I was still talking to the captain when the drums began to beat and the buglers sounded the salute. At the same moment I saw the King, in the uniform of a general of the National Guards, cross the courtyard on horseback. I noticed a great many ladies at the ground-floor windows of the palace, but could not distinguish their faces. I was told afterwards that they were the Queen and the princesses, endeavouring to encourage the septuagenarian monarch. Louis-Philippe was seventy-five then.
I have often heard and seen it stated by historians of the revolution of '48, that the Duke d'Aumale and the Prince de Joinville, had they been in Paris, would have saved their father's crown. This is an assumption which it is difficult to disprove, seeing how popular these young princes were then. But if the assumption is meant to convey that the mob at the sight of these brave young fellows would have laid down their arms without fighting, I can unhesitatingly contradict it. What the National Guard might have done it is impossible to say. The regulars, no doubt, would have followed the princes into battle, as they would have followed their brother, De Nemours, notwithstanding the latter's unpopularity. There would have been a great deal of bloodshed, but the last word would have remained with the Government. Louis-Philippe's greatest title to glory is that of having prevented such bloodshed. But to show how little such abnegation of self is understoodby even the most educated Frenchmen, I must relate a story which was told to me many years afterwards by a French officer who, at that time, had just returned from the Pontifical States, where he had helped to defeat the small army of Garibaldi. He was describing the battle-field of Mentana to Napoléon III., and mentioned a prisoner he had made who turned out to be an old acquaintance from the Boulevards. "He was furious against Garibaldi, sire," said the officer, "because the latter had placed him in the necessity, as it were, of firing upon his own countrymen in a strange land. Said the prisoner, 'I am not an émigré; I would not have gone to Coblenz; I am a Frenchman from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot. If it came to fighting my countrymen in the streets of Paris, that would be a different thing. I should not have the slightest scruple of firing upon the Imperial Guards or upon the rabble, as the case might be, for that would be civil war.' That's what he said, sire."
Napoléon nodded his head, and with his wonderful, sphinxlike smile, replied, "Your prisoner was right; it makes all the difference." The Orléans princes, save perhaps one, never knew these distinctions; if they had known them, the Comte de Paris might be King of France to-day.
To return for a moment to Louis-Philippe as I saw him at the last moments of his reign. He felt evidently disappointed at the lukewarm reception he received, for though there was a faint cry among the regulars of "Vive le Roi!" it was immediately drowned by the stentorian one of the rabble of "Vive la Réforme!" in which a good many of the National Guards joined. He was evidently in a hurry to get back to the Tuileries, and, when he disappeared in the doorway, I had looked upon him for the last time in my life. An hour and a half later, he had left Paris for ever.
Personally I saw nothing of the flight of the King, nor of the inside of the Tuileries, until the royal family were gone. The story of that flight was told to me several years later by the Duc de Montpensier. What is worse, in those days it never entered my mind that a time would come when I should feel desirous of committing my reminiscences to paper, consequently I kept no count of the hours that went by, and cannot, therefore, give the exact sequence of events. I do not know how long I stood among the soldiers and the crowd,scarcely divided from one another even by an imaginary line. It was not a pleasant crowd, though to my great surprise there were a great many more decently dressed persons in it than I could have expected, so I stayed on. About half an hour after the King re-entered the Tuileries, I noticed two gentlemen elbow their way through the serried masses. I had no difficulty in recognizing the one in civilian's clothes. Though he was by no means so famous as he became afterwards, there was hardly a Parisian who would not have recognized him on the spot. His portrait had been drawn over and over again, at least as many times as that of the King, and it is a positive fact that nurses frightened their babies with it. He was the ugliest man of the century. It was M. Adolphe Cremieux.[45]His companion was in uniform. I learnt afterwards that it was General Gourgaud, but I did not know him then except by name, and in connection with his polemics with the Duke of Wellington, in which the latter did not altogether behave with the generosity one expects from an English gentleman towards a fallen foe. As they passed, the old soldier must have been recognized, because not one, but at least a hundred cries resounded, "Vive la grande armée! Vive l'Empereur!" In after years I thought that these cries sounded almost prophetic, though I am pretty sure that those who uttered them had not the slightest hope of, and perhaps not even a desire for, a Napoleonic restoration; at any rate, not the majority. There is one thing, however, which could not have failed to strike the impartial observer during the next twenty years. I have seen a good many riots, small and large, during the Second Republic and the Second Empire. "Seditious cries," as a matter of course, were freely shouted. I have never heard a single one of "Vivent les D'Orléans!" or "Vivent les Bourbons!" I have already spoken more than once about the powerful influence of the Napoleonic legend in those days; I shall have occasion to refer to it again and again when speaking about the nephew of the first Napoléon.
