does not represent a dramatic exposure of injustices -and impostures, prevalent (if we believe the -reformer) in all European societies, but a dramatic -illustration of universal passions and emotions, -as these manifest themselves under the influence -of traditional sentiments and habits of thought -and feeling that belong essentially to France.</p> - -<p>The French bourgeois: wherein he differs from, -and as a type of humanity is superior to, the -English shopkeeper; the French <i>jeune fille</i>—and -the French sentiment about her—and wherein -this sentiment explains her jealously and tenderly -guarded inferiority in attractiveness, intelligence -and independence to her English prototype—here<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span> -are the secrets which <i>La Déserteuse</i> may assist -a foreign spectator to penetrate....</p> - -<p>We are in the town of Nantes, in the home of -Forjot, music publisher, husband, father and confirmed -bourgeois. Forjot also gives concerts, -but he himself is nothing of a musician and would -regard music with contempt, were it not a means -of making money. Not so his wife, Gabrielle, -young, beautiful and vivacious, who has been -assured by the director of the local theatre that -she is possessed of a rare voice. Gabrielle sings -at little Nantais concerts and is admired and -applauded. Gabrielle is told that she would -triumph on the operatic stage—and sighs. She -loves excitement, she longs for fame, she is full of -dreams and ambitions and fancies—but she finds -no sympathiser in the music publisher, her husband, -who, looking up impatiently from his -ledgers, bids her pay more attention to her house, -her child and “the rest.”</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> What do you mean by “the rest”? Do you want -me to write out the bills, for instance?</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> Never mind the bills: my shopman does that. But -I see no reason why you should not stay in the shop and receive -clients, and, when there is a press of work, lend me a helping -hand with the correspondence.</p> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> Don’t expect me to do anything of the sort.</p> - -</div> - -<p>It is the old story: the bourgeois husband and -the beautiful, dissatisfied, ambitious wife, who -rebels at her dull surroundings, who believes herself -“wasted,” who is tempted by a sympathetic -admirer; and who falls. Rametty, director of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span> -the Nantes Theatre, is Gabrielle’s lover. His -ardent prayer that she should accompany him on -one of his tours and win the fame that inevitably -awaits her, rings constantly in her ears. She -resists, chiefly for the sake of her daughter, Pascaline. -But the temptation to fly becomes -irresistible when, on the night of one of Forjot’s -concerts, audience, friends, her lover, and even a -popular composer from Paris, delight, intoxicate -her with their praise. Forjot, however, stands -aloof; the eulogies of the popular composer—respectfully -known as <i>Le Maître</i>—exasperate him.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Le Maître.</i> Madame Forjot has sung admirably. Let me give -my testimony. I do not know anyone, you mark me, I say <i>anyone</i>, -and I am not excepting the most celebrated vocalists—I do -not know <i>anyone</i> capable of singing this air with such mastery.</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> Oh, you exaggerate, surely, her talent, Master. You -are too indulgent.</p> - -<p><i>Le Maître.</i> I am not indulgent. Madame is an incomparable -lyrical tragedian. But, madame, you must not remain <i>en -province</i>—it would be a crime.</p> - -</div> - -<p>In ecstasies is Gabrielle. In the heavens is -Gabrielle. But she soon comes to earth again, -when at last she and her husband find themselves -alone. Forjot has returned to his ledgers—is -making up his accounts. He has not a word to -say of his wife’s success. He is entirely absorbed -in the night’s receipts. He counts under his breath; -he rustles the pages of his ledgers; he is—to -Gabrielle—exasperating, maddening, intolerable.</p> - -<p>And the storm bursts when Gabrielle, beside -herself with rage, dashes one of the ledgers to the -ground.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span></p> - -<p>Now furious, now broken, now contemptuous, -now with hoarse, poignant emotion, Forjot -addresses his wife.</p> - -<p>He knows her to be the mistress of Rametty. -His illness of three years ago was due to that -humiliating and horrible discovery, but he had -thought that she had sinned in a moment of -madness and was repentant; and so he resolved -to pardon her, generously, without even charging -her with her crime:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> After I had discovered your treachery, I had that -attack of brain fever, which nearly left you free. As a result -of being brought so near to death, thoughts came to me that -I might not have had otherwise, and they ripened in the long -hours of my convalescence. When I recovered, as I was touched -by the care you had taken in nursing me, and by your grief (which -I still believe was sincere), I thought you had only given way -to a mad impulse; and I forgave you in the silence of my -heart. Yes; I know well I am not like the husbands in the -novels you are constantly reading. Those husbands are idle -men of fortune; their child’s future causes them no tormenting -anxiety; they have not the incessant preoccupations of carrying -on a large business concern, where many interests of others, -as well as one’s own are involved. With men in <i>my</i> class, a -false wife does not mean killing someone; it means asking -for a divorce. Well, I did not want to make Pascaline the -daughter of a divorced woman; nor did I want to expose her -to the sense of disgrace of finding out her mother’s degradation. -And it is on Pascaline’s account that I am putting you to-day -in a position when you can make your choice—either become -again the wife and mother you ought to be; or else I <i>shall</i> ask -for a divorce. I don’t want to see again what I saw to-day, -Rametty embracing <i>my</i> child! Nor do I want that one of -these days, Pascaline may be told by some little playmate that -her mother is a wanton [which is true], and her father a man -who consents to his own dishonour—which is <i>not</i> true.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span></p> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> Well, then, ask for a divorce. Adieu.</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> What is your decision?</p> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> To leave you.</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> Think well of what it means. It means throwing over, -once and for ever, a regular life.</p> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> It bores me to death this “regular” life. And -then, do you imagine I could endure to go on living near you -when I knew that you despised me enough to hold your tongue -about what you had discovered?</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> If you stay, I promise that, by my attitude towards -you, you may be able to suppose that everything is forgotten.</p> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> No! I refuse to lead here the life of eternal -humiliation you offer me. Good-night.</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> Good-night. You have given me all the pain it was -in your power to give.</p> - -</div> - -<p>But even now the music publisher does not believe -that Gabrielle will desert him. Shortly after -she has left the room his little daughter enters and -asks for her mother. The servant is sent in quest -of Gabrielle, but returns to announce that she is -nowhere to be found. When Forjot realises that -his wife has left him he covers his face with his -handkerchief and trembles all over and sobs.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Pascaline [running up to him].</i> Father! Father! What <i>is</i> the -matter?</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> Nothing, nothing. [<i>He uncovers his face, which is tragic -with sorrow and stained with tears.</i>] My child, your mother has -gone away from us on a long journey.</p> - -</div> - -<p>In a former paper<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> I spoke of the prodigious -importance of the child in France; the Child, the -great indestructible bond between the parents.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span> -Of course, exceptions—as in Gabrielle Forjot’s -case. But, as we shall see, Gabrielle seeks to recover -Pascaline; and it is around this struggle that -the vital interest of the play centres. It is also -around this struggle, and in the feelings, language -and conduct of those engaged in it that we realise -the different conditions of sentiment, morals and -manners that characterise respectively the French -bourgeoisie and the lower English middle class.</p> - -<p>Pascaline is the typical <i>jeune fille</i>. In the First -Act she is a child of thirteen; thirteen, <i>l’âge ingrat</i>, -for at that period the French <i>jeune fille</i> is -plain. It is considered right—imperative—that -she should be plain. If she be not so by nature -she is made so. See her in her convent dress, -her “Sunday best”—the one that most successfully -conceals her natural grace—when Mademoiselle -is most nearly a fright. Pascaline, for -instance, first appears before us shy, awkward, -with her hair dragged back from her forehead and -falling down her shoulders in depressing little -plaits, and arrayed in a dreadful white dress -which no English girl of her age would don without -a struggle and a tearful outburst. Nevertheless, -the <i>jeune fille</i> is adored, and she knows it. -She is strictly, terribly <i>surveillée</i>—but that, after -all, is a proof of her importance. She must be -protected from dangers, so precious is she. Has -she, at the age of fifteen, only to cross the street -the servant (I can see the indignant glances and -hear the expressions of pity of her English sisters) -must be close at her elbow. Plenty and plenty of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span> -time to wear fine dresses and make the first exciting -bow to the world, and to be surprised, and to -wonder. Says the French mother, speaking from -experience: “It is delicious to be a <i>jeune fille</i>. -And I tell my Yvonne so, when she grumbles.” -But Yvonne’s grumblings do not betray a tragic, -desperate state of mind. As a matter of fact, -Yvonne, in spite of those dresses and that constant -strict, terrible surveillance, is delightfully -happy. And I expect her first bow to the world -will be made all the more exciting by that long, -rigid training, and that she will don her elegant -dresses with all the more rapture, and that she will -find life the more brilliant, exhilarating and extraordinary. -The parents preserve those old, ugly -dresses. When Cosette left her convent, and discarded -her depressing dress for tasteful finery, and -did what she pleased with her hair, and became -all of a sudden beautiful—Jean Valjean kept the -dress, and often brought it forth in secret, and -looked upon it with infinite tenderness and -emotion....</p> - -<p>But to return to our particular <i>jeune fille</i>, -Pascaline. In the Second Act, she is seventeen and -charming. Nevertheless, it is still necessary to -hide from her all dangerous knowledge, all doubts -or suspicions, even of the existence of evil outside -her own experience. Father, governess, nurse, -family friends and all who approach her are in -league to keep from her the true history of her -mother’s desertion. The legend, as she hears it, -is that the brilliant, captivating mother she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span> -recollects abandoned her home in order to follow -her vocation—to become a great and famous -singer. And this passionately interests Pascaline; -consequently, she is wild with excitement -when, after a four years’ absence, her mother -claims the right to see her daughter, and obtains -legal authorisation to do so. Then, trouble. -For, in the meanwhile, Forjot has married the -excellent, trustworthy governess, Hélène, chiefly -because she was so devoted to the little Pascaline -and would make her a second mother. Pascaline -at thirteen—dazzled and overawed by the brilliant -Gabrielle—had treated the kind and homely -governess as a confidante; but at seventeen—flattered, -fascinated and caressed by Gabrielle—she -sees in Hélène only the “Stranger,” who has -usurped her mother’s place.</p> - -<p>Then begins the second struggle; that is once -again to make havoc of poor Forjot’s domestic -peace! The struggle of Hélène, on the one side, -to reconquer by patience and kindness, and sometimes -by affectionate reproaches, the confidence -of the child she loves, and has cared for as her -own; and of Pascaline, on the other side, to resist -these attentions and appeals to her feelings and -to remain true to her more brilliant mother, who, -she is convinced, has been harshly turned out of -her home, simply because she was too artistic to -make a good bourgeoise housekeeper of the usual -type.</p> - -<p>The knot in the entangled situation is that -Pascaline must not be told the truth. So that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span> -misunderstanding the position, she cannot, from -her own point of view, without disloyalty to her -admired and adored mother, recognise the interloper, -Hélène, as the rightful mistress of her -father’s home, and with claims upon herself, -Pascaline, for respect and gratitude, on account -of the care and affection she has shown one -whom she has robbed of her natural guardian.</p> - -<p>Pascaline comes back from her first interview -with Gabrielle fascinated and enthusiastic, and -full of anger and disdain for the homelier, much -less outwardly demonstrative Hélène. This condition -of mind becomes aggravated later on, when -Gabrielle is in misfortune. Alas! her voice has -failed her. She is no longer able to follow her -artistic vocation, for the sake of which she sacrificed -her home. She now is directress of a -theatrical agency, and she is no longer so gay, -although still full of noble courage. All this -Pascaline confides to her old nurse, Marion, with -whom she is still able to talk about her mother.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Pascaline.</i> Oh, Marion dear! When one thinks of mama -coming back; and of her having no right to enter this house, -and of someone else installed in her place! If you only could -have seen how sad she was when she left me, my poor mama, -who is generally so gay! And no wonder she is sad. All alone -there at Auteuil in a little pavilion, Rue des Martyrs, at her -office, a stuffy little place without sunshine, without air.</p> - -<p><i>The Nurse.</i> At her “office”?</p> - -<p><i>Pascaline.</i> Yes. You must know that, for some time, mama -has not been able to sing. It is all the trouble she has gone -through. You see to be constantly crying is not good for the -voice, so that now she is the directress of an agency for -theatrical tours. You can understand that, as I am no longer<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span> -a child, I have a right to know things. I <i>do</i> know <i>now</i> why -papa sent mama away.</p> - -<p><i>Marion.</i> Did your mother tell you?</p> - -<p><i>Pascaline.</i> Yes. Papa would not allow her to sing anywhere! -So then mama, who had an admirable voice, felt -obliged to follow an irresistible vocation.</p> - -</div> - -<p>This is the legend as Pascaline has received it -from her mother. Marion does not contradict it. -Nor yet do Forjot and Hélène ever hint at the -true facts of Gabrielle’s desertion. Hélène’s -reticence is heroic, for Pascaline becomes more -and more bitter against the good Hélène and -defies her to justify herself by some real fault -discovered in Gabrielle, worse than the noble -ambition of a gifted artist.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Pascaline [to Hélène].</i> Of course, you are burning to tell -me all about poor mama’s divorce. Well: let me show you -I know all about it already. I know that, in spite of my -father’s orders, mama would go on singing, and then she was -rather extravagant, and, well, she was not domesticated, and -chose to follow her artistic vocation. There you have the -whole story of her sins. Oh, <i>if</i> there <i>is</i> anything else, I invite -you, or rather, I require you to tell me. <i>Was</i> there anything -else?</p> - -<p><i>Hélène [avoiding Pascaline’s eyes].</i> There was nothing else.</p> - -<p><i>Pascaline [triumphantly].</i> There, you are forced to admit it! -Mama’s <i>only</i> fault was that she had an artistic vocation! Again -I beg you to contradict me, if you can. <i>Was</i> there anything -else against her?</p> - -<p><i>Hélène.</i> No; only that—nothing else.</p> - -</div> - -<p>However, one little awakening, one little shock. -In the Third Act Pascaline visits the theatrical -agency, sees the tawdriness of the place, hears -noisy laughter and is even addressed at length by -a shabby old comedian—a veritable <i>cabotin</i>—who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span> -mistakes her for an <i>ingénue</i>, in quest of an engagement. -The comedian is delightful. He might -have stepped straight on to the Odéon stage from -one of those dim little cafés haunted by broken-down -actors in the neighbourhood of the Porte -St-Martin. He appals Pascaline with his grins, -grimaces and familiarity. Pascaline’s silence he -attributes to worry. And he seeks to console -her by declaring that one must always be gay, -always be smiling, even if one has eaten nothing -all day and the landlord has threatened to turn -one out into the street. He calls her <i>mon petit -enfant</i>, and <i>mon petit chat</i>, and he <i>tutoies</i> her. -Pure, irresistible comedy! The scene deserves -to be quoted in full, but we must hasten on to -the <i>dénouement</i>.</p> - -<p>It is close. Life at the Nantais publisher’s has -become intolerable. Constant strife; day after -day, scenes between Pascaline and her step-mother. -And, at last, Hélène decides on a daring -step: to visit Gabrielle, tell her of Forjot’s unhappiness, -implore her to interfere no longer -between father and daughter. But she fails to -move Gabrielle, who is cold and impertinent. And -then, believing that if she herself disappeared, -Pascaline would be entirely restored to Forjot, -Hélène determines to leave Nantes and resume -her dull career of governess. And this determination -becomes all the stronger when she learns -that Pascaline has fled Nantes and taken refuge -with her mother. Poor Forjot has aged and -withered when next we see him. Pascaline’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span> -flight has been a bitter blow. But the music -publisher will not hear of Hélène’s sacrifice, and -is passionately bidding her remain, when Gabrielle -is announced. Hélène leaves the room. And -Gabrielle and Forjot find themselves face to face -again.</p> - -<p>In the great scene that follows, Gabrielle begins -by saying that, as Hélène has determined to leave -Nantes, she, Gabrielle, no longer wishes to keep -Pascaline away from her father, and has brought -her home.</p> - -<p>Forjot declares that Hélène shall not be -sacrificed; and upon this, Gabrielle proclaims her -intention of keeping Pascaline.</p> - -<p>Now again we have the Bourgeois Forjot displaying -qualities of temper, character and moral -sense, of the very highest order: qualities of the chivalrous -sort. He does not fly into a passion. He -does not taunt this offender against maternal and -conjugal obligations. But earnestly and simply -he addresses the author of all this trouble; and -with a self-restraint that would certainly not have -been found in his English prototype, he invites -her to examine her own conduct; and to ask herself -whether it is Hélène and himself, or whether -it is Gabrielle herself, and Gabrielle only, who has -behaved cruelly and selfishly to Pascaline, as well -as to the husband she betrayed and the good woman -who has taken care of the child she abandoned.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> Gabrielle, just remember. <i>You</i> are the cause of all -this trouble. It only depended upon you to stay on here, and -never to be separated from your child. I never made your<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span> -life unhappy! I loved you; and you know very well I should -have forgiven you. I begged you to stay and you would not. -What harm you have done by obeying your caprice! Just now -I saw very well you hardly recognised me—so aged am I by -all this. For my part, I have never harmed you. Hélène has -never harmed you—what do you say? No, no; she has never -harmed you! And yet it is we who are punished. It is -because <i>you</i> behaved badly in the past that <i>we</i> are threatened -to-day with distress and loneliness. After having poisoned my -life, you wish then to hasten my death?</p> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> You know very well that I regret having made -you suffer.</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> Let me tell you this: a great many people would -not have acted as we have done. They might not have told -our child the real story of your desertion; but they would not -have invented excuses for you.</p> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> Yes; I know you have been very kind, and I thank -you for it.</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> I am not the only one you ought to thank. Hélène -has always respected you: she has taught Pascaline to love -you! It seems to me that should touch you. Give our child -back to us. Now, admit it, you have launched yourself upon -a new life. You have made yourself different from us. I can’t -well explain myself; and it is difficult to make you understand -my feelings because I don’t want to use words that might hurt -or irritate you; but I must put the facts before you plainly.</p> - -</div> - -<p>Always generous is Forjot. Not one brutal, -not one harsh word does he throw at his wife! -He promises that Pascaline shall continue to visit -her as often as she pleases, if Gabrielle, on the -other side, will promise not to poison Pascaline’s -mind against him and Hélène. Gabrielle is -touched. Rising, she opens the door, and brings -in Pascaline. And Pascaline, seeing her poor -father’s anxious, care-worn face, runs up to him.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Pascaline.</i> Oh, father! father! advise me. I am puzzled, -bewildered. Something tells me I am acting badly; but I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span> -don’t know what I ought to do. Oh, dear, I don’t know what -I ought to do!</p> - -<p><i>Forjot.</i> My little Girl, it all depends upon you whether I -am to finish my life in misery, or in peace. You can give me -happiness in the days I have still to live. But to do that, you -must come back to us; and you must try to treat Hélène with -the respect and gratitude you owe her. In her despair at -not being able to win back your affection, she wants to leave -us. She wishes to return once more to the lonely, uncertain -life of a governess. She wants to plunge herself into this -unknown, uncertain destiny. It is I who appeal to you to -have mercy upon her, and upon me.</p> - -<p><i>Pascaline.</i> Ah, if only I might love you without being false -to Mama!</p> - -<p><i>Gabrielle [emotionally].</i> You can, you can, Pascaline! Yes, -my daughter, I am not the mother that you believe in! Since -I left you I have created for myself a new life, new habits, new -affections; and then, Pascaline, I am going to marry again!</p> - -</div> - -<p>Always, emotionally, Gabrielle tells how she -once had two paths to choose, and that she chose -the wrong one.</p> - -<p>But Pascaline interrupts her with a cry of: -“What a calumny!” and vows that her mother -has never done wrong. And that she knows for -certain, <i>as Hélène herself has often told her so</i>.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><i>Gabrielle.</i> Eh bien, va embrasser Hélène pour cela. Je te -le demande. Je vous la confie, Hélène.