Cremieux and Gourgaud could not have been inside the Tuileries more than a quarter of an hour when they rushed out again. They evidently made a communication to the troops, because I beheld the latter waving their arms, but, ofcourse, I did not catch a word of what they said; I was too far away. It was, I learnt afterwards, the announcement of the advent of a new ministry, and the appointment of a new commander of the National Guards. When I saw hats and caps flung into the air, and heard the people shouting, I made certain that the revolution was at an end. I was mistaken. It was not Cremieux's communication at all that had provoked the enthusiasm; it was a second communication, made by some one from the doorway of the Tuileries immediately after the eminent barrister had disappeared among the crowd, to the effect that the King had abdicated in favour of the Comte de Paris, with the Duchesse d'Orléans as regent. Between the first and second announcements there could not have elapsed more than five or six minutes, ten at the utmost, because, before I had time to recover from my surprise, I saw Cremieux and Gourgaud battle through the tightly wedged masses once more, and re-enter the Tuileries to verify the news. I am writing this note especially by the light of subsequent information, for, I repeat, it was impossible to understand events succinctly by the quickly succeeding effects they produced at the time. Another ten minutes elapsed—ten minutes which I shall never forget, because every one of the thousands present on the Place du Carrousel was in momentary danger of having the life crushed out of him. It was no one's fault; there was, if I recollect rightly, but one narrow issue on the river-side, and there was a dense seething mass standing on the banks, notwithstanding the danger of that position, for the insurgents were firing freely and recklessly across the stream. Egress on the opposite side of the Place du Carrousel, that of the Place du Palais-Royal, had become absolutely impossible, for at that moment a fierce battle was raging there between the people and the National Guards for the possession of the military post of the Château d'Eau;[46]and those of the non-combatants who did not think it necessary to pay for the fall or the maintenance of the monarchy of July with life or limb, tried to get out of the bullets' reach. There was but one way of doing so, by a stampede in a southerly direction; the Rue de Rivoli, at any rate that part which existed, wasentirely blocked to the west, the congeries of streets that have been pulled down since to make room for its prolongation to the east were bristling with barricades: hence the terrible, suffocating crush, in which several persons lost their lives. The most curious incident connected with these awful ten minutes was that of a woman and her baby. When Cremieux issued for the second time from the Tuileries, it was to confirm the news of the King's abdication. Almost immediately afterwards, the masses on the quay were making for the Place de la Concorde and the Palais-Bourbon, whither, it was rumoured, the Duchesse D'Orléans and her two sons were going; and gradually the wedged-in mass on the Place du Carrousel found breathing space. Then the woman was seen to fall down like a ninepin that has been toppled over; she was dead, but her baby, which she had held above the crowd, and which they had, as it were, to wrench from her grasp, was alive and well.
I stood for a little while longer on the Place du Carrousel, trying to make up my mind whether to proceed to the Place de la Concorde or to the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville. I knew that the newly-elected powers, whosoever they might be, would make their appearance at the latter spot, but how long it would be before they came, I had not the least idea. I was determined, however, to see at any rate one act of the drama or the farce; for even then there was no knowing in what guise events would present themselves. I could hear the reports of firearms on both sides of me, though why there should be firing when the King had thrown up the sponge, I could not make out for the life of me. I did not know France so well then as I know her now. I did not know then that there is no man or, for that matter, no woman on the civilized earth so heedlessly and obdurately bloodthirsty when he or she works himself into a fury as the professedly débonnaire Parisian proletarian. Nevertheless, I decided to go to the Hôtel de Ville, and had carefully worked my way as far as the site of the present Place du Châtelet, when I was compelled to retrace my steps. The élite of the Paris scum was going to dictate its will to the new Government; it was marching to the Chamber of Deputies with banners flying. One of the latter was a red-and-white striped flannel petticoat, fastened to a tremendously long pole. I had no choice, and if at that moment my friends had seen me they might have easily imagined that I had become one of the leadersof the revolutionary mob. We took by the Quai de la Mégisserie, and just before the Pont des Arts there was a momentary halt. The vanguard, which I was apparently leading, had decided to turn to the right; in other words, to visit the abode of the hated tyrant. Had I belonged to the main division, I should have witnessed a really more important scene, from the historical point of view; as it was, I witnessed—
The Sacking of the Tuileries.
The idea that "there is a divinity that hedgeth round a king" seemed, I admit, preposterous enough at that moment; but I could not help being struck with its partial truth on seeing the rabble invade the palace. When I say the rabble, I mean the rabble, though there were a great many persons whom it would be an insult to class as such, and who from sheer curiosity, or because they could not help themselves, had gone in with them. The doors proved too narrow, and those who could not enter by that way, entered by the windows. The whole contingent of the riff-raff, male and female, weltering in the adjacent streets—and such streets!—was there. Well, for the first ten minutes they stood positively motionless, not daring to touch anything. It was not the fear of being caught pilfering and punished summarily that prevented them. The minority which might have protested was so utterly insignificant in numbers, as to make action on their part impossible. No, it was neither fear nor shame that stayed the rabble's hands; it was a sentiment for which I can find no name. It was the consciousness that these objects had belonged to a king, to a royal family, which made them gaze upon them in a kind of superstitious wonder. It did not last long. We were on the ground floor, which mainly consisted of the private apartments of the household of Louis-Philippe. We were wandering, or rather squeezing, through the study and bedroom of the King himself, through the sitting-rooms of the princes and princesses. I do not think that a single thing was taken from there at that particular time. But as if the atmosphere their rulers had breathed but so very recently became too oppressive, the crowd swayed towards the vestibule, and ascended the grand staircase. Then the spell was broken. The second batch that entered through the windows, when we had made room for them, were apparently not affectedby wonder and respect, for, half an hour later, when I came down again, every cupboard, every wardrobe, had been forced, though it is but fair to say that very little seems to have been taken; the contents, books, clothing, linen, etc., were scattered on the floors; but the cellars, containing over four thousand bottles of wine, were positively empty. Two hours later, however, the clothing, especially that of the princesses, had totally disappeared. It had disappeared on the backs of the inmates of St. Lazare, the doors of which had been thrown open, and who had rushed to the Tuileries to deck themselves with these fine feathers which, in this instance, did not make fine birds. I saw some of them that same evening on the Boulevards, and a more heart-rending spectacle I have rarely beheld.
The three hours I spent at the Tuileries were so crowded with events as to make a succinct account of them altogether impossible. I can only give fragments, because, though at first the wearers of broadcloth were not molested, this tolerance did not last long on the part of the new possessors of the Tuileries; and consequently the former gradually dropped off, and those of them who remained had to be very circumspect, and, above all, not to linger long in the same spot. This growing hostility might have been nipped in the bud by our following the example of the National Guards, and taking off our coats and fraternizing with the rabble; but I frankly confess that I had neither the courage nor the stomach to do so. I have read descriptions of mutinous sailors stowing in casks of rum and gorging themselves with victuals; revolting as such scenes must be to those who take no active part in them, I doubt whether they could be as revolting as the one I witnessed in the Gallerie de Diane.