</p> - -</div> - -<p>And so, the end. Not heroic, in accordance -with the English poetic sentiment, demanding -that Gabrielle should pass out sorrowing and penitent; -convicted in her child’s eyes, who flies for -safety to the virtuous bosom of Hélène, but <i>à -l’amiable</i>, in accordance with the French sentiment -expressed by Forjot: “Mon enfant, si l’on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span> -n’avait pas d’indulgence les uns pour les autres, -la vie des plus braves gens ne serait pas possible.”</p> - -<p>But what comes of it all? No argument for or -against divorce; no attack upon, no justification -of the French method of educating the <i>jeune fille</i>. -But a picture of the feelings and emotions bound -up with that method; and a picture also of the -generous reasonableness, sense of justice, and -human kindness that lie at the root of French -character—and that may to some extent compensate -for a lack of the absolutely sincere and -unadulterated love of decency and respectability -for their own sakes that are our own distinguishing -characteristics.</p> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> <i>Briant</i> père. Il suffit aujourd’hui—et je le constate sans -en être le moins du monde troublé, croyez-le bien—il suffit -qu’un enfant soit naturel pour se voir l’objet de la sympathie -générale, comme il suffit qu’une femme ne soit pas légitime -pour être immédiatement entourée du respect universel. Que -les femmes et les enfants ne se le dissimulent pas, ils sont en -train de passer un mauvais quart d’heure.</p> -</div> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> In a criticism of M. Paul Hervieu’s <i>Le Dédale</i> given in -<i>The Fortnightly Review</i> series of articles upon “French Life and -the French and the French Stage,” by John F. Macdonald. By -the kind permission of the Editor of <i>The Fortnightly Review</i> these -articles are reprinted here.—F. M.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>4. <span class="smcap">Paris, M. Edmond Rostand, and -“Chantecler”</span></h3> - -<p>Six years have elapsed since a Paris newspaper -announced that M. Constant Coquelin—dear, -wonderful Coquelin <i>aîné</i>—had suddenly taken -train to the south-west of France in the following -circumstances:—</p> - -<p>“Yesterday morning the greatest of our -comedians received a telegram urging him to -proceed without delay to Cambo, the tranquil, -beautiful country seat, in the Pyrenees, of -M. Edmond Rostand. No sooner had he read -the message than M. Coquelin bade Gillett, his devoted -valet, pack a valise, hail a <i>fiacre</i>, and accompany -him to the Gare d’Orléans. Excitement -and delight were depicted on the face of the distinguished -traveller, whom we found smoking a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span> -cigarette in front of a first-class compartment. -‘Yes,’ he joyously admitted. ‘Yes, I am off to -the Pyrenees—but that is all I shall tell you.’ -Never, indeed, such indomitable discretion! In -reply to our adroit, persuasive questions regarding -the object of his journey, M. Coquelin made -such irrelevant observations as these: ‘The -weather looks threatening,’ and ‘Gillett is the -most admirable of valets,’ and ‘Ah, my friends, -has it ever occurred to you what an extraordinary -thing is a railway station?’ And then, as the -train steamed slowly away: ‘You may state in -your article that the cushions of this carriage are -exceedingly restful and sympathetic.’ Still, in -spite of M. Coquelin’s reticence, we are in a -position to acquaint our readers with the reason -of this sudden, this sensational visit to Cambo. -<i>M. Edmond Rostand is engaged upon a new play, -and the leading part in it will be sustained by -M. Coquelin.</i> Down there in the golden calm of -the Pyrenees—yes, even as we pen these words—the -most exquisite of poets is reading to the -most brilliant of actors... another <i>chef-d’œuvre</i>. -It will surpass the triumphant, the glorious -<i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i>! Parisians will certainly -rejoice, Parisians will assuredly be thrilled to hear -of the superb, artistic festival in store for them.”</p> - -<p>Such, six years ago, was the very first—and -very florid—<i>potin</i> to be published on <i>Chantecler</i>; -and no sooner had it appeared than Paris, truly -enough, “rejoiced” and was “thrilled”—but -complained that it was maddening and heart-breaking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span> -to know so little about the new masterpiece. -What was its theme? What, too, was -the title? And when—oh, when—would the first -performance take place? In order to satisfy the -Parisian’s curiosity, newspaper editors despatched -their Yellowest Reporters to Cambo with instructions -to force a statement out of the comedian -and the poet. With the Yellow Ones went alert, -sharp photographers. And then, what strange, -indelicate scenes in that once-tranquil and refined -spot in the Pyrenees! Since M. Rostand and his -guest refused to receive the invaders, the latter -set about performing their vulgar mission from a -distance. Outside the poet’s picturesque Basque -villa, cameras and cameras; and again and again -was the “golden calm” of Cambo disturbed by -shouts of “There’s Madame Rostand at that -window,” and “There’s her son, Maurice, picking -a flower,” and “There’s Rostand talking hard to -Coquelin on a bench.” Nobody, nothing in the -far-spreading grounds, escaped the photographers. -The gardener was “taken”; so were a housemaid, -a peacock, a mowing-machine, a dog and a hammock. -As for the reporters, they followed MM. -Rostand and Coquelin when the latter took their -afternoon walks, even hid themselves behind -bushes and hedges in the hopes of overhearing a -fragment of their conversation; and minutely -they described in their newspapers the gait and -the gestures of the comedian, and the smile, the -eyeglass and the extreme elegance of the poet; -and wildly they declared that insomuch as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span> -MM. Rostand and Coquelin discussed naught but -the new masterpiece during those afternoon walks, -every step they took left a glorious, an historic -imprint in the dusty white lane. But the subject -of the play, the date of its production?—“mystery, -mystery!” admitted the reporters. -Nor was it until many months later, and until -after M. Coquelin had paid half-a-dozen visits to -Cambo, that Paris heard with amazement that -M. Rostand’s hero was a cock, his heroine a hen -pheasant, his chief scene a farm-yard, in which all -kinds of feathered creatures were to fly, strut and -waddle about. As Paris was marvelling at the -novelty and audacity of the idea, the poet fell ill. -A severe operation kept him an invalid a whole -year. The successive deaths of a relative and of -three close friends so shocked him that he had not -the heart to return to his work. But when in the -autumn of 1908 M. Coquelin made yet another -expedition to Cambo, the “glorious,” “historic” -walks were resumed. In M. Rostand’s study, -animated, all-night sittings. In the drawing-room, -extraordinary rehearsals—M. Coquelin the -cock, Madame Rostand the pheasant, M. Rostand -a dog, young Maurice Rostand a blackbird. Then -visits from wig-makers, costumiers, scene-painters, -electricians. And at last the official, stirring -announcement that M. Rostand and the play were -leaving for Paris, that the name of the play was -<i>Chantecler</i>, and that the first performance would -be given at the Porte St-Martin Theatre in the -spring of 1909.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span></p> - -<p>It was in January of that year that M. Rostand -took up his abode in an hotel facing the Tuileries -Gardens. The corridor outside the poet’s suite of -apartments was guarded by footmen—so many -sentinels with instructions to let nobody pass; -and thus M. Rostand was secure from cameras -and Yellow scribbling pencils except when he -left the hotel, entered a motor car and sped off -to the pleasant little country town of Pont-aux-Dames, -where Constant Coquelin had founded -a home for aged and infirm actors. Of this -establishment Coquelin <i>aîné</i> himself was then an -inmate. Not that he was feeling old or infirm—“only -a little fatigued and in need of calm and -repose ere disguising myself as a proud, majestic -cock.” Kindly Coquelin was never so happy as -when playing the host to his score of superannuated -actors and actresses. He called them his -“guests,” and had provided them with easy-chairs, -a library, a billiard-table, playing cards, -backgammon boards and gramophones; and with -summer-houses in the garden where the old ladies -might gossip and gossip out of the glare of the -sun, and with a lake, too, in which the old fellows -might fish. Also, he invited them to relate their -theatrical experiences—the rôles they had played, -the successes they had achieved, the costumes -they had worn long, long ago; and, oh, dear me, -how the “guests” took their host at his word—yes, -heavens, how garrulously and lavishly they -responded! Withered old Joyeux (late—very -late—of the Palais Royal) described how emperors<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span> -and kings had been convulsed by his grins, winks -and tricks; swollen, red-faced Hector Duchatel -(slim, elegant, irresistible at the Vaudeville in -the seventies) declared that beautiful <i>mondaines</i> -had sighed, almost swooned, when he passionately -made love on the stage; wrinkled, haggard -Mademoiselle Giselle de Perle (once such a radiant -<i>blonde</i> at the Bouffes) narrated how she could -scarcely turn round in her dressing-room for the -<i>corbeilles</i> of flowers, in which jewels and <i>billets-doux</i> -from illustrious personages lay concealed. -Then, after all these reminiscences, the “guests” -produced faded, tattered newspaper cuttings, -that proclaimed Joyeux “extraordinaire de fantaisie -et de verve,” and Hector Duchatel “le roi -de la mode,” and Mademoiselle de Perle “the -most exquisite, the most incomparable of blondes”—“Cabotinville,” -if you like; the tawdry, flashy -talk of M. le Cabot and Madame la Cabotine. -But I like, nevertheless, to call up the vision of -Coquelin <i>aîné</i>, wrapped in a dressing-gown, a skull-cap -pulled down over his ears, listening patiently -and sympathetically to these confidences of the past, -and reading through the faded newspaper cuttings, -and saying to haggard Mademoiselle de Perle: -“I myself, like everybody else, was once madly -in love with you,” and to withered old Joyeux: -“Those winks and grins of yours were excruciating,” -and—— But an end to this digression. The -scene between Coquelin <i>aîné</i> and his superannuated -“guests” is cut short by the arrival, from the hotel -in the rue de Rivoli, of the author of <i>Chantecler</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span></p> - -<p>Well, Constant Coquelin was wearing a dressing-gown -and a skull-cap, because he felt a little -“fatigued.” But the visits of M. Rostand, and -of the wig-makers, scene-painters and costumiers, -as well as the impatience of the Parisians to -behold the new “masterpiece,” restored to the -comedian all his former energy, enthusiasm. -Final resolutions were made. The first rehearsal -at the Porte St-Martin Theatre was fixed for the -following week; the first performance would be -given, irrevocably, in the middle of May. “What -a triumph we shall have!” said Coquelin <i>aîné</i> to -the few friends he received in the Home. “Ah, -my admirable Gillett, what a work of genius is -<i>Chantecler</i>!” he exclaimed, when the devoted -valet lighted him to his bedroom. “Listen, I -will recite to you Rostand’s <i>Hymn to the Sun</i>. -And after that, my good Gillett, you shall hear me -crow.” Replied faithful Gillett: “To-morrow—not -to-night. It is wiser to go to sleep.” But -Constant Coquelin refused to sleep until he had -recited and crowed. Up and down the room, in -the dressing-gown and skull-cap, he strutted. -The superannuated actors and actresses were -awakened by his cry: “Je t’adore, Soleil!” -Five minutes later there resounded throughout -the Home a clarion, peremptory—“Cocorico.” -Said the old players: “The master is rehearsing.” -Said Gillett: “Your old servant insists upon -your going to bed.” Said Coquelin <i>aîné</i>: “When -I have played Chantecler I shall retire from the -stage, and you and I, my faithful Gillett, will pass<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span> -the rest of our lives down here, tranquilly, happily, -amidst our twenty old guests.” But next morning, -after Gillett had helped his master into the -dressing-gown, Constant Coquelin fell heavily to -the floor. Cry after cry from admirable Gillett, -cries from the superannuated players—then profound -silence and gloom. Gloom, too, in Paris. -The blinds darkly drawn in the windows of the -first floor of the rue de Rivoli hotel. The Porte -St-Martin—other theatres—closed. All kinds of -<i>soirées</i>, banquets and fêtes postponed. “What a -disaster, what a tragedy, <i>mon ami</i>; what a blow, -what a calamity, <i>ma chère</i>.” Gloom—dear, -wonderful Coquelin <i>aîné</i> was dead....</p> - -<p>In the summer of 1909 M. Edmond Rostand, -after spending four months in seclusion at Cambo, -returned to Paris; a few days later the rehearsals -of <i>Chantecler</i> at the Porte St-Martin Theatre began. -“Should anything happen to me, you must -ask Guitry to play my part,” had said Coquelin, -to the poet. M. Guitry, therefore, was appointed -“Chantecler,” Madame Simone, ex-Le Bargy, -was made the Hen Pheasant. Gay, frisky M. -Galipaux was created Blackbird, M. Jean Coquelin, -the great comedian’s son, chose the rôle of the -Dog. “Irrevocably in November,” stated the -newspapers, “we shall hear ‘Chantecler’ sound -his first cocorico.” And Paris rejoiced once -again and was “thrilled.”</p> - -<p>But, ah me, how that positive word, “irrevocable,” -was misused! No <i>Chantecler</i> in November, -no “Cocorico” in December—only multitudinous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span> -newspaper <i>potins</i> that constantly announced the -postponement of the event, and described “life” -at the Porte St-Martin and in M. Rostand’s hotel -on the Champs Elysées. It was repeatedly stated -that the poet, after hot words with M. Guitry, -had taken “the 9.39 train back to Cambo.” It -was asserted that Madame Simone had thrown -her type-written rôle on to the stage, stamped -hysterically on the rôle, and left the theatre in -tears. It was furthermore reported that M. -Guitry was about to undergo an operation for -cancer; that lively Galipaux was suffering from -acute melancholia; that M. Jean Coquelin, distracted, -prematurely ancient and infirm, had -taken refuge in the Home at Pont-aux-Dames. -Then, the insinuation that Chantecler would -never, never “cocorico.”... Nor, according to -the same newspaper <i>potins</i>, was “life” in M. -Rostand’s hotel more serene. He was as closely -guarded as the Tsar of All the Russias. Nevertheless, -a waiter who served him was, in reality, -a Yellow Italian journalist; threatening letters -and telegrams from lunatics arrived by the -score; and wizened old cranks sent the poet -baskets of feathers, with the solemn warning that -unless these, and only these feathers, were worn -by the Cock and the Hen Pheasant, well, M. -Guitry and Madame Simone, and M. Rostand and -<i>Chantecler</i> would be ridiculed, ruined, and done -for.... In fine, what a November, what a -December—and what a January of the present -year! And when MM. Hertz and Jean Coquelin,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span> -the proprietors of the Porte St-Martin Theatre, -themselves announced that the first performance -of <i>Chantecler</i> would be given on 28th January -“<i>most irrevocably</i>,” how delirious became the -<i>potins</i>, and how agitated the Parisians! The -great question was: Would <i>Chantecler</i> be a triumphant -success, or only a moderate success, -or a catastrophe? To determine this problem, -clairvoyantes—positively—were consulted. And -Madame Olga de Sonski, at present of the rue -des Martyrs, and late—so her card asserted—of -Persia, Budapest, Cairo and Bond Street—Madame -de Sonski declared she already felt the -Porte St-Martin, massive theatre that it was, -trembling, almost tottering, from applause. But -not so Madame Juliette de Magenta, of the rue -des Ténèbres, from Morocco, St Petersburg, Constantinople -and Broadway: “I hear [<i>sic</i>] the -silence, the coldness, the gloom of disappointment -and disapproval,” funereally she said. However, -in spite of Madame de Magenta’s lugubrious prognostications, -the news came that M. Rostand had -disposed of the publishing rights of <i>Chantecler</i> for -one million francs; that stalls and dress-circle -seats (for the box-office was now open) for the first -three performances were selling like wildfire at six -pounds apiece; that critics and millionaires from -America, and French Ambassadors and Ministers -from divers parts of Europe, and even dark-skinned, -dyspeptic merchants from Buenos Ayres, -were all hastening to Paris to hear the “cocorico” -of Chantecler. What excitement, what a whirl!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span> -For the twentieth time it was rumoured that -M. Rostand had taken “the 9.39 train back to -Cambo.” Now M. Guitry had appendicitis; and -Madame Simone had injured herself by falling -through a trap-door. Nevertheless, the first performance -remained fixed “most irrevocably” for -28th January—on which day many a quarter of -Paris and most of the <i>banlieue</i> were flooded.</p> - -<p>So, another postponement. Successively, and -always “positively irrevocably,” it was announced -that the great event would take place on 31st -January, 2nd February, 5th February and 6th -February. And thus the critics and millionaires -from America, the French Ambassadors and -Ministers from divers European capitals, the -merchants from Buenos Ayres (looking sallow -and bloodshot from the voyage) were detained in -Paris at much personal inconvenience and loss to -themselves. Nothing would move them until -they had heard the clarion cry of—“Cocorico.” -And M. Pichon, Minister of Foreign Affairs, -became uneasy at the prolonged sojourn of the -Ministers and Ambassadors. “Diplomatic relations -between France and many a foreign Power -are interrupted,” he cried tragically, “and all because -of a cock and a hen pheasant.” Social life, -too, was interrupted. <i>Le Tout Paris</i> refrained -from issuing dinner invitations lest they should -clash with the first performance, and countermanded -rooms engaged weeks beforehand in the -Riviera hotels.</p> - -<p>A final rumour to the effect that M. Rostand<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span> -had returned to Cambo by the 9.39 train—a -train which, by the way, does not figure in -the time-table. Another <i>canard</i> stating that -M. Guitry had contracted typhoid fever through -drinking water contaminated by the floods. A -third Yellow <i>potin</i> reporting Madame Simone -to have “mysteriously,” “sensationally” disappeared. -What chaos, what incoherency! And -what a scene in the Porte St-Martin when at last, -on Sunday night, 6th February, <i>Chantecler</i>, in the -presence of the most brilliant audience yet -assembled in a Paris theatre, came, crowed and -conquered.</p> - -<p>A new handsome curtain, new carpets, new -velvet fauteuils, programmes printed on vellum, -and red ribbons (also supplied by the management) -in the grisly hair of the middle-aged -<i>ouvreuses</i>. “I have been an <i>ouvreuse</i> for twenty -years, but never have I seen an audience so vast, -so animated, so <i>chic</i>,” said one of these ladies to -me as she bundled up my overcoat, pinned a -ticket to it and dropped it on to the floor. “Not -a peg left,” she continued. “Immediately beneath -your overcoat lies the overcoat of Prince -Murat. In the heap next to it is a Rothschild -overcoat. And as for that other pile of overcoats in -the corner, all fur-lined, all magnificent, well, they -belong to ambassadors, dukes, American millionaires, -English milords, famous writers, politicians, -jockeys—all the great personages in the world. -Thus, although it lies on the floor, your overcoat -is in illustrious company.” After warning me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span> -that no one would be admitted into the theatre -when the curtain had risen, the <i>ouvreuse</i> showed -me to my seat, held out her hand, was rewarded, -and left me free to admire the jewels, feathers, -dresses and coiffures of <i>le Tout Paris</i>. All eyes—or -rather opera-glasses—on the box occupied by -Madame Rostand and her two sons. In another -box, M. Briand, the Prime Minister. In the stalls, -Academicians, generals, playwrights, critics, newspaper -proprietors, aviators, financiers, leading -actors and actresses. Everyone afoot, or rather -on tip-toe, gossiping, laughing, singling out -celebrities with their glasses. But at ten minutes -to nine o’clock the three traditional thuds made -by a mallet behind the curtain (the signal in -French theatres that the play is about to begin) -caused a hush. Everyone sat down. “<i>Chantecler</i> -at last,” said, emotionally, a lady behind me. -The curtain rose two or three inches. “<i>Pas -encore, pas encore</i>,” cried a voice. Consternation, -dismay of <i>le Tout Paris</i>; was the play again -to be postponed, was it true that M. Rostand had -taken that 9.39 train, and that Madame Simone -had “sensationally” disappeared, and that -M. Guitry—— “<i>Pas encore, pas encore!</i>” But it -was—thank heaven—only the voice of M. Jean -Coquelin who appeared in the front of the stalls -in a dress-suit, mounted a footstool and recited -the prologue to M. Rostand’s fantastic, symbolical -<i>chef-d’œuvre</i>.</p> - -<p>It was a delightfully humorous description of the -feathered inhabitants of a farm-yard; and as M. Jean<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span> -Coquelin continued to harangue the audience -eloquently from his footstool, the animals were -heard becoming impatient on the hidden stage.</p> - -<p>A crowing of cocks. A cackling of geese. The -stamping of a horse’s hoof. The creaking of an -old cart. The bray of a donkey. The miaow of -a cat. The hoot of an owl. The whistle of a -blackbird. Then—distinctly—three taps from a -woodpecker: “<i>le bec d’un pivert a frappé les trois -coups</i>”; and with a cry of “The woodpecker says -the play must commence,” M. Coquelin disappeared, -down went the lights: and up amidst -thunders of applause rose the curtain.</p> - -<p>Before us, a farm-yard, not an inmate or an -object of which is wanting. White, black, grey -and brown hens strut hither and thither, sharply -discussing the powers, vanities, infidelities of -Chantecler, their lord and master. Ducks and -drakes, ganders and geese take sides for or against -the king of the yard. Now and again the lid of a -vast wicker-work basket opens, to reveal the head -of the Old Hen—a very old hen, the doyenne of -the place, and Chantecler’s foster-mother. In her, -of course, the cock finds an ardent defender; but -whenever the withered old head protrudes from -the basket the Blackbird, hopping about in his -cage, holds forth mockingly, ironically. For the -Blackbird, like every other feathered creature in -the play, is symbolical. He represents the smart, -shallow, cynical Parisian, who scoffs at principles, -ridicules genius, laughs at love, denies the existence<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span> -of disinterested friendship, and is enormously -pleased with his empty, impudent self. So he -makes fun of the Old Hen and of the white, black, -grey and brown hens whilst they pay naïve -tributes to the supreme genius of Chantecler—the -Cock of Cocks, the superb creature whose -clarion, peremptory call causes the sun to rise -and makes the world radiant, beautiful and -cheerful. Chantecler has betrayed the hens, but -they nevertheless admire and love him. As the -discussion continues, bees, butterflies, wasps fly -across the stage. On a pillar, a cat dozes tranquilly -in the sun. Two fluffy little chicks play at -getting in and out of a gigantic sabot. To the -right, a huge dog’s kennel; in the background -a gigantic cart, with its shafts in the air. In a -corner, a set of enormous harness. The birds -and beasts being of Brobdingnagian sizes, the -objects on the stage have been magnified in proportion. -But all is natural; never, from first to -last, a note of extravagance, grotesqueness. Well, -on and on goes the discussion, and, as the Blackbird -sneers and scoffs, it becomes heated and shrill. -“Silence; here he comes, here he comes,” cries a -pigeon. And not a sound is heard when Chantecler -appears, solemn, majestic, arrogant, on the -poultry-yard wall. The hens gather together, -look up at him with submission, admiration. The -two chicks stop their game. The cat wakes up. -Even the Blackbird ceases hopping about in his -cage. Magnificent, awe-inspiring, indeed, is -Chantecler in his dark green and light brown<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span> -feather dress—“the green of April and the ochre -of October.” He is, as on the top of the wall he -recites his <i>Hymn to the Sun</i>, Cyrano de Bergerac -in feathers. He represents the artist, the creative -genius, the dispenser of beauty and spiritual light. -If he be the lord over the other denizens of the -farm-yard, it is because they will have it so. They -believe the sun rises because Chantecler summons -it with his shrill, imperious “Cocorico.” And -Chantecler, the Superb, believes it himself—believes -it in spite of the sceptical Blackbird. -Chantecler, in fact, might stand for a great many -types besides the artistic; for example, the -statesman who fancies he is the creator of the -social reforms that are advancing with civilisation -like a tide. “I adore thee, O sun,” begins -Chantecler, his beak raised towards the skies.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Je t’adore, Soleil! ô toi dont la lumière,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pour bénir chaque front et mûrir chaque miel,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Entrant dans chaque fleur et dans chaque chaumière</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Se divise et demeure entière</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Ainsi que l’amour maternel!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse center">...</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Je t’adore, Soleil! Tu mets dans l’air des roses,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Des flammes dans la source, un dieu dans le buisson!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Tu prends un arbre obscur, et tu l’apothéoses!</div> - <div class="verse indent4">O Soleil! toi sans qui les choses</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Ne seraient que ce qu’elles sont!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Night falls, and Chantecler sends his subjects -to bed. Then he and Patou, the dog philosopher, -discuss the situation in the farm-yard. Excellent -Patou might be Anatole France’s M. Bergeret. -He despises the pert, cynical Blackbird. He<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span> -denounces the snobbishness, the vanity, the -vulgarity of the age. He is for calm, for reflection, -for—— A shot is heard, the Hen Pheasant -flies in and implores Chantecler to protect her -from the hunter. She nestles under the Cock’s -wing; she looks up at him admiringly, tenderly—and -proud, gallant, idealistic Chantecler there and -then falls in love with the gorgeous black, gold -and red Pheasant. Majestically Chantecler struts -round and round her, his chest thrown outwards, -his beak in the air. Curiously, somewhat disdainfully, -the Hen Pheasant surveys the farm-yard. -It strikes her as poor, sordid, such an obscure little -corner of the world. How different from the beauty, -the spaciousness, the grandeur of her forest!</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>La Faisane.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Mais tous ces objets sont pauvres et moroses!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Chantecler.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Moi, je n’en reviens pas du luxe de ces choses!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>La Faisane.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Tout est toujours pareil, pourtant.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Chantecler.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent38">Rien n’est pareil,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Jamais, sous le soleil, à cause du soleil!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Car Elle change tout!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>La Faisane.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent24">Elle... Qui?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Chantecler.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent38">La lumière.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Ardently, enthusiastically, then, Chantecler -tells the Hen Pheasant how daylight, as it changes, -floods the objects in the farm-yard with ever-varying -colours. That geranium is never twice -the same red. Patou’s kennel, the sabot stuffed -with straw, the rusty old pitchfork—not for two -successive moments do they look the same. A -rake in a corner, a flower in a vase, as they change -colour in the rays of the sun, fill idealistic -Chantecler with ecstasy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span></p> - -<p>Still, the Hen Pheasant is not very much impressed. -She consents, nevertheless, to pass the -night in Patou’s kennel, which the dog-philosopher -obligingly gives up to her. Owls, with huge, -luminous eyes, appear. Bats dash about in the -air. A mole creeps forth. As they love darkness -and detest light, they fancy if Chantecler -dies the night will last for ever. “I hate him,” -they say, one after another.—“Je commence -à l’aimer,” says the Hen Pheasant, womanlike, -when she thus hears that Chantecler is in -danger.</p> - -<p>Owls, bats, the Cat, the Blackbird and strange -night creatures are assembled beneath the -branches of a huge tree, when the curtain rises on -the second act. The Big Owl chants an Ode to -the Night. “Vive la Nuit,” cry his brethren, at -intervals, in a hoarse chorus. It is determined -that Chantecler must die. At five o’clock in the -morning, when the Guinea-Fowl holds a reception, -a terrific fighting-cock shall insult, attack -and slay Chantecler. “Vive la Nuit,” cry the -night-birds, their eyes shining luridly in the darkness. -But when a “Cocorico” sounds in the -distance the night creatures fly away, and Chantecler, -followed by the Hen Pheasant, struts on to -the dim stage. “Tell me,” pleads the Pheasant, -“the secret of your power.” At first Chantecler -refuses, then hesitates, then in a glorious outburst -he declares that the sun cannot rise until -he has sung his song. It is perhaps the noblest, -the most exquisite passage in the play.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span></p> - -<p>Here is the last verse:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Je pense à la lumière, et non pas à la gloire,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Chanter, c’est ma façon de me battre et de croire.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Et si de tous les chants mon chant est le plus fier,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">C’est que je chante clair afin qu’il fasse clair.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“But if,” asks the Hen Pheasant, “the skies -are clouded and grey?”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Chantecler.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Si le ciel est gris, c’est que j’ai mal chanté.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>La Faisane.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Il est tellement beau, qu’il semble avoir raison.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Majestically, Chantecler struts to and fro -beneath the branches of the trees. Humbly, admiringly, -the Hen Pheasant watches his perambulations. -Night has passed, daybreak is near; -the skies above the hillock on which Chantecler -is standing turn from black to purple, and next -from purple to dark grey. “Look and listen,” -says Chantecler. He digs his claws firmly into -the turf; he throws his chest out; he raises his -head heavenwards: “Cocorico... Cocorico... -Cocorico.” And gradually, delicately, the skies -light up; birds twitter, cottages stand out in the -distance, the tramp of the peasant on his way to -the fields tells that the day’s work has begun—shafts -of golden light fall upon the majestic -Chantecler and illuminate the plumage of the -graceful, beautiful Hen Pheasant.</p> - -<p>And now, in a kitchen garden, the Guinea-Fowl’s -“five o’clock”—a worldly, fashionable -reception—at five o’clock in the morning! It is a -satire on elegant Paris <i>salons</i>; what tittle-tattle, -what scandalmongering, what epigrams, paradoxes -and puns! At a weather-stained old gate<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span> -stands the Magpie. One of the first guests he -ceremoniously announces is the Peacock—the -<i>grande dame</i>, to whom her hostess, the snobbish -Guinea-Fowl, makes a profound curtsy. (The -Peacock’s tail is a miracle of ingenuity; the -actress can spread it out fanwise, raise it, let it -drop, at will.) Then, one after another, arrives -an endless procession of cocks. “The Golden -Cock; the Silver Cock; the Cock from Bagdad; -the Cock from Cochin China; the Scotch Grey -Cock; the Bantam Cock; the Cock without -Claws; M. le Doyen of All the Cocks,” announces -the Magpie. Bows from these multitudinous -Cocks to the Guinea-Fowl, to the Peacock and to -the Blackbird. In all, forty-three amazing Cocks, -each of whom is jealous of Chantecler; who eventually -appears at the gateway with the Hen -Pheasant. “Announce me, simply, as <i>the</i> Cock,” -proudly says Chantecler. “<i>Le</i> Coq,” cries the -Magpie. And the trouble begins.</p> - -<p>Coldness from the Guinea-Fowl, scorn from the -Peacock, mockery from the Blackbird, and insults -from the Prize Fighting Cock, who has been commissioned -by the uncanny, unwholesome Night -Birds to slay idealistic, sun-loving Chantecler. -Then, the duel, which ends in the victory of <span class="smcap">the</span> -Cock, and the pain and humiliation of the prize-fighter. -All the Cocks, from M. le Doyen down to -the Cock without Claws, are dismayed. The Peacock -is disgusted; the Guinea-Fowl is dejected at -the wretched failure of her “five o’clock”—only -the smart, irrepressible Blackbird keeps things<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span> -going. But not for long. Contemptuously, -Chantecler turns upon him; taunts him with his -vain, miserable endeavour to imitate the true, -delightful wit, gaiety and genius of the Sparrow—the -<i>gavroche</i>—of Paris. The Parisian Sparrow -is flippant, but warm-hearted. He laughs, he -scoffs, he whistles, he swaggers, but he is faithful -and brave. But you, wretched Blackbird, are -a coward. You, shallow creature, are a sneak. -And then the line that would have rejoiced the -heart of Victor Hugo: “Il faut savoir mourir -pour s’appeler Gavroche.”</p> - -<p>A month passes. The last Act represents the -Hen Pheasant’s forest, where she and Chantecler -are spending their honeymoon. For the bird has -enticed the Cock away from the farm-yard; and -thus, distress of his old foster-mother, and much -indignation amongst the white, grey, brown and -black hens.</p> - -<p>Night in the forest, and how beautifully depicted! -Up in a tree sits a solemn woodpecker; -below him, around a huge mushroom, a number -of toads with glistening eyes are assembled. -Then, a gigantic cobweb, and in the middle of it, -a spider. Here and there, rabbits peep out of -their holes. Everywhere, birds. “It is time,” -says the solemn woodpecker to them, “for you to -say your prayers.”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Une Voix [dans les arbres].</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dieu des oiseaux!...</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Une Autre Voix.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ou plutôt—car il sied avant tout de s’entendre</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Et le vautour n’a pas le Dieu de la calandre!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dieu des petits oiseaux!...</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Mille Voix [dans les feuilles].</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dieu des petits oiseaux!...</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Une Autre Voix.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Et vous, François, grand saint, bénisseur de nos ailes....</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Toutes les Voix.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Priez pour nous!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Une Voix.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent16">Obtenez-nous, François d’Assise,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Le grain d’orge...</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>La Seconde Voix.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent16">Le grain de blé...</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>D’autres Voix.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent38">Le grain de mil...</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>La Première Voix.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ainsi soit-il!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="speaker"><i>Toutes les Voix.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent16">Ainsi soit-il!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>At length, when Chantecler appears, we perceive -that there is something wrong with the Cock. -“Does not my forest please you?” asks the Hen -Pheasant tenderly. “Oh yes,” replies Chantecler -half-heartedly. The fact is, he pines after -the farm-yard. Every night in the forest he telephones -to the Blackbird, through the flower of the -bindweed, for news of his old foster-mother, the -hens, the chicks, the dog Patou. Then the Hen -Pheasant is jealous of his love for the sun. -Cruelly, she has insisted that he is to crow only -once every day.</p> - -<p>But it is the Hen Pheasant’s design to make -Chantecler forget the dawn. He, of the farm-yard, -has never heard the song of the nightingale. -So glorious are her notes that Chantecler, the poet, -the idealist, will be enraptured by them—and lose -count of time.</p> - -<p>And the nightingale sings; and Chantecler, -enthralled, listens attentively—and as he stands -there, spellbound, beneath the nightingale’s tree,—<i>the -sun rises and lights up the forest</i>.</p> - -<p>A peal of mocking laughter betrays the presence<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span> -of the Blackbird. So it is not the imperious -“Cocorico” who summons the sun! So the day -breaks without Chantecler’s shrill crow! At -first the Cock refuses to admit it: “That is the -sun I summoned yesterday.” But when his -illusions are gone he returns, humbled but not -despairing, to the farm-yard. If he has not the -supreme power to create the day, at least he can -herald it.</p> - -<p>When Chantecler has vanished, the Hen -Pheasant, out of love for the Cock, deliberately -flies into a trap set by the owner of the poultry -yard. She remembers Chantecler having described -the farmer as an admirable man:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Car le propriétaire est un végétarien.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">C’est un homme étonnant. Il adore les bêtes.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Il leur donne des noms qu’il prend dans les poètes.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>So the farmer, after releasing the Hen Pheasant -from the trap, will restore her to Chantecler.</p> - -<p>More and more golden becomes the forest. A -strident “Cocorico” from the distance announces -Chantecler’s return to the yard. When footsteps -are heard, the birds stop singing. And the -curtain falls.</p> - -<p>It falls on a <i>chef-d’œuvre</i>.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="X">X<br /> -<span class="smaller">AFTER <i>CHANTECLER</i></span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>More than a fortnight has passed since -I witnessed the dress rehearsal of -<i>Chantecler</i>: and what an odd, what an -exhausting fortnight it has been! First of all -dreams—or rather nightmares. Strangely, preposterously, -I am majestic, cock-crowing “Chantecler” -himself. A few minutes later, with wild, -delirious rapidity, I turn into the Blackbird. -M. Rostand’s Blackbird can hop in and out of -his cage, and mingle with the hens, the ducks, -the fluffy little chicks, and the other feathered -creatures in the farm-yard; but I—am a prisoner -in my cage—no one heeds my cries, no one releases -me, and to add to my panic huge owls with shining -eyes gather around my cage and hoot lugubriously -at me.</p> - -<p>Nor is this all. I get hopelessly entangled in -the gigantic cobweb, which is one of the most -wonderful scenic effects of the Fourth Act (the -“Hen Pheasant’s Forest”) of <i>Chantecler</i>. Also -I stumble over the great toadstools, fall heavily -to the ground; and the gorgeous Hen Pheasant -herself appearing, I feel humiliated and ashamed -that so elegant and beautiful a creature should -find me sprawling thus awkwardly on the turf.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span> -“What a nuisance these toadstools are,” I observe. -“What are you doing in my forest? Leave it -immediately,” commands the Hen Pheasant. -But I have sprained my ankle; impossible to rise, -even to move. And I burst into tears, and I -implore the beautiful Pheasant to pardon me, and -then a great bat gets caught in my hair, and——</p> - -<p>Enough. Although my sufferings in these -nightmares have been acute, I have one thing to -be thankful for. Up to now I have not been -attacked, as “Chantecler” is in the Third Act, by -a fierce, bloodthirsty Prize Fighting Cock.</p> - -<p>Gracious goodness, this <i>Chantecler</i>! Rising -unrefreshed from my troubled, restless sleep, I -find, on the breakfast-table, letters from London, -Birmingham, Manchester, which show that M. -Edmond Rostand’s masterpiece has interested -those cities as much as it has agitated and excited -Paris.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Boy</span>” (writes a frail, silver-haired -and very charming old lady who gave me half-crowns -in my schooldays),—“I live very much -out of the world, as old people should do; but -I confess to my curiosity having been aroused by -a very peculiar play now being acted in Paris. -I mean <i>Chantecler</i>, by a M. Edmond Rostand. It -seems that the characters in it—if one can call -them characters?—are animals. How very remarkable! -I wonder how it can be done! Such -things are seen, of course, in pantomimes (do you -remember my taking you to Drury Lane Theatre<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span> -many, many years ago to see <i>Puss-in-Boots</i>?). -But the newspapers here say that this play is -wonderfully natural, and full of true poetry and -feeling. When you can spare half-an-hour, pray -satisfy an old lady’s curiosity by giving her an -account of the piece.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>Then, with innumerable dashes, exclamation -marks, and words underlined, the following appeal -from fascinating, lovely, irresistible Miss Ethel -Tempest:—</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“Of course, lucky man, you have seen <i>Chantecler</i>, -and if you don’t tell me all about it by -return of post I shall never write to you, and never -look at you, and never speak to you again. I -don’t want to know anything about the plot of -the play, as I have read all about that in the -papers. You have got to be a dear, and tell me -about the hat that Madame Simone wears as the -Hen Pheasant. It’s made of straw and feathers, -and it’s going to be the rage in London. Sybil -Osborne tells me chic Parisiennes are wearing it -already. No; on second thoughts, send me all the -fashionable illustrated papers that give sketches -of the hat. As you’re a man, you won’t understand -it. Mind, <i>all</i> the papers: you can’t send -enough. If you could get a special sketch done -by one of your artist friends in the Latin Quarter, -it would be lovely.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>Well, of course I write to the gentle, kindly -silver-haired lady who once took me to a Drury<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span> -Lane pantomime; and of course, too, I send -illustrated papers—thirteen of them—to exquisite -Miss Tempest, and ask Raoul Fauchois, a gay, -sympathetic art student, to “do” me a sketch -of the Hen Pheasant’s straw hat. He consents, -and I fancy he will keep his promise. “Naturally, -the sketch is not for you,” he says, at once wisely -and poetically. “It is for one of those blonde -English misses whose <i>chevelure</i>, so radiant, so -golden, lights up the sombre streets of old London. -You may rely upon me, <i>mon pauvre ami</i>. I -understand; I know exactly how you feel—for -I myself have had affairs of the heart.”</p> - -<p>Again, always from London and the provinces, -requests for picture post cards of the principal -scenes in <i>Chantecler</i>; for gilt brooches (3 f. 50 c. -in the tawdry shops of the rue de Rivoli) representing -“Chantecler” crowing and crowing with -his chest thrown outwards and his beak raised -heavenwards; for the Porte St-Martin theatre -programme of <i>Chantecler</i>; and for—“if you -possibly can manage it”—the autograph of -M. Edmond Rostand.</p> - -<p>And then a telegram:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“Wife and self arrive Gare du Nord Wednesday -5.45. Please meet us. Not understanding -French wish you accompany us see and interpret -<i>Chantecler</i>.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>What worry, what exhaustion!</p> - -<p>“Monsieur would be kind to explain this<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span> -extraordinary ‘Chantecler’ to me. I am from the -country, and have had much to do with poultry; -but I have never seen a cock like Chantecler,” -says my servant, a simple, naïve soul from -Normandy.</p> - -<p>Then my concierge, a practical lady: “But it’s -ridiculous, but it’s mad! Cocks and hens cannot -even speak, and yet this M. Rostand makes them -recite poetry. What is France coming to? What -will be the end of us all? Think, just think, -what has been happening since the New Year. -That sinister comet, the terrible floods, and now -<i>Chantecler</i>.”</p> - -<p>Very unwisely, I explain to my servant and -to my concierge that M. Rostand’s glorious <i>chef-d’œuvre</i> -is symbolical.</p> - -<p><i>Chantecler</i> is a symbolic play in verse.</p> - -<p>The feathered creatures in the farm-yard represent -human beings. “Chantecler” himself -is the artist, the idealist. The Hen Pheasant is -the coquettish, seductive, brilliant woman of the -world. The Blackbird——</p> - -<p>But here I stop, silenced by the startled expression -of the concierge and the servant. It is -plain they think I have become irresponsible, -light-headed. “Monsieur is tired. Monsieur -should lie down and rest. Monsieur is not quite -himself,” says my servant.</p> - -<p>“The comet—the floods—<i>Chantecler</i>, have been -too much for Monsieur,” sighs the concierge.