The Galerie de Diane was one of the large reception rooms on the first floor, but it generally served as the dining and breakfast room of the royal family. The table had been laid for about three dozen persons, because, as a rule, Louis-Philippe invited the principal members of his military and civil households to take their repasts with him. The breakfast had been interrupted, and not been cleared away. When I entered the apartment some sixty or seventy ruffians of both sexes were seated at the board, while a score or so were engaged in waiting upon them. They were endeavouring to accomplish what the Highest Authority has declared impossible of accomplishment, namely, the making of silken pursesout of sows' ears. They were "putting on" what they considered "company manners," and, under any other circumstances but these, the attempt would have proved irresistibly comic to the educated spectator; as it was, it brought tears to one's eyes. I have already hinted elsewhere that the cuisine at the Tuileries during Louis-Philippe's reign was execrable, though the wine was generally good. Bad as was the fare on that abandoned breakfast-table, it must, nevertheless, have been superior to that usually partaken of by the convives who had taken the place of the fugitive king and princes. They, the convives, however, did not think so; they criticized the food, and ordered the improvised attendants "to give them something different;" then they turned to their female companions, filling their glasses and paying them compliments. But for the fact of another batch eagerly claiming their turn, the repast would have been indefinitely prolonged; as it was, the provisions in the palace were running short, and the deficiency had to be made up by supplies from outside. The inner man being refreshed, the ladies were invited to take a stroll through the apartments, pending the serving of the café and liqueurs. The preparation of the mocha was somewhat difficult, seeing the utensils necessary for the supply of so large a company were probably not at hand, and the ingredients themselves in the store-rooms of the palace. Nothing daunted, one of the self-invited guests rose and said, in a loud voice, "Permettez moi d'offrir le café à la compagnie," which offer was received with tumultuous applause. Suiting the action to the word, he pulled out a small canvas bag, and took from it two five-franc pieces. "Qu'on aille chercher du café et du meilleur," he said to one of the guests who had stepped forward to execute his orders, for they sounded almost like it; and I was wondering why those professed champions of equality did not tell him to fetch the coffee himself. Then he added, "Et pendant que tu y es, citoyen, apporte des cigares pour nous et des cigarettes pour les dames." The "citoyen" was already starting on his errand, when the other "citoyen" called him back. "Écoute," he said; "tu n'acheteras rien à moins d'y être forcé. Je crois que tu n'auras qu'à demander à la première épicerie venue ce qu'il te faut, et ainsi au premier bureau de tabac. Ils ont si peur, ces sales bourgeois qu'ils n'oseront pas te refuser. En tout cas prends un fusil; on ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver; maisne t'en sers pas qu'en cas de necessité:"—which meant plainly enough, "If they refuse to give you the coffee and the tobacco, shoot them down."
Of course, I am unable to say how these two commodities were eventually procured; but I have every reason to believe that this messenger had only "to ask and have," without as much as showing his musket. There is no greater cur at troublous times than the Paris shopkeeper. The merest urchin will terrify him. Even on the previous day I had seen bands of gamins who had constituted themselves the guardians of the barricades—and there was one in nearly every street—levy toll without the slightest resistance, when a few well-administered cuffs would have sent them flying, so I have not the slightest doubt that our friend had all the credit of his generosity without disbursing a penny—unless his delegate fleeced him also, on the theory that a man who could "fork out" ten francs at a moment's notice was nothing more or less than a bourgeois. However, when I returned after about forty minutes' absence, it was very evident that both the coffee and the tobacco had arrived, because the Galerie de Diane, large as it was, was full of smoke, and three saucepans, filled with water, were standing on the fire, while two or three smaller ones were arranged on the almost priceless marble mantelpiece. Another batch of ravenous republicans had taken their seats at the board, their predecessors whiling the time away in sweet converse with the "ladies." Some of the latter were more usefully engaged; they were rifling the cabinets of the most rare and valuable Sèvres, and arranging the cups, saucers, platters on their tops to be ready for the beverage that was being brewed. I was wondering how they had got at these art treasures, having noticed an hour before that their receptacles were locked and the keys taken away. The doors had simply been battered in with the hammer of the great clock of the Tuileries.
It was of a piece with the wanton destruction I had witnessed elsewhere, during my absence from the Galerie de Diane. Before I returned thither, I had seen the portrait of General Bugeaud in the Salle des Maréchaux, literally stabbed with bayonets; the throne treated to a similar fate, and carried off to the Place de la Bastille to be burned publicly; the papers of the royal family mercilessly flung to the winds; the dresses of the princesses torn to ribbons or else put on the backs of the vilest of the vile.
There was only one comic incident to relieve the horror of the whole. In one of the private apartments the rabble had come upon an aged parrot screeching at the top of its voice, "À bas Guizot!" The bird became a hero there and then, and was absolutely crammed with sweets and sugar. That one comic note was not enough to dispel my disgust, and after the scene in the Galerie de Diane which I have just described, I made my way into the street.