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XI">XI<br /> -<span class="smaller">AU COURS D’ASSISES. PARIS AND MADAME STEINHEIL</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>It was not by reason of baccarat losses, duels, -matrimonial disputes, nor because of the -aches of indigestion nor of the indefinable -miseries of neurasthenia, worries and ailments -common enough in French Vanity Fair—it was -not, I say, for any of these reasons that fashionable -and financial Paris, sporting and theatrical -Paris, certain worldly lights of literary and artistic -Paris, and the extravagant, feverish <i>demi-monde</i> -of Paris, woke up on the morning of the 3rd -November<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> in an exceedingly bad temper. Nor -yet was their displeasure occasioned by the -weather—London weather—all fog, damp and -gloom. The fact was, at noon was to begin the -first sitting of the great Steinheil trial, to which -the above-mentioned ornaments of <i>le Tout Paris</i> -had been excitedly looking forward for many a -month. All that time they had been worrying, -agitating, intriguing to obtain the official yellow -ticket that would entitle them to behold with -their own eyes—O, dramatic, thrilling spectacle—the -“Tragic Widow’s” entrance into the dock, -and to hear with their own ears—O palpitating,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span> -overwhelming experience—the secret history of -an essentially Parisian <i>cause célèbre</i>. The trial -would be the event of the autumn season, a -function no self-respecting <i>mondain</i>, <i>mondaine</i> -or <i>demi-mondaine</i> could afford to miss. And so, -as the accommodation in the Court of Assizes is -limited, the campaign to secure cards of admission -became ardent, fierce, and then (as the sensational -day of the 3rd November approached) delirious. -Off, by footmen, chauffeurs, special messengers, -went scented little notes to judges and famous -lawyers, and to deputies, senators and ministers, -imploring those distinguished personages to -“remember” the writer when the hour arrived -for the precious yellow tickets to be distributed. -“<i>Mon cher ami</i>,” wrote Madame la Comtesse de -la Tour, “if you forget me I shall never, never -forgive you.” Then, with a blot or two, and in -a primitive, scrawling handwriting, Mademoiselle -Giselle de Perle of the half-world: “<i>Mon vieux -gros</i>, I count upon you for the trial. If you fail -me, your little blonde Pauline will show her claws. -And the claws of this blonde child can be terrible.” -(It is shocking to think that blonde Giselle de -Perle should be on such familiar terms with -gentlemen in high places; but as a matter of fact -she and her sisters play a very important rôle in -the life of the Amazing City.) As for stout, -diamond-covered Baronne Goldstein (wife of old -bald-headed Goldstein of the Bourse), she invited -judges and deputies to rich, elaborate dinners, -at which the oldest, the mellowest, the most<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span> -comforting wines from her cellars were produced; -and when M. le Juge and M. le Député had been -rendered genial and benevolent by those rare, -warming vintages, she led them into a corner of -Goldstein’s vast gilded <i>salon</i>, and there besought -them, while breathing heavily under her breastplate -of diamonds, to procure for her “just one -little yellow ticket.” Naturally, all these State -officials replied with a bow: “I will do my -best. Need I say that it is my dearest desire to -oblige you?” And our ornaments of <i>le Tout -Paris</i> were satisfied; already regarded that ticket -of tickets as being safe and sound in their possession. -When October dawned, Madame la Comtesse, -lively Pauline Boum and stout Baronne -Goldstein ordered striking dresses and huge, -complicated hats for the Steinheil <i>cause célèbre</i>. -In their respective <i>salons</i>, over their “five -o’clock’s” of pale tea, sugared cakes, and crystal -glasses of port, malaga and madeira, they excitedly -described how they had driven to the tranquil, -ivy-covered villa in the Impasse Ronsin where -Madame Steinheil’s husband and mother had -been assassinated on the night of the 30th-31st -May eighteen months ago. And how, after -that expedition, they had proceeded to beautiful -Bellevue, seven miles out of Paris, to stare at that -other villa, the “Vert Logis,” where the “Tragic -Widow” received her lovers. How they gossiped, -too, over the intrigue between the accused woman -and the late President Félix Faure; and what -fun they made of certain high State dignitaries<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span> -who were said to be in a state of “panic” because -they had been habitués of the Steinheil villas! -“I would not miss the trial for the largest and -finest diamond in the world,” declared these -ladies. “It will be extraordinary, overwhelming, -supreme,” exclaimed the male guests at these -tea-and-madeira afternoon parties. “We shall -still be discussing it this time next year.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly, however, consternation, indignation, -fury, hysteria, in <i>le Tout Paris</i>. In an official -decree, M. de Valles, the judge appointed to -preside over the Steinheil “debates,” intimated -that all those scented notes had been written, all -those elaborate dinners had been given, all those -striking dresses and complicated hats had been -ordered, and tried on I don’t know how many -times—<i>in vain</i>. “I have,” stated M. de Valles, -“received over 25,000 applications for tickets of -admission, and every one of them I have refused. -Only the diplomatic corps, the Bar, and a certain -number of French and foreign journalists will be -admitted. Let it be clearly understood that this -decision of mine is irrevocable.” Gracious powers, -the commotion! <i>Le Tout Paris</i> protested, raged, -until it wore itself out with anger and hysteria. -“I have made thousands of enemies. Even -my wife’s friends refuse to speak to me,” said -M. de Valles to an interviewer. True to his -word, the judge remained inexorable. Passionate -letters to him remained unanswered; to all visitors -he was invisible. Hence the exceedingly bad -temper of <i>le Tout Paris</i> on that foggy, gloomy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span> -morning of the 3rd of November. And thus for -the first time on record the heroine of an essentially -Parisian <i>cause célèbre</i> entered the dock of the -dim, oblong, oak-panelled Court of Assizes, secure -from the laughter, the mockery, and the opera-glasses -of French Vanity Fair.</p> - -<p>An extraordinary woman, Madame Steinheil. -Imagine Sarah Bernhardt in some supremely -tragical rôle—pathetic, threatening; tender, -violent; despairing, tearful; wrecked with indignation, -suffering and exhaustion, and you will -gain an idea of the “Tragic Widow’s” demeanour -during the ten days’ dramatic trial. Her voice, -like the incomparable Sarah’s, was now melodious -and persuasive, then hoarse, bitter, frenzied; -when she wept, it subsided into a moan or a broken -whisper. Never even in Paris (where a widow’s -weeds are perhaps excessively lugubrious) have I -seen deeper mourning: heavy crape bands round -the accused woman’s black dress, stiff crape bows -in the widow’s cap, a deep crape border to the -handkerchief which she clenched tightly, convulsively, -in her black-gloved hand. Then, under -her eyes, dark, dark shadows, which turned green -as the trial tragically wore on. Her face, deadly -pale, but for the hectic spot burning fiercely in each -cheek. Her eyes, blue. Her hair, dark brown. -Her ears, small and delicate; her mouth, sensitive, -tremulous, eloquent. Her only <i>coquetterie</i>, the -low, square-cut opening in the neck of her dress.</p> - -<p>Wistfully, wretchedly, she glanced around the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span> -court, after M. de Valles, the presiding judge, had -given her permission to sit down. Then her eyes -fell upon a grim table placed immediately beneath -the Bench: and she shuddered. It was grim -because it contained the <i>pièces à conviction</i>—the -alpenstock found near the late M. Steinheil’s -body, the coil of rope with which he and his -mother-in-law had been strangled, the famous -bottle of brandy with the innumerable finger-prints, -the wadding lying on the floor by the side -of Madame Japy’s bed. Then, M. de Valles, in -his rasping voice, asked the “Tragic Widow” -the usual preliminary questions concerning her -parentage, domicile and age. Almost inaudibly, -Madame Steinheil replied. And the trial began.</p> - -<p>Unfortunately, I have neither the space nor the -time at my disposal to render even a tolerably -satisfactory account of this overwhelming <i>cause -célèbre</i>. “Impressions” are all I can offer, mixed -up with brief descriptions of what the French -journalist calls “incidents in court”; and even -these “impressions” and “incidents” must -necessarily be compressed and disconnected. For -the slightness of my recital, I beg the indulgence -of my readers.</p> - -<p>“Messieurs les Jurés, I swear I am innocent. -Messieurs les Jurés, I adored my mother. -Messieurs les Jurés, do not believe the abominable -things the President is saying about me,” was the -“Tragic Widow’s” first passionate outburst. -Then, turning round upon M. de Valles: “You -are treating me atrociously.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span></p> - -<p>“I am treating you as you deserve,” was the -reply.</p> - -<p>For the first two days, M. de Valles assumed -the office of public prosecutor, or rather of high -inquisitor—and the “Tragic Widow” was on -the rack. The judge in the black-and-red robes -sneered, stormed, threatened, bullied; and turned -constantly to the jury with a shrug of the shoulders -as though to say: “She denies everything. -She has never told anything but lies, and now -she is lying again.” Over again and again he -brutally accused Madame Steinheil of having -assassinated her mother, but never did the accused -woman fail to leap up from her chair with the cry: -“I adored my mother. Messieurs les Jurés, I -swear I adored her.” Another shrug of M. de -Valles’ shoulders, and another cynical smile at -the jury, when Madame Steinheil spoke of her -devotion to her eighteen-year-old daughter. “I -love her, and she loves me more fondly than ever—because -she believes in my innocence. She -has written me the tenderest letters and has -visited me constantly in prison. She helped to -make the black dress I am wearing.” And further -gestures expressive of impatient incredulity on the -part of M. de Valles when the “Tragic Widow” -shrieked: “Yes; I have been a bad woman. -Yes; I have been an immoral woman. Yes; I -made false, wicked accusations against Remy -Couillard and Alexandre Wolff. But I am not an -assassin, a fiend. And only a fiend could murder -her mother.” Here the shriek stopped. For<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span> -some moments the “Tragic Widow” cried bitterly. -Then, in Sarah Bernhardt’s melodious voice, she -thus addressed the jury: “Gentlemen, I am -deeply repentant for all the wrong I have done. -Please realise that I was mad—that I was being -tortured—when I made those false, atrocious -accusations. I was being tortured by the examining -magistrate and by the journalists who invaded -my villa and refused to leave it until they had -obtained sensational ‘copy’ for their papers. -These journalists told me that nobody believed in -my story, and that I had better tell a new one. -They said my villa was surrounded by a hostile -mob, come there to lynch me. It was they who -suggested that I should accuse Alexandre Wolff -and Remy Couillard. They tortured me until -they made me say what they liked. It was no -doubt splendid material for their papers: but the -result was disastrous for me. Do you know, -gentlemen of the jury, that it was actually in a -motor car belonging to the <i>Matin</i> that I was -driven to the St Lazare prison?” And the -“Tragic Widow” collapsed in her chair, covered -her face with her hand, sobbed convulsively. -At this point the two or three hundred barristers -in court murmured compassionately: and M. de -Valles called them to order by rapping his paper-cutter -on his massive silver inkstand. (M. de -Valles, by the way, was for ever rapping his paper-cutter, -for ever wiping his brow with a huge -handkerchief, for ever sinking back in his handsome, -comfortable fauteuil, and then suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span> -darting forward to hurl some savage remark at -the accused.) Irritated by the compassionate -demonstration of the barristers, unmoved by the -shaking and sobbing of the black-dressed woman -in the dock, M. de Valles pointed to the grim table -containing the <i>pièces de conviction</i>, and cried: -“Look at that horrible table, and confess; and shed -real, not crocodile, tears. You have stated that -on the night of the crime you were bound down -and gagged by three men in black robes and by a -red-headed woman, who entered your room with -a dark lantern and then—after they had bound -and gagged you, and after you yourself had lost -consciousness—assassinated poor M. Steinheil and -the unfortunate Madame Japy. Nobody believes -you; your story is a tissue of falsehoods. It was -you who, with the help of accomplices, murdered -your husband and your mother.”</p> - -<p>But let us not be too hard upon M. de Valles for -his savage treatment of Madame Steinheil. He -had considerately protected her from the cruel -curiosity and impertinence of <i>le Tout Paris</i>; and -then it was his legitimate rôle to attempt by -continuous ruthless bullying to extract a confession -from his pale-faced, exhausted martyr. -For in France the word “judge,” as we understand -it, is a misnomer. The French judge is the -real public prosecutor, the chief cross-examiner; -save for the jury, he would be all-powerful. But -as the twelve men “good and true” are chosen -from the justice-loving French people at large, -M. le Juge’s drastic, brutal insinuations and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span> -accusations cannot alone bring about a condemnation. -It is for the jury to decide. It remains -with the jury to condemn. And at one o’clock -in the morning of the 14th November the jurors -in the Steinheil <i>cause célèbre</i>—workmen, mechanics, -<i>petits commerçants</i>—demonstrated their inherent -love and sense of justice by——</p> - -<p>But I am anticipating events. Let us return to -the crowded, stifling Court of Assizes; and then -take a stroll in the marble corridors of the Paris -Law Courts, where, throughout the Steinheil trial, -wooden barriers barred the way to all those not -provided with the precious yellow ticket; and -where groups of policemen, and of Municipal -and Republican Guards were discussing—like -every other soul in Paris—this incomprehensible, -amazing <i>cause célèbre</i>.</p> - -<p>A change in M. de Valles on the third day of -the trial. Respecting her tears, refraining from -shrugging his shoulders at her repeated protestations -of innocence, the judge treated the “Tragic -Widow” as a human being; even with courtesy -and compassion. This metamorphosis was due, -I believe, to a hint received from high quarters, -where (so I have since been assured) the strong -protests of the Paris correspondents of the English -and American newspapers against the French -judicial system, had made an impression. But -in the opinion of Henri Rochefort, Madame -Steinheil’s savage assailant in the columns of the -Nationalist <i>Patrie</i>, the “judge had been bought.” -With his gaunt, yellow face, tumbled white hair,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span> -angry grey eyes, the ruthless old journalist and -agitator was the most conspicuous figure in the -press-box. To his colleagues and to the barristers -around him, he also accused Madame Steinheil -of having murdered the late Félix Faure. “She -was in the pay of the Dreyfusards,” he said, in his -hoarse voice, “and the Dreyfusards knew that -so long as Faure lived there would be no revision. -So they commissioned the woman Steinheil, his -mistress, to assassinate him.” After which he -sucked lozenges (fierce old Rochefort is always -and always sucking lozenges in order to ease the -hoarseness in his throat), and next proceeded to -begin his article for the <i>Patrie</i>, in which he -referred to Madame Steinheil as the “Black -Panther”! I fancy, too, that it was Rochefort’s -bold design to magnetise—even to mesmerise—the -jury! At all events, when not writing or -accusing, he kept his angry grey eyes fixed hard -on the foreman. A good thing the “Tragic -Widow” could not see him from her seat in -the dock. Henri Rochefort’s gaunt yellow face, -when lit up luridly with hatred and vindictiveness, -is enough to make anyone falter and -quail.</p> - -<p>But as M. de Valles was calm, Madame Steinheil -felt more at ease; and, apart from occasional tears -and comparatively few outbursts, the “Tragic -Widow” remained composed during the six long, -stifling afternoons occupied by the evidence of -the eighty-seven witnesses. Of these, of course, -I can take only the most important. Let us begin<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span> -with Mr Burlingham, an American painter and -journalist, aged twenty-eight.</p> - -<p>Poor, poor Mr Burlingham! It will be remembered -that Madame Steinheil described the -assassins of her husband and mother as three -men in black robes, and a red-headed woman. -Well, just because Mr Burlingham had hired a -black robe from a costumier’s for a fancy-dress -ball a few nights before the murder, he was suspected, -shadowed and worried by the detective -police. One day the police stationed Madame -Steinheil outside his door, and when he sauntered -out and walked off, the “Tragic Widow” exclaimed: -“Yes, that is one of the assassins. I -recognise him by his red beard.” But as on the -night of the murder Mr Burlingham was far away -in Switzerland with two friends on a walking-tour, -he had no difficulty in establishing a decisive -<i>alibi</i>. Nevertheless, Mr Burlingham became -notorious. His photographs appeared in the -newspapers. He was followed here, there and -everywhere by Yellow Reporters: who described -him as the “enigmatic Burlingham,” and the -“sinister Burlingham”—and yet Mr Burlingham, -with his light red beard, gentle green eyes, low -voice and kindly expression is, in reality, the -simplest and mildest-looking mortal that ever -breathed. What humiliations, what indignities, -nevertheless, had Mr Burlingham to endure! -His landlord gave him notice, his tradespeople -ceased calling for orders; when out walking in -the neighbourhood he inhabited, concierges exclaimed:<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span> -“There goes the famous Burlingham,” -while little boys cried: “Here comes the sinister -Burlingham.” Once, after calling on a friend who -was out, he left his name with the concierge—and -the concierge, panic-stricken, fled her lodge, and, -rushing into the next house, breathlessly told her -neighbour that she had seen the “terrible Burlingham.” -In fact, an intolerable time of it for mild, -simple Mr Burlingham.</p> - -<p>“I have narrowly escaped the guillotine,” -were his first words to the judge; and the Court -laughed. The American should have engaged an -interpreter: his French and his accent were deplorable. -“This Steinheil affair is not clear,” -he continued, naïvely, and everyone shook with -delight. “I am very sorry you have been so -badly treated,” said M. de Valles, “but you fell -under suspicion because you had eccentric habits, -and mixed with eccentric people.” M. de Valles’ -idea of “eccentric” habits and “eccentric” -people was in itself eccentric. For Mr Burlingham’s -friends and associates during his sojourn in -Paris have been painters, sculptors, and journalists -of talent and honourable standing. As for his -habits, they have been those of a firm believer in -the “simple life.” Sandals for Mr Burlingham; -no hat; terrific walking-tours. Then a diet of rice, -grapes and nuts. (In the buffet of the Law Courts -Mr Burlingham, when invited to take a “drink,” -ordered grapes: he consumed I don’t know how -many bunches a day, to the stupefaction of the -waiters and customers.) Well, after having received<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span> -apologies from the judge, Mr Burlingham -received those of counsel for the defence and the -prosecution. “Excuses are scarcely enough,” -replied the witness; “I should like to say something -about the French judicial system.” At -which, M. de Valles, rapping his paper-cutter, -sternly requested simple, unfortunate Mr Burlingham -to “retire.”</p> - -<p>Murmurs, exclamations, excitement in court -when M. Marcel Hutin, of the <i>Echo de Paris</i>, and -MM. Labruyère and Barby, of the <i>Matin</i>—the -three journalists who bullied and “tortured” -Madame Steinheil in the Impasse Ronsin Villa -on the night previous to her arrest—strode up -to the short wooden bar that takes the place, -in France, of a witness-box.</p> - -<p>No confusion, no shame about them; and yet -their conduct in the drawing-room of the Steinheil -villa twelve months ago was despicable. Calmly -they admitted having advised the “Tragic Widow” -to “tell a new story,” as no one in Paris believed -in her account of how the double crime had been -committed. They also admitted having lied to -the wretched woman, when they had told her -that the villa was surrounded by a hostile mob, -“come there to lynch her.” Madame Steinheil, -they continued, was exhausted, out of her mind. -She called for strychnine, with which to poison -herself. Downstairs in the kitchen the cook, -Mariette Wolff, was discovered on her knees, -striving to cut open the tube of the gas-stove—to -asphyxiate herself. The cook then produced a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span> -revolver, and cried: “Here is the only means -of salvation.” Later on, tea was served in the -drawing-room. M. Marcel Hutin and his two -colleagues continued to browbeat Madame Steinheil. -One of the Yellow Reporters cried: “I -shall not leave this house until I know the truth.” -Mariette Wolff entered the drawing-room and -tried to soothe her mistress. And——</p> - -<p>“So you tortured Madame Steinheil in her -drawing-room. You drank her tea. You were -her guests, she was your hostess,” interrupted -M. de Valles, scathingly, indignantly. The -“Tragic Widow,” leaning forward on the ledge -of the dock, looked gratefully, thankfully, at the -judge. The three Yellow Reporters strode out -of court, each of them provoking angry exclamations -from the barristers as they importantly -passed by.</p> - -<p>And then, the cook—Mariette Wolff, who had -been in Madame Steinheil’s service for over twenty -years; and who, according to the Yellow Press, -“possessed all the secrets of the palpitating -Steinheil Mystery.” Henri Rochefort, M. Arthur -Meyer (director of the <i>Gaulois</i>, very Jewish in -appearance, but a strong Anti-Semite and an -ardent Catholic in politics), Madame Séverine (the -famous woman journalist), four very charming -lady barristers, all their male confrères—everyone, -in fact, sprang up excitedly when Mariette made -her long-expected appearance. She has since been -described as a peasant out of one of Zola’s novels, -and as “the double of Balzac’s fiendish Cousine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span> -Bette.” She has also been termed “a fury,” and -“a rat” and “a monster.” For my part, when -first I saw her through the open door of the witness-room, -sipping a steaming grog and chatting and -laughing with her son Alexandre, I summed her -up as the French double of a typical English -charwoman. She was wearing a battered black -bonnet and a seedy black dress, and came to me -more as a Dickensonian than a Zolaesque or -a Balzacien character. But Mariette, happily -drinking grog, and Mariette, facing a jury and -judge, are two very different persons. In court, -Madame Steinheil’s ex-cook was defiant, vindictive, -violent. As she defended her former mistress, -her beady, black eyes flashed, her chin and nose -almost met—her yellow, knotted hand beat the -air. Yes, she was a “fury”; yes—to use the -French journalist’s pet epithet—she looked -“sinister.” And, oh dear me, her abuse of the -Yellow Reporters! Mariette’s crude language -cannot be reproduced here. It became particularly -strong when she related how she had ordered -MM. Hutin, Barby and Labruyère out of the -Impasse Ronsin Villa. It grew even stronger -when she denied their allegations that she intended -first of all to asphyxiate herself, and then to blow -out her brains. She denied everything. “My -mistress is innocent,” she cried. “She accused -my son Alexandre of being a murderer, but it -was those —— journalists who made her do that, -and I forgive her: and so does Alexandre.” True, -Alexandre Wolff, a horse-dealer’s assistant, with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span> -huge red hands and a neck like a bullock’s, told -M. de Valles he bore Madame Steinheil “no -grudge.” And the “Tragic Widow,” leaning -forward, murmured melodiously: “Thank you, -Alexandre.”</p> - -<p>Full of incoherencies, contradictions, was the -evidence of Remy Couillard, the late M. Steinheil’s -valet, into whose pocket-book the “Tragic Widow” -had placed the incriminating pearl. “I bear her -no grudge,” blurted out the young man. “I beg -your pardon, Remy,” said Madame Steinheil, -always melodiously, when the valet (attired, since -he was accomplishing his “military service,” in -a cavalry uniform) withdrew. But, a moment -later, she fell back in her chair, closed her eyes; -and the black-gloved hands in her lap twitched -convulsively, madly.</p> - -<p>M. Borderel had stepped forward to give -evidence: M. Borderel, the lover Madame Steinheil -had declared twelve months ago to the -examining magistrate to be the one and only man -she had ever truly loved.</p> - -<p>A hush in court as the middle-aged, red-eyed, -broken-down widower from the beautiful country -of the Ardennes, related the history of his intrigue -with the “Tragic Widow.”</p> - -<p>It will be remembered that the strongest point -for the prosecution was that Madame Steinheil -had murdered her husband in order to be free to -marry “the rich châtelain, M. Borderel.” In a -slow, solemn voice, M. Borderel stated: “Yes; -Madame Steinheil did mention marriage to me,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span> -but I said it was impossible. I adored my late -wife, I adore my children, and I felt I could not -give them a step-mother; and Madame Steinheil -fully understood that my decision was irrevocable. -Therefore the assumption of the prosecution that -Madame Steinheil murdered her husband in order -to become my wife, is unwarrantable.” Here -M. Borderel broke down. “I loved her. I was a -widower. I was free. In becoming her lover, I -behaved no more wrongly than thousands of my -fellow-countrymen. It is a base lie that I ever -suspected her of being guilty of that awful murder. -On the morning after the crime, I was full of the -deepest pity for her; and when she was accused -in the newspapers I passionately told everyone -she was innocent.” Up sprang Maître Aubin, -counsel for the defence, with the cry: “Do you -still believe her innocent?” And loudly, vigorously, -whole-heartedly rang forth the answer: -“With all my soul, with all my heart, upon my -conscience.”</p> - -<p>Even M. de Valles was moved by M. Borderel’s -emotion, sorrow, chivalry. The disclosure of the -“rich châtelain’s” <i>liaison</i> with the “Tragic -Widow” caused such a scandal in the Ardennes -that M. Borderel had to sell his estate; and he, -too, has been persecuted continuously by Yellow -photographers and journalists. Equally chivalrous -was the evidence of Comte d’Arlon (to whose -house Madame Steinheil was removed after the -night of the murder), of M. Martin (a State official), -and of other gentlemen who had been (platonic)<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span> -friends of the “Tragic Widow.” Then, more -chivalry from M. Pouce, an officer in the detective -police. “I have been one of the detectives in -charge of the Steinheil affair,” he cried. “But -I have always believed in the innocence of Madame -Steinheil. Had she told me she was guilty, I -should not have believed her. She is innocent.” -And finally, exuberant, fantastic chivalry on the -part of a young man named René Collard: who, to -the stupefaction of the Court, walked up to the -Bench and cried: “Madame Steinheil is innocent. -I myself am the red-headed woman who helped -to commit the double murder.” M. de Valles -then wiped his brow with his huge handkerchief, -rapped on the silver inkstand with his paper-cutter, -and cried: “Silence”—for the Court was -buzzing with excitement. Hesitatingly René -Collard (aged perhaps nineteen) related that he -had disguised himself as a woman, bought a red -wig, broken his way into the Steinheil villa (in -the company of two friends), sacked the place, -bound and gagged Madame Steinheil, strangled -her husband, suffocated her mother. “Take this -young man away,” said M. de Valles to a municipal -guard, “and lock him up.” Two nights in prison -brought young René Collard to his senses. He -had seen Madame Steinheil’s photographs in the -papers, had fallen in love with her: had resolved -to save her at the risk of being guillotined by the -awful M. Deibler! Said the examining magistrate: -“Little idiot, I shall now send you home in the -charge of a policeman, who will deliver you over<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span> -to your parents.” And so, amorous, over-chivalrous -young René Collard was conducted -back to a dull, bourgeois flat in the Avenue Clichy, -where his father and mother, after calling him a -“villain,” a “criminal,” and a “monster,” took -him into their arms, and hugged him, and called -him “the best and most adorable of sons”; and -then sent out Amélie, the only servant, to fetch -a cream cake and a bottle of sweet champagne -with which to celebrate the return home of the -“wicked” but “adorable” Master René.</p> - -<p>And now, half-past ten o’clock at night on -Saturday, the 13th of November.—I have passed -over the address to the jury of M. Trouard-Riolle, -the Public Prosecutor—a mere repetition -of the judge’s savage cross-examination of the -“Tragic Widow” on the first two days of the trial; -and I have also passed over Maître Aubin’s long, -eloquent speech for the defence. And the last -scenes I have now to describe rise up so vividly -before me, that I adopt the present tense.</p> - -<p>The jury have retired to an upstairs room -to consider their verdict. Madame Steinheil, -watched by municipal guards, is waiting—deadly -pale, green shadows under her blue eyes, exhausted, -a wreck—in the “Chambre des Accusés.” And -in the stifling Court of Assizes, and in the cold -marble corridors of the Palais de Justice, barristers, -journalists and a few ornaments of <i>le Tout Paris</i> -(who, somehow or other, have at last obtained -admittance to the Law Courts) are frantically -speculating upon the fate of Madame Steinheil.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span> -Most barristers say: “There are no proofs whatsoever. -Therefore, acquittal.” The <i>Tout Paris</i> -cries: “She should be imprisoned for life.” -(And here, in yet another parenthesis, let us suggest -that the <i>Tout Paris’</i> mocking, vindictive attitude -towards Madame Steinheil is provoked by malevolent -jealousy. Madame la Comtesse, lively -Pauline Boum, stout Baronne Goldstein cannot -forgive the “Tragic Widow” for having been -<i>une femme ultra-chic</i>—the favourite of the late -President Félix Faure. Yet, as we all know in -Paris, the life of these ladies is very far from -exemplary. How terrifically would our great, -kindly, satirical Thackeray have laid bare the true -causes of the bitter hostility directed against the -“Tragic Widow” by French Vanity Fair!)</p> - -<p>Eleven o’clock; half-past eleven; midnight. -Twice, so we hear, have M. de Valles and counsel -for the prosecution and the defence been summoned -to the jurors’ room, to explain certain -“points.” The <i>Tout Paris</i>, and Henri Rochefort, -are jubilant. “When the jury sends for the judge -it usually means a conviction,” croaks Rochefort, -rubbing his hands, and still sucking his impotent -lozenges. We hear, too, that a crowd of thousands -has assembled in front of the Palais de Justice; that -the boulevards are wild with excitement, and——</p> - -<p>“The judge has been summoned a third time to -the jurors’ room,” we are told at twenty minutes -past twelve.</p> - -<p>“Five years’ imprisonment at least,” chuckle -the ladies and fatuous gentlemen of <i>le Tout Paris</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span></p> - -<p>“Ten years—fifteen—twenty, I hope. She -was in the pay of the Dreyfusards, and killed -Félix Faure,” mutters Rochefort.</p> - -<p>“The Court enters; the Court enters,” cry the -ushers and the municipal guards, at half-past -twelve.</p> - -<p>As the jury files into the box, barristers and -journalists mount their benches, and, upon those -rickety supports, sway to and fro. “Silence,” -shouts M. de Valles, rapping his paper-cutter for -the last time. His question to the foreman of the -jury is inaudible. But the reply rings out firmly, -vigorously:</p> - -<p>“Before God and man, upon my honour and -conscience, the verdict on every count of the -indictment is: Not Guilty.”</p> - -<p>For a few seconds, silence. Then a shrill cry -(from one of the brown-haired, blue-eyed, very -charming lady barristers) of “Acquitted!” And -after that, enthusiastic uproar. Rocking and -swaying to and fro on their rickety benches, the -barristers applaud, cheer, fling their black <i>képis</i> -into the air. Up, too, go the caps of their -fascinating, brown-haired colleagues, as they cry: -“Bravo.” More shouts and bravoes from the -journalists. (One of them—an Englishman—cheers -so frantically that half-an-hour later his -voice is as hoarse as Henri Rochefort’s.) And -so the din continues, increases, until the demonstrators -suddenly perceive the dock is empty. -Again, for a second or two, silence, followed by -exclamations of astonishment, alarm. M. de<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span> -Valles, the two assistant judges, and the jurors -lean forward. Maître Aubin looks anxious. -Where is the “Tragic Widow”? Is she ill? Is -she——? But at last the small door at the back -of the dock opens, and Madame Steinheil, livid, -held by either arm by a municipal guard, staggers -forward. She has not yet heard the verdict, but -the renewed wild cheering (which drowns the -judge’s voice as he addresses her) tells her what -it is. Dazed, half-fainting in the doorway, she -looks around the Court. For the first time -throughout the ten days’ trial she smiles—heavens, -the relief, the gratitude, the softness of -that smile! And then amidst shouts of “Vive -Madame Steinheil,” and of “Vive la Justice,” the -“Tragic Widow” falls unconscious into the arms -of the <i>Gardes Municipaux</i> and is carried out backwards -through the narrow doorway of the dock.</p> - -<p>Paris, too, demonstrates excitedly. Cheers are -given by the vast crowd assembled outside the -Law Courts for Madame Steinheil, Maître Aubin -and the jury. M. Trouard-Riolle, the public -prosecutor, leaves the Palais de Justice by a side -door, followed by Henri Rochefort, yellower than -ever in the face, his eyes blazing with vindictive -fury. Almost encircling the Palais are the 60 -and 90 h.p. motors of the Yellow Reporters, still -bent on pursuing and persecuting the “Tragic -Widow.” But she evades them; passes what -remains of the night in the Hotel Terminus; -speeds off in an automobile to a doctor’s private -nursing-home at Vésinet next morning.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span></p> - -<p>Acquitted, yes; but by no means rehabilitated, -far less left in peace. Outside the nursing-home -at Vésinet, behold rows of motor cars, packs of -Yellow Reporters and photographers. A din in -this usually tranquil country place; a din, too, -outside the Impasse Ronsin Villa, and in front of -the Bellevue Villa, where inquisitive Parisians jest, -and laugh, and point and stare at the shuttered -windows. Over those “five o’clock’s” of pale -tea, port and sugared cakes, <i>le Tout Paris</i> declares -that Madame Steinheil was acquitted by order of -the Government. In the <i>Patrie</i>, Henri Rochefort -still calls her the “Black Panther,” and, alluding -once again to the death of Félix Faure, bids -President Fallières to beware of her. And on the -boulevards, swarms of <i>camelots</i> thrust under one’s -eyes “picture post cards” of Mariette Wolff; of -huge, bloated Alexandre; of mild Mr Burlingham; -of chivalrous Count d’Arlon; of M. Borderel; -of Mademoiselle Marthe Steinheil; and of the -“Tragic Widow.”</p> - -<p>And the bourgeoisie?</p> - -<p>“Acquitted, yes; but the Impasse Ronsin -crime, committed eighteen months ago, remains -a mystery,” says a Parisian angrily to me. -“The trial has elucidated nothing: but it has cost -enormous sums.” And then, as he is a thrifty, -rather parsimonious little bourgeois, the speaker -adds indignantly: “As Madame Steinheil has won, -it is the Treasury, in other words the unfortunate -taxpayer, myself, for instance, who will have to -put his hand in his pocket, and settle the bill.”</p> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> 1909.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XII">XII<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE LATE JULES GUÉRIN AND THE DEFENCE OF FORT CHABROL</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>The month of May, 1899—how long ago it -seems!</p> - -<p>At that time, up at Montmartre, in a -large house, overlooking a garden, resided M. -Jules Guérin, most savage of Anti-Dreyfusards, -and chief of the Anti-Semitic party.</p> - -<p>A fine house, but an unlovely garden. A -gaunt tree or two; four or five gritty, stony -flower-beds; in a corner, a dried-up, dilapidated -old well. But this waste of a garden suited -M. Guérin’s purposes,—which were sinister.</p> - -<p>“If my enemies attack me here, I shall shoot -them dead and bury them beneath this very -window—by that tree, in that flower-bed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” I expostulated.</p> - -<p>“Or I shall throw their infamous bodies into -that well,” continued M. Guérin, again pointing -out of the window. “I am prepared; I am -ready. You see this gun? Then look at those -revolvers. All are loaded.”</p> - -<p>A long, highly polished gun rested in a corner -at M. Guérin’s elbow. Curiously then I glanced -at a collection of revolvers that bristled murderously -on the wall, and next at Jules Guérin, a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span> -powerfully built man, with massive shoulders, a -square chin, lurid green eyes, a fierce moustache, -and a formidable block of a head on which a soft -grey hat of enormous dimensions was tilted -jauntily on one side. Thus, although he sat in -his study before a vast, business-like writing-table, -Jules Guérin wore his hat, or rather his -sombrero, and also an overcoat; but then (as he -explained) he might be called out at any moment -to take part in a political brawl, or to chastise a -journalist, or to arrange a duel—even to dig the -grave of an enemy; and so was dressed ready to -sally forth anywhere, and with ferocious designs -upon anyone, at the shortest notice. Vehemently, -he puffed at a cigarette. Now and again -he pulled at his fierce moustache. As he spoke -he gesticulated, thumped the writing-table -savagely, and, when he thumped, the ink-bottles -and penholders leapt and danced, and the gun in -the corner trembled.</p> - -<p>“Downstairs I have twenty clerks and assistants. -All are armed with revolvers; all are devoted; -and thus my enemies are their enemies. -And so if the brigands attack us, into the earth -with them, or into the well, or into——”</p> - -<p>“But who are these enemies?” I interrupted. -“These brigands?”</p> - -<p>“The Government—Lépine, Chief of the Police—Loubet, -President of the Republic—a hundred -other traitors and assassins,” cried M. Guérin. -“But the garden is waiting for them. I desire -that this garden shall be their cemetery.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span></p> - -<p>Of course, an impossible ambition. But so incoherent, -so chaotic was the state of mind of the -Anti-Semites fourteen years ago, that I refrained -from suggesting that it was highly improbable -President Loubet or his Ministers would invade -M. Guérin’s bit of waste ground up there in the -rue Condorcet. Nor was my host a man to -stand ridicule. A flippant word from me, and -he would have shown me the door. So I listened -patiently to his wild, savage denunciations of the -Jews—of Captain Dreyfus in particular, who -was lying (burnt up with fever, broken and -battered in everything except determination) in -his cell on the Devil’s Island; whilst here, in -Paris, the Cour de Cassation was deliberating -whether there was sufficient “new” evidence to -justify the prisoner being brought back to France -and given a new trial. Rumours were flying -about to the effect that the Court had already -made up its mind to order the revision. Thus, -fury of the Anti-Dreyfusards; frenzy of the Anti-Semites, -and, in their newspapers, the statements -that the Cour de Cassation had been “bought” -by the Jews; that the Jews, being the masters -of France, had “sold” the country to Germany; -and that, therefore, the only thing to do with the -Jews was to hang them on the lamp-posts of Paris. -Particularly bloodthirsty and barbarous was M. -Guérin’s weekly journal, <i>L’Anti-Juif</i>, which stood -on the floor, in three or four stacks, of this extraordinary -study. In it were published the name -and address of every Jewish tradesman in Paris.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span> -Each column was headed with exhortation: -“Français, N’achetez Rien Aux Juifs.” Then, -hideous cartoons depicting the flight of the Jews -along the boulevards and their panic and agony—and -their massacre.</p> - -<p>“Now,” said M. Guérin, “you have seen the -official organ of the Anti-Semitic League, and I -could show you pamphlets and posters that are -equally powerful. No League in Paris is so -resolute, so strong, so efficiently organised. Such -is our success that I am shortly removing to more -spacious quarters. There we shall deliver Anti-Semitic -lectures, and give Anti-Semitic plays—open -to all, not a centime will be charged. Then, boxing -and fencing classes, pistol practice, a library, -a doctor and a solicitor on the premises—always, -no charge. The Parisians, being thrifty, will flock -to us. They will cry: ‘Here we get entertainment, -medical and legal advice for nothing; it -is admirable. Vive Guérin! Vive la France! À -bas les Juifs!’ The Government will be furious. -Loubet in the Élysée will shake in his shoes. And -Lépine will shout: ‘We must arrest that <i>canaille</i> -Guérin!’ But let him come. I shall be armed -more strongly than ever in my new quarters in -the rue de Chabrol.”</p> - -<p>“A garden?” I ventured.</p> - -<p>“There are no gardens in the rue de Chabrol: -but there are cellars,” grimly replied M. Guérin. -“Come and see me there. You will be astonished. -Au revoir.”</p> - -<p>Out in the passage, and on the staircase, I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span> -encountered four or five of Jules Guérin’s clerks and -assistants; coarse, powerful young men, with bull-dog -faces, who had been recruited by the chief of -the Anti-Semites from the ghastly slaughter-house -of Villette. In the garden I paused to inspect the -stony flower-beds and the dilapidated well.</p> - -<p>“The future cemetery of my enemies. Ah, the -traitors, the brigands, the assassins! Let them -come.”</p> - -<p>At an open window, in his sombrero and smoking -his eternal cigarette, stood fierce Jules Guérin.</p> - -<p>“Lépine in <i>that</i> flower-bed,” he shouted, and -then closed the window. But reopened it, when I -reached the gateway, to cry:</p> - -<p>“And Loubet, in the well.”</p> - -<p>A month later, Paris in uproar. On the afternoon -of the 3rd June the Cour de Cassation -ordered the revision of the Dreyfus Affair; the -same night official arrangements were made for -the return to France of the shattered prisoner of -the Devil’s Island; next day, during the race-meeting -at Auteuil, President Loubet’s hat was -smashed over his head by the stick of a certain -Baron Christiani, a Royalist Anti-Dreyfusard. -Then, the fall of the Dupuy Ministry, and M. -Loubet in a dilemma. M. Poincaré, astutest of -statesmen, was summoned to the Élysée; but, -with characteristic shrewdness, declined the task -of forming a Cabinet in such unfavourable circumstances. -M. Léon Bourgeois (absent on a Peace -mission at The Hague) was telegraphed for, but -could not be persuaded to exercise a pacific influence<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span> -in his own country. M. Waldeck-Rousseau -was next requisitioned; and left the Élysée with -the assurance: “Monsieur le Président, I will do -my best to succeed.” Nothing could have been -more admirable than his subsequent exertions, -for, in making them, M. Waldeck-Rousseau, the -most distinguished and most prosperous lawyer -at the Paris Bar, had nothing to gain and everything -to lose; and he must have been dismayed at -the refusal, or the reluctance, of highly esteemed -politicians to serve their country by fighting a just -if an unpopular cause. Well, for a whole week -the most painstaking, the most level-headed and -truly patriotic Prime Minister who has yet worked -for the Third Republic, visited prominent statesmen -with the earnest desire to form a <i>ministère -d’apaisement</i>, founded on the principles of disinterestedness -and justice. Throughout that -week, he was hooted in the streets, and ridiculed -and insulted by MM. Rochefort, Millevoye, -Drumont and Jules Guérin, who triumphantly -predicted in their newspapers that “Panama -Loubet”—like “Père Grévy” before him—would -be compelled to resign for want of a ministry. -And biting was the satire, and more savage became -the contumely, when at last the Waldeck-Rousseau -Ministry was completed, by the inclusion -of such opposite, hostile personages as the “citizen -Millerand” and fierce, aristocratic and despotic -old General the Marquis de Galliffet. “After -this,” wrote Henri Rochefort, “the deluge.” -“At last,” declared M. Drumont, “Paris will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span> -rebel; and the next events will prove fatal to this -unspeakable Republic.” The next important -event was the landing in France, in the middle of -the night, of a bent, prematurely aged figure: -Captain Dreyfus. How the musty old carriage -in which he sat, dazed, exhausted, shivering, -rattled over the cobble-stones to the Rennes -prison! How the prison gates clanged to when the -shabby vehicle had entered the dark, grim courtyard! -And how split and how cracked was the -voice of the prisoner from the Devil’s Island -when, at the court-martial a few days afterwards, -he protested his innocence and refuted the new -monstrous accusations of highly respected and -brilliantly uniformed Generals Gonse, de Boisdeffre -and Mercier! Solitary confinement had -left him almost inarticulate. But he defended -himself heroically: and, with an effort, straightened -his bent back when questioned by his judges. -Then how the trial dragged on; and what scenes -took place in the streets, hotels and cafés of -Rennes, which were crowded with <i>le Tout Paris</i> -and echoed with Parisian exclamations and disputes! -Brawls, duels, Henri Rochefort’s white -“Imperial” pulled; Maître Labori, Captain -Dreyfus’s brilliant counsel, shot between the -shoulders; a famous <i>demi-mondaine</i> expelled the -town; arrests, startling <i>canards</i>, alarms; hysteria, -chaos, and delirium enough for Paris itself; and -in Paris—whilst these exhibitions were occurring -in the Rennes streets, and Captain Dreyfus (in -the severe court-room) was stiffening his back and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span> -straining his split voice until it rose to an uncanny -scream—what of Jules Guérin in Paris? and of his -guns and revolvers, his well and his flower-bed? -and of his assistants and clerks, the young men -with the bull-dog faces, whom he had recruited -from the ghastly slaughter-house of La Villette?</p> - -<p>Well, first of all, came the dishevelled, dusty -confusion of a <i>déménagement</i> in the rue Condorcet. -The study walls were stripped of their revolvers; -the basement was cleared of the printing-press -that produced the murderous <i>Anti-Juif</i>; huge -packing-cases were passed into a number of -furniture vans; and so, farewell to the stony -garden—in which not an “enemy” lay buried; and -<i>en route</i> to No. 12 rue de Chabrol, a commodious, -massive building with large windows and a solid -oak door. The arrival of Jules Guérin and his -assistants caused consternation amongst the -peaceful, bourgeois inhabitants of the street. -Lurid Anti-Semitic posters were stuck to the walls -of No. 12; the din of the printing-machines -disturbed the neighbours—and Guérin’s voice of -thunder (execrating the Jews and demanding the -lives of his enemies) was to be heard through the -open windows, while his enormous sombrero was -another disquieting element in the orderly, dull -thoroughfare. The Anti-Semitic lectures and -plays were announced; a solicitor and a doctor -were engaged—and Paris was invited to visit -No. 12 rue de Chabrol and partake of its pleasures -and advantages. Then came the suggestion in -the <i>Anti-Juif</i> that Paris should fix a day and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span> -an hour when the Jews should be hanged on the -boulevard lamp-posts. And then followed the -resolution of the Government—to have done -with Jules Guérin! A warrant was issued for his -arrest on the charge of “incitement to rebellion.” -Somehow or other the news reached No. 12; and -when the Commissary of Police (armed with his -warrant) rang at the oak door, the massive form -of Guérin appeared at a window. “Bandit,” he -shouted. “There are twenty of us in here: and -not one of us will be taken alive. Tell the Government -of Traitors we shall fight to the death.” -And he flourished a revolver, and his assistants, -assembled behind him in the window, cheered -wildly. Away went the Commissary of Police -for further orders. Up came MM. Drumont, -Millevoye and other leading Anti-Semites with -exhortations to surrender. But Guérin, from his -window, reiterated his determination to die heroically -at his post: and again the young men with the -bull-dog faces cheered enthusiastically. And there -were cries of “Mon Dieu, quelle affaire!” and -angry protests, lamentations and tears amongst -the shopkeepers and peaceful old <i>rentiers</i> of the -street. Many of them put up their shutters and -fled, when policemen and Municipal Guards -marched up and stationed themselves outside -No. 12. Jules Guérin greeted them with cries of -“Assassins!”; shook his great fist threateningly; -rushed from window to window, shouting forth -abuse. More cheering from his assistants, who -pointed guns at the authorities.