I had scarcely proceeded a few steps, when I heard the not very startling news that the republic had been formally proclaimed in the Chamber by M. de Lamartine, who had afterwards repaired to the Hôtel de Ville. At the same time, people were shouting that the King had died suddenly. I endeavoured to get as far, but, though the distance was certainly not more than half a mile, it took me more than an hour. At every few yards my progress was interrupted by barricades, the self-elected custodians of which were particularly anxious to show their authority to a man like myself, dressed in a coat. At last I managed to get to the corner of the Rues des Lombards and Saint-Martin, and just in time to enjoy a sight than which I have witnessed nothing more comic during the succeeding popular uprisings in subsequent years. I was just crossing, when a procession hove in sight, composed mainly of ragged urchins, dishevelled women, and riff-raff of both sexes. In their midst was an individual on horseback, dressed in the uniform of a general of the First Republic, whom they were cheering loudly. The stationary crowd made way for them, and mingled with the escort. The moment I had thrown in my lot with the latter, retreat was no longer possible, and in a very short time I found myself in the courtyard of the Hôtel de Ville, and, in another minute or so, in the principal gallery on the first floor, where, it appears,some membersof the Provisional Government were already at work. I had not the remotest notion who they were, nor did I care to inquire, having merely come to look on. The work of the members of the Provisional Government seemed mainly to consist in consuming enormous quantities of charcuterie and washing them down with copious libations of cheap wine. The place was positively reeking with the smell of both, not to mention the fumes of tobacco. Every one was smoking his hardest. The entrance of the individual in uniform caused somewhat of a sensation; amember—whom I had never seen before and whom I have never beheld since—steppedforward to ask his business. The new-comer did not appear to know himself; at any rate, he stammered and stuttered, but his escort left him no time to betray his confusion more plainly. "C'est le citoyen gouverneur de l'Hôtel de Ville," they shouted as with one voice; and there and then the new governor was installed, though I am perfectly sure that not a soul of all those present knew as much as his name.
Subsequent inquiries elicited the fact that the man was a fourth or fifth-rate singer, named Chateaurenaud, and engaged at the Opéra National (formerly the Cirque Olympique) on the Boulevard du Temple. On that day they were having a dress rehearsal of a new piece in which Chateaurenaud was playing a military part. He had just donned his costume when, hearing a noise on the Boulevards, he put his head out of the window. The mob caught sight of him. "A general, a general!" cried several urchins; and in less time than it takes to tell, the theatre was invaded, and notwithstanding his struggles, Chateaurenaud was carried off, placed on horseback, and conducted to the Hôtel de Ville, where, for the next fortnight, he throned as governor. For, curious to relate, M. de Lamartine ratified his appointment(?) on the morning of the 25th of February. Chateaurenaud became an official of the secret police during the Second Empire. I often saw him on horseback in the Bois de Boulogne, when the Emperor drove in that direction.
I did not stay long in the Hôtel de Ville, but made my way back to the Boulevards as best I could; for by that time darkness had set in, and the mob was shouting for illuminations, and obstructing the thoroughfares everywhere. Every now and then one came upon a body which had been lying there since the morning, but they took no notice of it. Their principal concern seemed the suitable acknowledgment of the advent of the Second Republic by the bourgeoisie by means of coloured devices, or, in default of such, by coloured lamps or even candles. Woe to the houses, the inhabitants of which remained deaf to their summons to that effect. In a very few minutes every window was smashed to atoms, until at last a timid hand was seen to arrange a few bottles with candles stuck into them on the sill, and light them. Then they departed, to impose their will elsewhere.
That night, after dinner, the first person of my acquaintance I met was Méry. He had been in the Chamber ofDeputies from the very beginning of the proceedings; it was he who solemnly assured me that the first cry of "Vive la République!" had been uttered by M. de Lamartine. I was surprised at this, because I had been told that early in the morning the poet had paid a visit to the Duchesse d'Orléans to assure her of his devotion to her cause. "That may be so," said Méry, to whom I repeated what I had heard; "but you must remember that Lamartine is always hard up, and closely pursued by duns. A revolution with the prospect of becoming president of the republic was the only means of staving off his creditors. He clutched at it as a last resource."
Alexandre Dumas was there also, but I have an idea that he would have willingly passed the sponge over that incident of his life, for I never could get him to talk frankly on the subject. This does not mean that he would have recanted his republican principles, but that he was ashamed at having lent his countenance to such a republic as that. I fancy there were a great many like him.