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span></p> - -<p>“It is a revolution,” cried the householders. -“Let us save ourselves quickly.”</p> - -<p>Shutters were hurried up everywhere; cabs -carried off distracted <i>rentiers</i> and their smaller -belongings; policemen and Municipal Guards -barred either end of the rue de Chabrol, and -permitted only people who had business in the -street to pass them; and with the cutting off of -water and gas supplies, the siege of Fort Chabrol -began in earnest.</p> - -<p>The Holder of the Fort—though the Parisian, -interested in “affaires,” studied him attentively—could -only be observed from a distance. The -curious, with the aid of opera-glasses, discovered -him sitting at an open window with rifles resting -on either side of him; or beheld him walking -about the roof amidst the chimney-pots—an -extraordinary figure in his sombrero. Now and -again he discharged revolvers at the heavens: a -proceeding that never failed to arouse the enthusiasm -of his fellow-prisoners. Then leaning -perilously over the parapet or out of a window, -Guérin would apostrophise the soldiers and policemen -below as “brigands” and “assassins”; and -throw down pencilled messages (addressed to the -“Ministry of Traitors” and the “Government of -Forgers”) inviting all State officials to come to -the rue de Chabrol and be shot through their -“infamous heads” or their “abominable hearts.” -When particularly indignant, Guérin would hurl -forth a cup, a bottle, a saucepan—but the missiles -invariably fell wide of the mark; and the Guards<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span> -and police (whilst smoking cigarettes) snapped -their fingers and laughed back mockingly and -sardonically at the rebel. It was weary work -for the besiegers; the air was stale and sickly -with disinfectants; and often it rained.</p> - -<p>Guérin blessed the downpours. He was short -of water. When the skies were generous, he -brought up buckets and basins and a great bath -on to the roof—and shook his fist exultingly at the -watchers beneath as the rain pattered into and -filled those receptacles; and next, coming to the -edge of the parapet with a glass in hand, drank -to the death of the “Government of Assassins.” -Indeed, quite an orgy of water-drinking on the -roof of the Fort; for the ex-butchers, with the -bull-dog faces, uproariously proposed the health of -their chief, and then emptied their glasses into the -street to show that they had no fear of suffering -from thirst.</p> - -<p>But what of provisions? The twenty-fifth -night of the siege—a dark, wet night—the police -fancied they discerned mysterious objects flying -far over their heads on to the roof of Fort -Chabrol. Much speculation, infinite straining of -eyes and stretching of ears, and suddenly a paper -parcel, falling from above, struck a Municipal -Guard. Shock of the Guard. The cry: “It is -a bomb!” But it was only a ham—a fine, -excellent ham. And a few minutes later the -Guards and police were searching the house from -which it had been thrown and examining numbers -of other paper parcels (carefully tied up) that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span> -contained joints of meat, “groceries,” sugared -cakes, fruit and fresh salads; all of which luxuries -were obviously intended for the rebels over the -way. But where were Guérin’s friends and accomplices? -Not a soul in the house; so said a -policeman: “Try the roof.” And there, on the -roof, more paper parcels ready to be thrown -across to the Fort; and hiding behind the -chimney-pots, four or five men.</p> - -<p>“Arrest them,” cried an officer. And then, -amidst the chimney-pots, much dodging and -slipping and catching as in the games of “hide-and-seek” -and “touch wood”; whilst over the -way on <i>his</i> roof, Jules Guérin raced about amidst -<i>his</i> chimney-pots, swinging a lantern and furiously -shouting: “Assassins. Assassins.” Thus, no -sleep for the few remaining householders that -night. When his friends had been removed from -the roof, and the police reappeared in the street -with their captives and laden with parcels, Jules -Guérin and his assistants discharged revolvers -at the heavy, dark clouds; and, next morning, -hurled fenders, fire-irons and a bedstead into the -street. No one was struck: the prisoners were -too excited to take aim.</p> - -<p>Guérin’s harangues were still bloodthirsty, but -it was noticed that he looked pale and drawn when -he appeared at the windows, as though suffering -from want of nourishment and exercise.... Now -he was more subdued as he took air amidst the -chimney-pots; and he would sit up on the roof in -the moonlight, with a gun across his knees, for a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span> -whole hour without moving. How the air reeked -with disinfectants, and how sombre was the Fort! -Apparently oil and candles were scarce, for only -a single candle was used at a time. One saw its -dim light passing from room to room—now on -the first floor, then on the second, the third; then -there was darkness. Upon two occasions Guérin -spent the entire night on the roof. A dishevelled -shivering object he was at daybreak, with his -coat-collar turned up and the sombrero dragged -down over his ears. Nor did his young assistants -with the bull-dog faces fare better. Their cheers -became faint: and they themselves were to be discerned -leaning moodily against the chimney-pots or -yawning with all their mouths behind the windows. -Moreover, it was suspected by the police that there -was illness in the Fort. One night a candle burned -steadily in the same room. Not a soul on the roof, -silence in the citadel. At daybreak Jules Guérin -hoisted a black flag; one of the young prisoners -with the bull-dog face was dying. In answer to -Jules Guérin’s call, an officer stepped forward, and -parleying ensued. An ambulance was brought up. -When the solid oak door of Fort Chabrol opened -and Jules Guérin appeared with the dying man in -his arms, the policemen and Guards stood gravely -at salute. Away, slowly, went the ambulance. And -no sooner had it vanished than Jules Guérin—livid -and trembling—banged to and bolted the -door: rushed back to his window, and there, -pointing dramatically to the black flag, hoarsely -shouted: “Assassins. Assassins. Assassins.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span></p> - -<p>On the 9th September, at five o’clock in the -afternoon, Paris heard from Rennes that Captain -Dreyfus had—O astounding judgment!—been -found guilty of high treason, “with extenuating -circumstances.” On the following Tuesday it -was announced—O amazing clemency—that the -“traitor” had been pardoned. And throughout -France there arose a cry of “N’en Parlons Plus.”</p> - -<p>Up and down the boulevards on that Tuesday -rushed scores of hoarse, unshaven <i>camelots</i> with -their latest song. “N’en Parlons Plus,” they -shouted. Then (in some cases) the chorus was -chanted:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Le cauchemar est fini; car la France est vengée,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Qu’importe que l’on a gracié Dreyfus?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">La nation entière, heureuse et soulagée,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">N’a plus qu’un désir—c’est qu’on n’en parle plus.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>But there remained Fort Chabrol. Neither -“sanity” nor “order” could prevail in Paris -whilst Jules Guérin was defying the Government -from his window, and hurling missiles at its public -servants, and discharging revolvers at the heavens. -As the <i>camelots</i> were selling their song on the -boulevards, as Paris was rejoicing in cafés that the -“Affaire” was now “buried,” Jules Guérin still -walked his roof, and his assistants leant dejectedly -against the chimney-pots: and M. Lépine, Chief -of the Police, was on his side preparing an attack -on the stronghold. A few journalists were let -into the secret. At ten o’clock on the night -of Tuesday, the 12th September—the thirty-seventh -and last night of the siege—MM. les<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span> -journalistes were permitted to penetrate through -the lines of policemen and of Municipal and -Republican Guards that guarded the dark, gloomy -rue de Chabrol. Not a light in the citadel. But -shadowy forms were to be distinguished on the -roof. And at a window, smoking a cigarette, stood -Jules Guérin, in his sombrero.</p> - -<p>“<i>Mon vieux</i> Jules, it is for to-night. Be reasonable -and come out,” shouted a journalist; and -he was promptly pulled backwards and called to -order by a policeman. But M. Millevoye, the Anti-Semite -deputy and editor of <i>La Patrie</i>, was permitted -to converse with the rebel on the condition -that he urged him to surrender.</p> - -<p>“He swears he will fight to the death,” stated -M. Millevoye to an officer. Very pale and agitated -was the deputy. Very excited were the journalists, -who had provided themselves with sandwiches, -flasks and strong oil of eucalyptus with which to -ward off contamination. Calm was the Chief of -the Police, when he appeared on the scene with -various officials and announced that the <i>pompiers</i> -and their engines were on the way.</p> - -<p>It was a cold, disagreeable night. The clatter -of horses’ hoofs—up came a detachment of the -mounted Republican Guard. The hissing of -fire-engines; here were the <i>pompiers</i>. A distant -babel of voices, for now, at one o’clock in the -morning, all kinds and conditions of Parisians -had heard of the impending attack on the citadel, -and had hastened to the barriers—only to find -themselves refused admittance to the grim,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span> -besieged thoroughfare. From my side of the -barrier I beheld—beyond it—stalwart market-people -from the Halles, Apaches in caps and -scarlet waistbands, ragged old loafers, revellers -from Maxim’s and the stifling, frenzied night-restaurants -of Montmartre.</p> - -<p>“Impossible to pass,” declared the policeman. -An officer of the Municipal Guards facetiously -kept up the refrain: “Not President Loubet; -not his Holiness the Pope; not even the <i>bon Dieu</i>, -could I possibly allow to pass.” Songs from the -Apaches. Naïve exclamations from the simple -market-women.</p> - -<p>“Please give this bouquet to Guérin. He is -a real man; he is <i>épatant</i>—do please send him -these flowers,” cried a brilliant <i>demi-mondaine</i> -from Maxim’s, holding forth a bouquet of weird -orchids. “Alas, madame,” replied the facetious -officer; “alas, not even a bouquet from paradise -could I possibly allow to pass.”</p> - -<p>Ominous sounds in the rue de Chabrol. The -thud and the clanking of the firemen’s hose as it -was dragged towards No. 12; the increased -hissing of the steam-engines; the impatient clatter -of the horses’ hoofs; the bolting and barring of -doors, and the putting up of shutters in those few -houses where residents remained. Ominous, too, -the consultations (carried on in a low voice) -between M. Lépine and the various officials. Then -the flash of lanterns, the smoke pouring forth -from the funnels of the steam-engines, the stench -of the disinfectants, those shadowy figures still on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span> -the roof of Fort Chabrol; and Jules Guérin still -at his window in his sombrero, still smoking -cigarettes unconcernedly, still calmly watching -the preparations for the attack.</p> - -<p>“It is sinister,” cried a journalist.</p> - -<p>“So all is ready,” rang out the voice of the -Chief of the Police. Briskly stepping forward, -M. Lépine thus addressed Jules Guérin: “It is a -quarter to four o’clock. If, at four o’clock, you -do not surrender, we shall use force.”</p> - -<p>Jules Guérin smoked on.</p> - -<p>Still nearer to the Fort came the <i>pompiers</i>, -dragging their hose. The plan was that they -should deluge the massive building with water, -while their colleagues with the shining hatchets -should break down the door. A last consultation -between M. Lépine and the officials. He held his -watch in his hand. Five minutes to four o’clock. -The neighing of a restive horse. Shouts and song -from behind the barrier. Again, the clanking of the -hose. Three... two... minutes to four. Jules -Guérin, striking a match, lighted a new cigarette.</p> - -<p>“He means to fight. It will be appalling,” -exclaimed a journalist.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure—no, I wasn’t -sure,” said M. Lépine—when the heavy oak door -swung open!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span></p> - -<p>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 <i>fiacres</i> 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!</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“N’en Parlons Plus,” reiterated Paris, when -the Amnesty Bill permitted the exiles to return -to their country.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>“The death, at the age of forty-nine, is announced -of M. Jules Guérin: who had his hour -of notoriety.”</p> - -<p>So—and no more—said the <i>Figaro</i>.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIII">XIII<br /> -<span class="smaller">DEATH OF HENRI ROCHEFORT<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>... 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.</p> - -<p>“Bah, that was only print,” came the reply.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span> -“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 <i>maître d’hôtel</i> 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.”</p> - -<p>Next morning appeared the notorious, atrocious -article demanding that walnut shells—containing -long, hairy spiders—should be strapped to the eyes -of Captain Dreyfus.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span> -<i>Figaro</i>, the <i>Lanterne</i>, the <i>Intransigeant</i>, and -finally, in the <i>Patrie</i>, 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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.”<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>But what cared Rochefort for evidence and -arguments? Leaning forward in his seat in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span> -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 <i>Memoirs</i>.) 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 <i>képis</i> 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,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>But there were two Henri Rocheforts, and the -virtues of the second almost made amends for -the vices of the first.</p> - -<p>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 <i>that</i> 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! <i>De l’air, -de la lumière, nom de Dieu!</i>”</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span> -ago. But I have no predilection for titles. -My name is Henri Rochefort.”</p> - -<p>Rochefort nevertheless was an aristocrat—“<i>la -race</i>” 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 <i>coup d’état</i>, 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 <i>noblesse</i>. His own blood -was vigorously red, but tinged indelibly with -blue. Yes; “<i>la race</i>” 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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.’”</p> - -<p>A week later Louise Michel expired suddenly, -from exhaustion, at Marseilles.<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>The month of June, 1912. Rochefort’s daily -article in the <i>Patrie</i> missing; and again missing -the next day, and the day after that—the -first time octogenarian Rochefort had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span> -“missed” his daily lurid article for fifty-two -years!</p> - -<p>On the fourth day there appears in the <i>Patrie</i> -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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Round the corner and up the steep hill to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span> -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.</p> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> He died on 27th June 1913.</p> -</div> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> <a href="#Page_196">See page 196.</a></p> -</div> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> 19th January 1905.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIV">XIV<br /> -<span class="smaller">ROYAL VISITS TO PARIS</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>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 <i>reform</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span> -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.”</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>“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, <i>Le Roi</i>, 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.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span> -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, <i>midinettes</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span> -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 <i>Entente</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>Entente</i>; 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 <i>ennuis</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span> -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 “<i>Vive le roi!</i>” -and “<i>Vivent les petites danseuses</i>”:—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, <i>rigolo</i>; Mulai -Hafid was violent, insolent, offensive.</p> - -<p>“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,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[253]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>rigolo</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a>[254]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“I will read no more; I understand nothing, -I am distracted!” cries M. Hippolyte Durand. -“Ah, <i>nom d’un nom</i>, what a sinister country is -this Morocco!”</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255"></a>[255]</span> -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)<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a>[256]</span> -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 <i>congé</i> 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 <i>Marseillaise</i> of France <i>and</i> -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.</p> - -<p>Numbers of Russian decorations for the Paris -detective police, when the Tsar had departed -in safety! Out of prison came the perfectly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257"></a>[257]</span> -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. “<i>Mais oui</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258"></a>[258]</span> -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!</p> - -<p>But, never mind the difficulties, <i>tant pis</i> for the -confusion; <i>vivent</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259"></a>[259]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>is</i> his son: because, since the year 1904, -the <i>entente cordiale</i> 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 <i>Gil Blas</i>, in gigantic -characters, the familiar, cordial invitation:</p> - -<p>“Shake hands, King George.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260"></a>[260]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XV">XV<br /> -<span class="smaller">AT THE ÉLYSÉE. MESSIEURS LES PRÉSIDENTS</span></h2> - -</div> - -<h3>1. <span class="smcap">M. Loubet and Paul Déroulède</span></h3> - -<p>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 <i>appartement</i>.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261"></a>[261]</span> -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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a>[262]</span> -most probably he was instructing them how to keep -out of the clutches of the alert, watchful police.</p> - -<p>“À bas Loubet!”</p> - -<p>The cry came from the interior of the station. -No sooner had it been uttered than the crowd -excitedly exclaimed: “He has arrived.”</p> - -<p>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!”<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263"></a>[263]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>exalté</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264"></a>[264]</span> -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—<i>le pioupiou</i>—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.</p> - -<p>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”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265"></a>[265]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a>[266]</span></p> - -<p>“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 <i>grands -boulevards</i>. Again, “patriotic” cries. Again, -fierce denunciations of the “Government of -Traitors.”</p> - -<p>And, in M. Déroulède’s organ, <i>Le Drapeau</i>, -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.</p> - -<p>After this we had daily, almost hourly, manifestations. -Very <i>affairé</i>, 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!</p> - -<p>Here, there and everywhere, a conspirator. -Who knew: perhaps one’s very neighbour in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267"></a>[267]</span> -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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a>[268]</span> -M. Félix Faure’s funeral, which was to be solemn, -imposing and magnificent.</p> - -<p>And magnificent it was. Almost interminable -was the procession that left the Élysée for Notre -Dame, to the tragic strains of Chopin’s <i>Funeral -March</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269"></a>[269]</span> -with his hand on the bridle of General Roget’s -horse.</p> - -<p>“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.”</p> - -<p>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 -<i>coup d’état</i>.</p> - -<p>“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><i>Manqué</i>, M. Déroulède’s conspiracy. In vain, -his tremendous <i>coup d’état</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>conspué</i> in Paris. Since it was “seditious” -to cry “À bas Loubet,” they cried “Vive -l’Armée!” and “Mort aux traîtres,” which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270"></a>[270]</span> -M. Lucien Millevoye, Édouard Drumont, Henri -Rochefort and Jules Guérin declared to be the -same thing.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271"></a>[271]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>In London, scores of journalists accompanying -him, and also scores of <i>camelots</i>. Yes, real Paris -<i>camelots</i> in Soho, and in the public-houses and -little restaurants of Soho, the <i>camelots</i> loud in -their praises of Émile Loubet.</p> - -<p>Here, there and everywhere the motto: “Entente -Cordiale.”</p> - -<p>I remember the King of the Camelots telling me -in Soho that he and his men had taken a great -fancy to Englishmen.</p> - -<p>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 <i>entente</i> in -a bottle of Bass. He vowed that Bass was better -than <i>bock</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272"></a>[272]</span> -Holborn, shouting: “Vive Loubet,” and waving -his hat and receiving (so, at least, he declared -afterwards) a special salute from the smiling, -delighted President.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!”</p> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> 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.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>2. <span class="smcap">M. Armand Fallières. Morocco and the Floods</span></h3> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273"></a>[273]</span> -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.”</p> - -<p>I believe this is the “mood” that would obsess -anyone who had passed seven years of his life -as President of the French Republic. It was -M. Émile Loubet’s mood. Nothing in this world -would have induced him to accept a second Septennat; -and to-day M. Loubet lives in a quiet -little flat on the Rive Gauche, where (in his -slippers) he has often exclaimed: “Ce pauvre -Fallières!” And then gone to bed tranquilly -and comfortably; whilst his successor at the Élysée -was in consultation with the Minister of Foreign -Affairs over the miseries of Morocco. President -Casimir-Périer endured just six months of Presidency. -“On m’embête; je m’en vais,” said he. -He was too elegant to care for slippers. But a -day or two after his resignation he was discovered -stretched in an easy-chair in the garden of a Bois -de Boulogne restaurant, in white duck trousers. -“I breathe again,” he stated—just as President -Fallières has now declared on his seventy-second -birthday.</p> - -<p>Thus it would miraculously appear that one -stops breathing upon being appointed President -of the French Republic, and doesn’t regain one’s -breath until one’s martyrdom at the Élysée has -expired. Certain it is that the President of the -French Republic, living as he does in the most -amazing city in the world, must experience and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274"></a>[274]</span> -endure amazing tribulations and adventures. -President Loubet went through the Dreyfus -Affair; President Fallières through the Floods. -Up and down the Seine in a barge sailed -M. Fallières, and because of his bulk and lest -the barge might capsize, the boatmen had to -implore M. le Président not to move. He was a -heroic, but not a dignified, figure as he sat, massive -and motionless, in that barge. Nor could he ever -look other than bulky in the Presidential carriage -(which, when he entered it, nearly tilted over) as -he drove forth to meet foreign sovereigns, or to -attend the great military review or gala performances -at the Français and Opéra. That vast bulk -has always been against him. Not a Parisian -that has not commented on it, not an illustrated -newspaper that has not depicted it, not a -theatrical revue that has not exaggerated it.</p> - -<p>Although M. Armand Fallières has left Paris -for his country residence at Rambouillet, the -French “Presidential Holiday” has not yet -begun. To start with, Rambouillet is a State -château, almost another Élysée, in that Cabinet -meetings are held there, the Ministers motoring -down from Paris with their portfolios and wearing -their official, inscrutable expressions. Outside -in the park, flowers, birds, winding paths, shady -trees, hidden, tranquil corners; but within the -Council Chamber, the old, eternal complications -and miseries of politics.</p> - -<p>No doubt, when the Ministers have left, M. le -Président seeks to lead the simple, the ordinary<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275"></a>[275]</span> -life. But, as Rambouillet is a State residence, -flunkeys abound, and not only gardeners, but -detectives, haunt the park. Impossible, to put -it vulgarly, to be “on one’s own.” Worse than -that, how the majestic, powdered flunkeys wink -and grin when M. Armand Fallières has turned his -back upon them in his slippers, alpaca jacket and -vast gardening hat! For M. le Président is burly, -with a formidable <i>embonpoint</i>; and when he -enters a carriage, it tilts; and when he steps into -a rowing boat, it very nearly capsizes, and -when——</p> - -<p>“I am the most inelegant of Presidents,” -M. Armand Fallières himself has admitted. -“Heavens, how my servants despise me!”</p> - -<p>At Rambouillet M. Fallières’ predecessor, most -admirable M. Loubet, also aroused the disdain of -the flunkeys by reason of his simplicity—and his -real holiday did not begin until he had reached -his native town of Montélimar, where he was -treated—and liked to be treated—as <i>un enfant -du pays</i>—a son of the soil. Because Montélimar -is famous for its nougat, M. Loubet was -dubbed by fierce, lurid old Henri Rochefort—“Nougat -the First.” But Republican France -liked to hear of her President hobnobbing with -the people of Montélimar and gossiping with the -peasantry of neighbouring villages, and leading -forth on his arm a little brown-faced and wrinkled -old lady, in the dress and cap of a peasant woman—his -mother.</p> - -<p>But those are all memories. We have nothing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276"></a>[276]</span> -to do with Montélimar; we are only concerned -with the wine-growing districts of Loupillon, -where M. Fallières (released from official Rambouillet) -will be amiable, pottering and peering -about amidst his vineyards in a few days. Behold, -just as last year, M. le Président, not only -in slippers, but in his shirt-sleeves; and behold, -too, the peasantry stretched over hedges and -perched high up in trees, that they may view the -burly Chief of the State inspecting and admiring -his grapes. They are his hobby, his pride, his -exquisite joy: and yet it is notorious that they are -a very sour, a very inferior, one might almost say, -a very terrible little grape.</p> - -<p>Ask the Loupillon peasants and they will exclaim: -“It is extraordinary, it is unheard-of -that a Son of this Soil, and a President of the -President, should produce such a grape! Look at -it! <i>Cré nom d’un nom</i>, what a sad little thing!”</p> - -<p>Ask those privileged, intimate friends who lunch -<i>en famille</i> at the Élysée, and they will cry: “Ah, -the white wine of Fallières! Ah, the Presidential -grape from Loupillon! It makes one shudder to -mention it.”</p> - -<p>But, M. le Président ignores these criticisms -and mockeries. After Morocco and Proportional -Representation, his dear little grapes! In spite -of their smallness, their sourness, how he loves -them!</p> - -<p>Six weeks of his grapes—then the Élysée, -Morocco, once again; and then, in February -next, nothing but holidays for the Chief of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277"></a>[277]</span> -the State. For February will see the end of -M. Fallières’ seven years’ Presidency, and, like -his predecessor, he will not seek re-election. Like -M. Loubet, too, his next Paris residence will be -a comfortable, bourgeois third-floor <i>appartement</i>—its -site, the Boulevard St Germain, within a few -minutes’ walk of M. Émile Loubet’s flat in the -rue Dante. No flunkeys, no detectives in plain -clothes—and no telephone. Moreover, no -pianolas, no gramophones, no parrots, no poodles, -for M. Fallières (who owns the building of flats in -which he has decided to reside) has warned his -tenants that no such nuisance will be tolerated -when he moves to his new quarters. The simple, -the ordinary life! Morocco, etc., etc., etc.—only -memories. Never ceremonious banquets, with -Château Yquem, and Morton Rothschild, and -Lafite, and the finest of Extra Secs. Modest -luncheons and dinners <i>en famille</i>. And for -wine, nothing but the sour, little white grape of -Loupillon.</p> - -<p>It has been said that the best rulers are those -who feel an extreme disinclination to rule, and -who only consent to accept authority under a -strong sense of duty. If this be true, then unquestionably -M. Émile Loubet and M. Armand -Fallières were good and loyal presidents, who, -without personal ambition and at the cost of -their own tastes, as well as of their own interests, -served the Republic—for seven years, each of -them—to the very best of their knowledge and -power. And upon this question of power one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278"></a>[278]</span> -has to keep in mind that M. le Président, though -he holds the title of Chief of the State, is very -much in the hands of his ministers. He forms -ministries? Yes; but here, too, it is not always -the most competent and disinterested men, in -France particularly, who are most eager for office. -Nothing can be more unjust than to make admirable -M. Émile Loubet, excellent M. Armand -Fallières, responsible for everything that happened, -and especially for everything that went -wrong, during the two periods of seven years these -patriotic French citizens devoted to the service -of their country.</p> - -<p>The difficulties of M. le Président, the impertinent -disregard of his rank in the State shown by -the very men he has called to power, is a favourite -theme of playwrights and novelists. In <i>L’Habit -Vert</i>, the brilliant, satirical comedy by MM. de -Flers and de Caillavet, just produced at the -Variétés theatre, a Cabinet Minister submits an -important political telegram for the President’s -official approbation. “Yes, that will do; send -it off immediately,” says M. le Président. “That’s -all right; it was sent half-an-hour ago,” replies -the Minister. Then, in that famous comedy, <i>Le -Roi</i>, which so rejoiced the heart of King Edward -the Seventh, the French Premier to one of his -colleagues: “Cormeau, the Minister of Commerce, -has just resigned. Nearly a Ministerial -Crisis, but we have escaped it. Telephone the -name of Cormeau’s successor, and that all is well, -to the Press, the Chamber, the Senate, the Palace<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279"></a>[279]</span> -of Justice, and—ah yes, I forgot—to the President -of the Republic.”</p> - -<p>On the top of all this, M. le Président, although -practically in the hands of Messieurs les Ministres, -is held responsible by the public for the possible -blunders and follies and sins of the Cabinet. -Salary, £40,000 a year, with all kinds of substantial -“perquisites.” Residences: the Palace -of the Élysée and the Château de Rambouillet. -Ironical official title: Chief of the State. -Result: Morocco, Floods, or the Dreyfus Affair, -helplessness and worry, collapse of the respiratory -organ. But, thank heaven! M. le Président recovereth -his breath when the time comes for -another to take his place: and he himself may -drift into a dressing-gown and carpet slippers -and exclaim of his successor, by the tranquil, -unofficial fireside: “Ce pauvre——!” Successor -at the Élysée. Who will he be? Of course, -after the lofty and admirable statesmanship he -has exhibited throughout the Balkan conflict, -M. Poincaré, the Prime Minister, is hailed by the -man in the street as the future Chief of the State? -But elegant M. Paul Deschanel, of the French -Academy, President of the Chamber of Deputies, -and a would-be President of the Republic for -the last fourteen years, is also mentioned; and -impetuous, despotic, sallow-faced M. Georges -Clemenceau, in spite of his recent delirious ups and -downs, has hosts of followers. Solid M. Ribot -is stated to be an eager candidate. M. Léon -Bourgeois (who did such fine work at The Hague<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280"></a>[280]</span> -Peace Conference) would probably be elected, were -there a Madame Bourgeois to “receive” officially -at the Élysée. After that, M. Delcassé, M. -Lépine, M. Briand, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, -M. Dranem the comic singer, “Monte Carlo -Wells.” But I am anticipating events. I am also -in peril of appearing incoherent; so let me hasten -to declare that the last-named candidates for the -Presidency of the Third Republic are but the gay -“selections” of that inveterate gossip in a certain -boulevard newspaper. And, that made clear, let -us for the moment leave the emptiness of political -ambition and share in the dressing-gown and -carpet-slipper mood of M. Armand Fallières.</p> - -<h3>3. <span class="smcap">M. Raymond Poincaré and the Record of M. Lépine</span></h3> - -<p>Last February (1913) must be accounted an -important month in the history of the Third -French Republic. Away, after his seven years’ -official tenancy of the Élysée, went M. Armand -Fallières to a comfortable bourgeois <i>appartement</i>, -there, no doubt, to recall, in dressing-gown and -carpet slippers, the rare joys and successes and -the many shocks and miseries of his Septennat, -and to speculate upon the destiny reserved for -his successor, ninth President of the Republic, -M. Raymond Poincaré.</p> - -<p>No commonplace destiny—that was certain. -M. Fallières took possession of the Élysée amidst -general indifference; M. Émile Loubet assumed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281"></a>[281]</span> -office amongst eggs, threats, vegetable stalks, -shouts of “traitor” and “bandit”: but M. Poincaré -found Paris <i>en fête</i>—flags flying, hats and -handkerchiefs whirling, the crowd in its Sunday -best—on the day that <i>he</i> became Chief of the -State.</p> - -<p>A vast popularity, M. Poincaré’s! Exclaimed -M. le Bourgeois: “At last we have got a strong -man for a President! For the first time, there -will be a master at the Élysée.” On all sides, -indeed, it was agreed that M. Poincaré’s election -to the Presidency signified the collapse of the -tradition that the Chief of the State should be a -figure-head, a mere signer of documents, placed, -none too ceremoniously, before him by his -Ministers.</p> - -<p>Thus, a new régime had dawned. Poincaré -was “going to wake things up”; Poincaré was -also “going to do things”; what precisely Poincaré -was going to do nobody could explain; but -“Vive Poincaré,” was the cry of the hour; and -not only in luxurious, radiant Paris, but in grim, -industrial centres, dull, provincial towns, and -remote, obscure hamlets. Such a popularity that -into the shop windows came Poincaré Pipes, -Poincaré Braces, Poincaré Walking Sticks, the -Poincaré Safety Razor. Then, on restaurant -menus: Consommé Poincaré—Poulet Poincaré—Omelette -Poincaré. More Poincaré, smiling and -bowing, on dizzy kinematograph films and in the -music hall revues; and imagine, if you can, the -sale of Poincaré photographs in the flashy arcade<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282"></a>[282]</span> -of the rue de Rivoli! “Poincaré and Gaby -Deslys—that’s what we are selling,” the shopkeepers -stated. “But Poincaré is surpassing -the blonde, elegant Gaby.”</p> - -<p>In a word, nothing but Poincaré, only Poincaré, -until the announcement that M. Lépine, Chief -of the Paris Police, had tendered his resignation, -that his decision to retire was “irrevocable.” -Then M. Lépine leading in the photographic -commerce of the rue de Rivoli: and M. Poincaré -a poor second, and the blonde Mademoiselle -Deslys a remote third. Elsewhere and everywhere, -M. Lépine and his resignation superseded -M. Poincaré and the New Régime, as the one and -only topic of conversation. For twenty years -the Chief of the Police had governed his own -departments of Paris with extraordinary skill. -Throughout that period he had practically lived -in the streets: repressing riots, scattering -criminals, dispersing Royalist conspirators, controlling -fires, directing all manner of grim or -poignant or delirious operations—a short, slender, -insignificant-looking figure, in ill-fitting clothes, -a dusty “bowler” hat, and square, creaking -boots. With him, a shabby umbrella or a stout, -common walking-stick, the latter the only weapon -he ever carried. Never more than four or five -hours’ sleep: even then the telephone placed at -his bedside.</p> - -<p>It was all work with M. Lépine—all energy, all -courage. The most familiar figure in the streets, -he soon became the most famous and most popular<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283"></a>[283]</span> -of State servants. Cried M. le Bourgeois, whilst -out walking with his small son: “<i>Voilà—regarde -bien—voilà</i> Lépine!”</p> - -<p>Everyone “saluted” him, all political parties -(except the United Socialists, who admire no -one) applauded him. There was (with the same -solitary exception) general rejoicing when the -dusty, intrepid little Chief of the Police received -the supreme distinction of the Grand Cross of the -Legion of Honour.</p> - -<p>Yes; a popularity even vaster than M. Poincaré’s. -Gossips remarked that it was curious -that the Presidency of the one should synchronise -with the resignation of the other. Critics agreed -that if France had gained a strong Chief of the -State she had lost an incomparable Chief of the -Police. Alarm of M. le Bourgeois, who had got -to regard M. Lépine as his special protector. -Once again, and for the hundredth time, M. Lépine -became the hero of the hour. And, as I have -already recorded, there was a rush for Lépine -photographs—Lépine side and full face, Lépine -gay or severe, Lépine with Grand Cross or shabby -umbrella, and a decided “slump” in Poincarés -and blonde, bejewelled Gaby Deslys’ in the rue -de Rivoli arcade.</p> - -<p>Impossible, in the space at my disposal, to give -more than an idea of M. Lépine’s amazing record. -Born at Lyons in 1846, he is now sixty-seven years -of age—a mere nothing for a Frenchman of -genius. At thirty he was already Under-Prefect -of the Department of the Indre. Successively<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284"></a>[284]</span> -he was Prefect of the Seine-et-Oise, General Secretary -of the Préfecture de Police, Governor-General -of Algeria, and Chief of the Police. From a biographical -dictionary that devotes pages and pages -to Louis Lépine, I take the following passages:—“Actif -et ferme, il parvint à rétablir les relations -rompues entre le Conseil Municipal de Paris et -la Préfecture de Police, et opéra d’importantes -réformes.... Nommé Gouverneur-Général de -l’Algérie, il apporta en plan de grands travaux -publics et de réformes.... Nommé Conseiller -d’État, il prit de nouveau la direction de la -Préfecture de Police. Il s’est occupé de refondre -tous les règlements administratifs relatifs au -service de la navigation et de la circulation dans -Paris, et un vaste Répertoire de Police a paru sous -sa direction.” Thus it will be seen that M. Lépine -was always “reforming,” for ever reorganising, -unfailingly “active” and “firm.” He it was -who “reformed” the nervous, excitable Paris -police in the delirious Dreyfus days of 1899. -To their astonishment he preached calm.</p> - -<p>“Mais oui, mais oui, mais oui, du calme, nom -d’un nom,” he expostulated. “You charge the -crowd for no reason. You thump the innocent -bourgeois on the back and tear off his collar. -You exasperate the Latin Quarter. You are -making an inferno of the boulevards. You are -bringing ridicule and discredit on the force. In -future, I myself shall direct operations.”</p> - -<p>Dreyfus riots every day and every night, and -M. Lépine in the thick of them. Short and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285"></a>[285]</span> -slender, he was swept about and almost submerged -by the Anti-Dreyfus mob. He lost his hat, his -umbrella, but never his temper. He was to be -seen swarming up lamp-posts, that he might -discover the extent of the crowd and whether -reinforcements of agitators were coming up side -streets, and from which particular windows stones, -bottles and lighted fusées were being hurled. His -orders he issued by prearranged gesticulations. -Not only the police, but the Municipal and Republican -Guards, had been taught to understand -the significance of his signals. A wave of the -arm, and it meant “charge.” But it was only -in desperate extremities that M. Lépine sent the -crowd flying, battered and wounded. Pressure -was his policy; six or seven rows of policemen -advancing slowly yet heavily upon the manifestants, -truncheon in hand and the formidable -horses and shining helmets of the Republican -Guard in the rear. When, upon a particularly -tumultuous occasion, the “pressure” was resisted, -and a number of boulevard kiosks were -blazing and heads, too, were on fire, M. Lépine -implored assistance—from Above.</p> - -<p>“Send me rain,” he begged audibly of the -heavens, “send me torrents of rain.” And the -heavens responded, so people affirmed. A few -minutes later the heavens sent M. Lépine thunder, -lightning and a deluge that reduced the blazing -kiosks to hissing, sodden ruins; cleared the -frantic boulevards; allowed police, soldiers and -even M. Lépine to go to bed. But, on the other<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a>[286]</span> -hand, caused Jules Guérin and his fellow outlaws -and conspirators against the Republic to exult -wildly and grotesquely on the roof of Fort Chabrol. -For Guérin was short of water. The supply had -been cut off and Guérin’s only salvation was -surrender or rain. And it rained, and it poured -and it thundered. The heavens were equally -kind to Rebel, and Chief of the Police. Up there -on the roof of conspiring Fort Chabrol assembled -Guérin and his companions with baths, buckets -and basins; with jugs, glasses and mugs; all of -which speedily overflowed with the rain. Down -there in the street, the soldiers in occupation of -the besieged thoroughfare stared upwards, open-mouthed, -at the amazing spectacle on the roof—Guérin -and Company joining hands and dancing -with glee amidst their multitudinous rain-catching -vessels; Guérin bending perilously over the parapet -and roaring forth between the explosions -of thunder and the flashes of lightning: “We -have got enough water for months. Tell Lépine -we defy him.” Another jig from Guérin et Cie. -Guérin once again at the edge of the parapet, -mockingly drinking the health of the soldiers -below, and then emptying baths full of water into -the street and bellowing: “Voilà de l’eau,” and -performing such delirious, dangerous antics that -it was deemed necessary to telephone an account -of the scene to the Chief of the Police. “Let him -dance his jigs all night in the rain; it will cool -him,” replied M. Lépine. “Je le connais: he is -too clever to fall over the parapet.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287"></a>[287]</span></p> - -<p>Nor did Guérin capsize. Nor yet did M. Lépine -put an end to the jigs on the roof—to the rest -of the Fort Chabrol farce—until Paris had been -appeased by the Rennes Court Martial verdict, -and the acutest stage of the Anti-Dreyfusard -agitation died out amidst exclamations of: “C’est -fini! Quelle sacrée affaire! Quel cauchemar! -Enfin, n’en parlons plus.”</p> - -<p>After the lurid autumn of 1899 came a particularly -bleak, cheerless winter. So bitter was the -weather that fond mothers kept their children -indoors, and thus Edouard and Yvonne yawned -with boredom in their nurseries, and quarrelled, -and exchanged blows, and gave way to tears.</p> - -<p>“Toys are not what they used to be,” complained -a mother to M. Lépine. “They are -stupid or vulgar, and children get tired of -them.”</p> - -<p>This set M. Lépine thinking. Like all Frenchmen, -a lover of children, the Chief of the Police -realised that the arrival of winter was a grief and -a blow to Edouard and Yvonne. If they couldn’t -rejoice in the open, they must be enabled to rejoice -in their homes; and the way of rejoicing at -home is with toys. But toys, so said that mother, -had deteriorated: and this grave state of affairs -M. Lépine resolved to investigate. Behold him, -therefore, gazing critically—officially—into the -windows of toy-shops, and hear him declaring, as -the result of his inspections, that the toys, truly -enough, were old-fashioned, and vapid, and banal—poor -things to play with in the nursery after<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288"></a>[288]</span> -the Guignol and roundabouts of the Luxembourg -Gardens, and the other delights and surprises -to be enjoyed in summer <i>en plein air</i>. Thus -“reforms” were imperative.</p> - -<p>In a long, official circular M. Lépine informed -the toy manufacturers of Paris that, with the consent -of the Government and with the approval -of the President of the Republic, an annual Toy -Exhibition was to be held, and that prizes and -diplomas would be awarded to those manufacturers -who displayed the greatest originality -in their work. However, not ungainly, ugly -originality. “Pas de golliwogs.” Messieurs les -Apaches also prohibited; and a stern, official -reprimand to the toy-maker in whose window -M. Lépine had discovered a miniature guillotine.</p> - -<p>“Des choses amiables, gaies, pratiques, douces, -humaines, humoristiques.”</p> - -<p>Toys to amuse and also to quicken Edouard -and Yvonne’s imagination and intellect. Well, -the Paris toy-makers responded brilliantly. The -first exhibition was an overwhelming success, and -to-day it has become a State Institution. Not -only is there the “Prize of the President of the -Republic,” but M. le Président himself visits the -show. Then prizes from the Presidents of the -Chamber and Senate, prizes from every Cabinet -Minister, prizes from the Judges of the Paris Law -Courts, and more prizes from scientists, men of -letters, the leading newspapers, the <i>haute bourgeoisie</i>, -the <i>grand monde</i>. Thus, what an inducement -for the toy manufacturers to do their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>[289]</span> -utmost! This winter’s Exhibition I missed, but -a letter from a French father of five informed me -that it had “surpassed” itself. Continued my -friend: “Des choses épatantes, merveilleuses, -inouïes! I confess, <i>mon vieux</i>, that I go there -all by myself; yes, without my five children.” -Thus M. le Bourgeois (to which excellent category -of society my friend belongs) goes to the -Lépine Exhibition “on his own.” Surely only -a Frenchman could find pleasure in that? And -surely only a French Chief of the Police—fancy -suggesting such a thing to Scotland Yard!—could, -in the midst of his grim, poignant or delirious -duties, evince so charming and tender a consideration -for children as to realise that it is a -question of interest to public order that children -shall have toys “original” enough to marvel -at and rejoice over, during the bleak months of -winter. But, inevitably, as in all admirable -works, in all excellent reforms, there are drawbacks; -and in this particular case they are -obvious. For instance, a whole “set” of the -First Act of <i>Chantecler</i>: innumerable chicks and -chickens, the Blackbird in his cage, the dog Patou -in his kennel, proud, majestic Chantecler on the -hedge of the farm-yard, the radiant Hen Pheasant, -the lurid-eyed Night Birds, trees, haystacks, a -pump... price 300 francs.</p> - -<p>“Papa, do please buy me all this, immediately,” -demands Yvonne tremulously, passionately, her -eyes shining, her cheeks aflame.</p> - -<p>“Papa, I want all this,” shouts Edouard,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>[290]</span> -pointing to a vast array of soldiers, cannon, -ambulances, aeroplanes and air-ships engaged in -military manœuvres. Price 420 francs.</p> - -<p>“But you have only five francs each to spend. -For the love of heaven, be reasonable. Ah, <i>nom -d’un nom</i>, all the world is looking and laughing -at us,” cries the unfortunate father.</p> - -<p>Scowls and sulkiness from Edouard; tears and -shrill hysterics from Yvonne. When informed of -these tragic scenes, M. Lépine exclaims: “Poor -little dears! But what can I do? Impossible -to buy a whole farm-yard or an army with a -piece of five francs.”</p> - -<p>After toys, let me take pictures—the incomparable -Monna Lisa, who, when She vanished, disturbed -even the proverbial calm of M. Lépine. -All France sent him “clues.” Every post brought -him shoals of letters that strangely and severally -denounced a Woman in a Shawl, Three Men in -Blue Aprons, a Man with a Sack, a Negro with a -Diamond Ring, a Turk in a Fez, and a Man -Dressed as a Woman, as Monna Lisa’s base -abductor. In each case these singular beings -were said to have been seen carrying an object of -the exact dimensions of the stolen picture. Also, -their demeanour “was excited,” their “hands -trembled” as they clutched the precious masterpiece, -and they jumped into a passing cab or -hurled themselves into a train just as it was -steaming out of the station. “Believe me, M. le -Préfet,” concluded M. Lépine’s incoherent informants, -“believe me, I have given you an exact<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>[291]</span> -description of the culprit.” Then, letters of -abuse, threatening letters, letters from practical -jokers, letters demanding interviews—all of which -had (under French law) to be considered and -classified. Again, telegram upon telegram, and -the telephone bell always ringing.</p> - -<p>“If I cannot speak to M. Lépine himself, I -won’t speak to anyone. And then the picture -will be lost for ever,” stated a voice through the -telephone.</p> - -<p>“Well, what is it?” demanded M. Lépine, at -last coming to the machine.</p> - -<p>“<i>Ecoutez-moi bien</i>, M. le Préfet. My name is -Charles Henri Durand. I am forty-seven years -of age. I am a papermaker by profession. And -I live on the third floor of No. 16 rue de Rome,” -related the voice through the telephone.</p> - -<p>“After that, after that! Quickly! <i>Au -galop!</i>” cried M. Lépine.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur le Préfet, my information is grave -and I must not be hurried,” continued the voice. -“At the very hour of the theft of the picture I -was passing the Louvre. Suddenly, a man jostled -me. He was carrying what was undoubtedly a -picture in a sack. He hastened down a side -street, casting suspicious glances about him. He -was a Man with a Squint and——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, zut,” cried the Chief of the Police, -hanging up the receiver.</p> - -<p>And on the top of all this incoherency, light-headedness. -Always and always, when Paris is -shaken by a sensational <i>affaire</i>, some light-headed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>[292]</span> -soul loses what remains of his reason. On to the -Place de la Concorde came a pale-faced, wild-eyed -man, with a chair. After mounting the -chair, he folded his arms across his chest and -broke out into a fixed, ghastly grin. As he stood -motionless on his chair, always grinning, a crowd -inevitably assembled, and M. Lépine appeared.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing there?” demanded the -latter.</p> - -<p>“Hush! I am Monna Lisa,” replied the Man -with the Grin.</p> - -<p>“Then at last we have found you!” exclaimed -the Chief of the Police. “All France has been -mourning your loss. Come with me quickly. -You must return immediately to the Louvre.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” assented the light-headed one, -descending from his chair and confidently passing -his arm under the arm of M. Lépine. “Take me -home to the Louvre.”</p> - -<p>A wonderful spectacle, the Man with the Grin -disappearing on the arm of the Chief of the Police, -relating, as he went, that he had escaped from his -frame in the Louvre in the dead of the night.</p> - -<p>A wonderful spectacle was M. Lépine a few -nights later, when “directing operations” at a -disastrous fire on the Boulevard Sebastopol. In -the sight of the crowd he struggled into oilskins, -and next was to be seen stationing the -engines, dragging about hose, pushing forward -ladders, signalling and shouting forth encouragement -and patience to the occupants of the blazing -house. On this, as on all similar occasions,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>[293]</span> -M. Lépine was blackened and singed when at last -the fire had been mastered. But never have I beheld -him so blackened, so dishevelled and battered, -so courageous and capable as when he came to -the rescue of the “victims” of the devastating -Paris floods. Up and down the swollen, lurid -river he careered in a shabby old boat. At once-pleasant -river-side places, such as Boulogne and -Surèsnes, he was to be found chest-deep in the -turbid, yellow-green water—always signalling, -always “firmly” and “actively” “directing -operations.” He climbed into the upper windows -of tottering, flooded houses; briskly made his -way across narrow plank bridges; distributed -here, there and everywhere blankets, medicaments, -provisions—the mud and slime of the -river caked hard on his oilskins. As he passed -by in his boat, the most bedraggled figure in -Paris, loud cries of “Vive Lépine” from the -bridges and quays; and, indeed, wherever he -went, M. le Préfet de Police excited respect and -admiration. I see him, in top hat and frock coat, -“receiving” the late King Edward VII. in the -draughty Northern Station. I see him pointing -out the beauties of Paris to the present Prince of -Wales. I see him surrounded by the turbulent -students of the Latin Quarter, whither he has -been summoned to check their demonstrations -against some unpopular professor. I see him -examining (in the interests of the public) the -clocks of motor cabs, the cushions of railway -carriages, the seating conditions in theatres, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>[294]</span> -very benches and penny chairs in the Bois de -Boulogne. Finally, I see him as he is to-day; -no longer Chief of the Police, but a private -“citizen,” established in a spacious, comfortable -<i>appartement</i>, which, to the admiration and excitement -of naïve, bourgeois Parisians, is equipped -with no fewer than two bathrooms.</p> - -<p>“With two bathrooms our admirable Lépine -will have plenty to do,” states M. le Bourgeois. -“They are a responsibility, as well as a pleasure; -but, of course, they will not prove too much for a -man like Lépine.” Then up speaks a primitive -soul: “One is free to bathe and free not to bathe. -But to have two bathrooms is scandalous: and -I should not have thought it of Lépine.”</p> - -<p>However, in the opinion of a third critic, -M. Lépine should be permitted to have ninety-nine -bathrooms if he likes. Twenty-two years Chief -of the Police, he is now entitled to do as he -pleases. So leave his two bathrooms alone.</p> - -<p>“When a man has retired, he must have distractions -with which to occupy his mind and his -leisure.”</p> - -<p>But if, as reported, M. Lépine loves his pair of -bathrooms, he loves the streets better. As in his -official days, behold him here, there and everywhere. -A brawl or a fire, and there he is. Now -in an omnibus, next in the underground railway, -up at Montmartre, down on the boulevards, -amidst exclamations of “Voilà Lépine!” and -the salutes of the police. Only a private -“citizen,” but he is still addressed as “M. le<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295"></a>[295]</span> -Préfet.” Merely the master of a comfortable -<i>appartement</i>, of a couple of bathrooms—but is that -enough for a Frenchman of action and genius? -Gossips predict that M. Lépine will next be seen -in the Chamber of Deputies, or that he will help -M. Georges Clemenceau to wake up the Senate—the -“Palais du Sommeil.” For my own -part I fancy that, should a crisis arrive, the ex-Chief -of the Police will be requested to “direct -operations” again.</p> - -<p>“There is a telephone in my new home,” -M. Lépine is reported to have said. “If the -Government should want me back, it has only to -ring me up.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296"></a>[296]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XVI">XVI<br /> -<span class="smaller">MADAME LA PRÉSIDENTE, M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU AND THE UNFORTUNATE M. PAMS</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>There is an important reason for the -popularity of M. le Président: there is -Madame la Présidente.</p> - -<p>Less than a month ago Madame Raymond -Poincaré, wife of the President of the French Republic, -was the hostess, in Paris, of King George -and Queen Mary; to-day, as I write, she is helping -to entertain, with almost similar brilliancy, -their Majesties Christian and Alexandrine of Denmark. -In the interval between these two Royal -visits, Madame Poincaré has spent a few days -on the Riviera, but it wasn’t a holiday. Madame -la Présidente was accompanied to the south of -France by the most punctilious, the most rigid, -the most terrible of all tutors—a high official of -the French Protocol. And instead of enjoying -the drowsy charms or the worldly delights of the -Riviera, it was Madame Poincaré’s duty to -master a few elegant phrases from the difficult -Danish language; to acquaint herself with the -brightest episodes in Danish history; to discern -the subtleties and intricacies of Danish etiquette; -and incidentally (and always under the respectful<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297"></a>[297]</span> -but intense eye of the high Protocol official) to -discover which kinds of flowers grow in Denmark; -what the climate is like; at what hours the -Danes rise and retire; and whether they are -particularly fond of music, literature, the drama, -pictures, sculpture, dancing, needlework, and so -on, and so forth.</p> - -<p>Although an extremely clever and accomplished -woman, it is probable that Madame Poincaré -experienced hardships and even miseries in -“getting up” her Denmark: for it is a country—and -a language—that does not easily accommodate -itself to an emergency. (You, reader, could -<i>you</i> gossip, here and now, glibly and elegantly, -even in your own language, about Danish -national characteristics?) Moreover, it must be -remembered that, when she left for the Riviera -to acquaint herself with Denmark, Madame Poincaré -had only recently finished “getting up” her -England: the latter, of course, a less arduous, -but nevertheless a strenuous, task. Two -languages, two countries; two Kings and two -Queens; banquets, gala opera performances, -military reviews, special race-meetings, drives in -State carriages across Paris, ceremonious greetings -and adieux at the gaily decorated Royal -railway station—decorations, illuminations, -soldiers and soldiers, the National Anthems of -England, Denmark and France—all this brilliancy, -and excitement, and hard labour in the short -space of one month! Such, nevertheless, has been -the duty of Madame Raymond Poincaré as hostess<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298"></a>[298]</span> -of the Presidential Palace of the Élysée: and yet -even here in England, and even there in Denmark, -one hears scarcely a word about the personality -or the functions of Madame la Présidente!</p> - -<p>An ungrateful, even an ironical position, that -of a French President’s wife. She is the hostess -of foreign Royalty: but never, in her turn, their -guest. The rigid French Protocol forbids, for -some reason or other, that Madame la Présidente -shall accompany her husband on his State visits -abroad. She may drive through the streets of -Paris by the side of Queen Mary: but she must not -drive, officially, through the streets of London, -or Copenhagen, or St Petersburg. In a word, -Madame la Présidente must suffer all the -anxieties and responsibilities of the arduous, -proud position of hostess to Royalty: and is left -behind in Paris when her husband goes away on -visits of State to receive almost Royal honours. -Yes: an ungrateful, an ironical position, that of -Madame la Présidente. Particularly so, when -one remembers that, upon social occasions at -all events, she is almost invariably more tactful, -<i>sympathique</i> and ornamental than M. le -Président.</p> - -<p>Well, the French Chief of the State goes almost -royally abroad. In his own country, when he -opens exhibitions or “inaugurates” monuments -and statues and <i>lycées</i> at Lyons and Marseilles, -he is very nearly a king—and Madame la Présidente -stays at home. She “counts” only in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299"></a>[299]</span> -Paris; her powers are confined within the walls -of the Élysée, where she is for ever dispensing all -kinds of hospitalities—hospitalities that demand -infinite skill and tact. For instance, one of those -dinners upon other occasions—“eminent” Academicians, -leading barristers, men of letters, and -clericals, and anti-clericals, and militarists, and -pacifists, and ambiguities, enigmas, and “dark -horses” (so far as their political opinions are -concerned)—many of whom are the bitterest of -enemies, and all of whom Madame la Présidente -has “placed” around the dinner-table, with such -incomparable tact and discretion that not a guest -can see more than the nose or the chin of his -particular foe. Also, Madame la Présidente has -often reconciled enemies—to the advantage of -M. le Président—whose own endeavours to obtain -the same reconciliation have proved vain. -Furthermore, it is on record that, during an acute -Cabinet crisis, Madame la Présidente stopped one -of France’s leading statesmen, as he flung out of -the Élysée, by grasping his arm and putting a -rose in his button-hole, and the Cabinet Minister, -exclaiming: “Ah, madame, vous êtes exquise!” -allowed himself to be led by Madame la Présidente -back to the Council Chamber.</p> - -<p>Has Madame la Présidente been once again -working miracles? What is this we hear in -the month of June, 1913? A reconciliation, an -alliance, even, between M. Raymond Poincaré -and M. Georges Clemenceau.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300"></a>[300]</span></p> - -<p>When, in February last, M. Raymond Poincaré -was elected President of the French Republic, -Parisians exclaimed excitedly, with one voice: -“This means the end of Clemenceau. He is -dying; he is dead; he is already buried.” For -it will be remembered that M. Georges Clemenceau, -the “Smasher of Cabinets,” also “The -Tiger,” had savagely attacked M. Poincaré’s -candidature; had even called upon him to withdraw -in favour of an obscure Minister of Agriculture, -in business life a maker of cigarette -papers, of the unfortunate name of Pams. Cried -M. Clemenceau here, there and everywhere: “I -vote for Pams.” In the lobbies of the two -Chambers he ordered his followers to “vote -solidly for Pams.” The “Tiger” had sent -M. Loubet to the Élysée; he would do the same -for his dear Pams. The manufacturer of cigarette -papers was a true democrat—M. Poincaré was a -despot. Pams, indeed, had all the virtues; Pams -at the Élysée would raise the prestige of the -Republic, but heaven help the poor Republic if -M. Poincaré were elected.</p> - -<p>So fierce was the “Tiger’s” antagonism that, -on the very day of the Presidential election, and -in the Palace of Versailles, M. Poincaré appointed -“seconds” to demand an explanation from -M. Clemenceau. The affair was “arranged.” But -up to the last moment the “Tiger” canvassed -and canvassed for M. Pams in the lobbies of the -Versailles palace. And he was sallower than -ever; he did not attempt to conceal his anger<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_301"></a>[301]</span> -and indignation when M. Poincaré was proclaimed -Chief of the State by a handsome majority. Said -a Deputy: “Versailles has been Clemenceau’s -Waterloo. In Poincaré he met his Wellington.” -But the “Tiger” wasn’t tamed. A few weeks -later he “smashed” the Briand Cabinet. Then -he started a paper—<i>L’Homme Libre</i>—and therein, -as in the lobbies of the two Chambers, he renewed -his attacks upon the new President. So has Paris -been amazed, staggered, almost petrified to read -in the newspapers the following official announcement:</p> - -<p>“Sur le désir que le président de la République -lui en avait fait exprimer par son secrétaire général -civil, M. Clemenceau s’est rendu aujourd’hui -à l’Élysée, pour conférer avec M. Poincaré.” -Or: “At the desire of the President of the Republic, -expressed through his principal private -secretary, M. Clemenceau has called at the Élysée -and conferred with M. Poincaré.”</p> - -<p>Mortal enemies—nearly a duel—three months -ago: but now is M. Clemenceau invited most -politely to call at the Élysée, where he remains -shut up with President Poincaré for a whole hour! -Never such gesticulations on the boulevards, such -excitement in the French Press. “Even the -weather has been <i>bouleversé</i> by the interview at -the Élysée,” writes a Paris journalist. “M. -Clemenceau’s visit to M. Poincaré is undoubtedly -responsible for the sudden heat wave.” Asks -another journalist, somewhat cruelly: “What -does M. Pams think of it? Also, where is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_302"></a>[302]</span> -M. Pams? We have sought for M. Pams at both -his Paris and country residences, but in vain. -No news of M. Pams either at the cigarette paper -manufactory. We are becoming uneasy about -M. Pams.” And declares a third journalist: -“Versailles is forgotten and forgiven. Behold -the President and Clemenceau hand-in-hand. -But it is the triumph of the ‘Tiger.’”</p> - -<p>And so, most indisputably, it is. It was -M. Poincaré who “desired” the famous interview, -and this was made clear (at M. Clemenceau’s request) -in the official communication to the Press. -Why did he “desire” it? What induced -M. Poincaré to forget all about M. Clemenceau, -M. Pams and Versailles? The truth is, M. Poincaré -has need of the “Tiger’s” support, not only in -the Chambers, but in his new paper. It is also a -fact that, in spite of the Pams episode, M. Clemenceau -is far and away the most powerful journalist -and politician in France. If M. Clemenceau -doesn’t agree with you, he “smashes.” “He -assassinates you in the Chamber and then buries -you in his newspaper,” once said a Deputy. To -come to the point: the President of the French -Republic, disturbed by the hostility to the Three -Years Army Service Bill, sees in the “Tiger” the -only statesman powerful enough to cope successfully -with the situation. In other words, the next -French Premier will be M. Georges Clemenceau.</p> - -<p>And, according to many a reliable French -politician, the fall of M. Barthou, the actual -Prime Minister, is near. A kindly, admirable man,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_303"></a>[303]</span> -M. Barthou: but no “leader.” I remember him, -as Minister of the Interior, attending the funeral of -the victims of the Courrières mining catastrophe—eleven -hundred lives lost. Tears ran down his -face; he was literally a wreck, pale, red-eyed, -almost inarticulate, when the special train took -him back to Paris. Six weeks later, during the -subsequent strike, down to Courrières came -M. Georges Clemenceau, the new Minister of the -Interior. Not a trace of emotion about the -“Tiger” as he visited the stricken mining villages. -He spoke sharply to the strikers. He promised -that, if order were preserved, the troops would -be withdrawn. Next day three—precisely three—windows -of an engineer’s house were broken. -Then trainful after trainful of troops, until there -were ten soldiers to every striker—and that broke -the strike.</p> - -<p>A man of iron, M. Clemenceau—when in power. -No pen so eloquent, so stirring as his in French -journalism, and his pen he has now taken up in -favour of M. Poincaré and the new Army Service -Bill. Throbbing, thrilling phrases, as always. -Here is a passage of his appeal to the French -Army: “Athens, Rome, the greatest things of -the past were swept off the face of the earth -on the day that the sentinels hesitated as you -are beginning to do. And you—your France, -your Paris, your village, your field, your road, your -stream—all that tumult of history out of which -you come, since it is the work of your forerunners—is -all this nothing to you?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_304"></a>[304]</span></p> - -<p>All this may be very sound, very lofty, very -noble. But all this, by arrangement with President -Poincaré, will lead to the next Premiership. -And all this leaves me unhappy, for the reason -that I can’t help thinking and worrying about -M. Pams.</p> - -<p>What is the “Tiger,” the future Premier, going -to do for him?</p> - -<p>There’s a cynical, sinister rumour on the boulevards -that M. Clemenceau has shrugged his -shoulders and said: “Don’t speak to me about -Pams. I’ve had enough of him. Let him go on -making cigarette papers.” So things stand at -the Élysée on the 2nd of June 1913.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMAZING CITY***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 63522-h.htm or 63522-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/5/2/63522">http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/5/2/63522</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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