The Second Republic — Lamartine's reason for proclaiming it — Suspects Louis-Napoléon of similar motives for wishing to overthrow it — Tells him to go back to England — De Persigny's account of Louis-Napoléon's landing in France after February 24th, '48 — Providential interference on behalf of Louis-Napoléon — Justification of Louis-Napoléon's belief in his "star" — My first meeting with him — The origin of a celebrated nickname — Badinguet a creation of Gavarni — Louis-Napoléon and his surroundings at the Hôtel du Rhin — His appearance and dress — Lord Normanby's opinion of his appearance — Louis-Napoléon's French — A mot of Bismarck — Cavaignac, Thiers, and Victor Hugo's wrong estimate of his character — Cavaignac and his brother Godefroi — The difference between Thiers and General Cavaignac — An elector's mot — Some of the candidates for the presidency of the Second Republic — Electioneering expenses — Impecuniosity of Louis-Napoléon — A story in connection with it — The woman with the wooden legs — The salons during the Second Republic — The theatres and their skits on the situation — "La Propriété c'est le Vol" — France governed by theNational— A curious list of ministers and officials of the Second Republic — Armand Marrast — His plans for reviving business — His receptions at the Palais-Bourbon as President of the Chamber of Deputies — Some of the guests — The Corps Diplomatique — The new deputies, their wives and daughters.
I knew Louis-Napoléon, if not intimately, at least very well, for nearly a quarter of a century, and I felt myself as little competent to give an opinion on him on the last as on the first day of our acquaintance. I feel almost certain of one thing, though; that, if he had had very ample means of his own, the Second Empire would have never been. Since its fall I have heard and read a great deal about Louis-Napoléon's unfaltering belief in his star; I fancy it would have shone less brightly to him but for the dark, impenetrable sky of impecuniosity in which it was set. Méry said that Lamartine proclaimed the Second Republic as a means of staving off his creditors; and the accusation was justified by Lamartine's own words in the Assemblée Nationale itself on the 11th of September, 1848: "Je déclare hautement que le 24 Février à midi, je ne pensais pas à la République." To use a popular locution, the author of "L'Histoire des Girondins" suspected, perhaps, that Louis-Napoléon might take aleaf from his, the author's, book; for the needy man, though perhaps not a better psychologist than most men, has a very comprehensive key to the motives of a great number of his fellow-creatures, especially if they be Frenchmen and professional politicians. I am speaking by the light of many years' observation. Furthermore, the pecuniary embarrassments of Louis-Napoléon were no secret to any one. "I have established a republic for money's sake," Lamartine said to himself; "some one will endeavour to overthrow it for money's sake." I am aware that this is not a very elevated standard whereby to judge political events; but I do not profess to be an historian—mine is only the little huckster shop of history.
It is more than probable that this was the reason why Lamartine told Louis-Napoléon to go back to England, in their interview—a secret one—on the 2d of March, 1848.
It was M. de Persigny who told me this many years afterwards. "The Prince could afford to humour De Lamartine in that way," he added, "for if ever a man was justified in believing in his star it was he. I'll tell you a story which is scarcely known to half a dozen men, including the Emperor and myself; I am not aware of its having been told by any biographer. The moment we ascertained the truth of the news that reached us from Paris, we made for the coast, and, on Saturday morning, we crossed in the mail-packet. It was very rough, and we had a good shaking, so that when we got to Boulogne we were absolutely 'done up.' But we heard that a train was to start for Paris, and, as a matter of course, the Prince would not lose a minute. We had to walk to Neufchâtel, about three miles distant, because there was something the matter with the rails, I do not know what. We flung ourselves into the first compartment, which already contained two travellers. Almost immediately we had got under way, one of these, who had looked very struck when we entered, addressed the Prince by name. He turned out to be Monsieur Biesta, who had paid a visit to Napoléon during his imprisonment at Ham, and who immediately recognized him. Monsieur Biesta had just left the Duc de Nemours. I do not know whether he was at that time a Republican, a Monarchist, or an Imperialist, but he was a man of honour, and it was thanks to him that the son of Louis-Philippe made his escape. The other one was the Marquis d'Arragon, who died about a twelvemonth afterwards. All went welluntil we got to Amiens, where we had to wait a very long while, the train which was to have taken us on to Paris having just left. For once in a way the Prince got impatient. He who on the eve of the Coup d'État remained, at any rate outwardly, perfectly stolid, was fuming and fretting at the delay. One would have thought that the whole of Paris was waiting at the Northern station to receive him with open arms, and to proclaim him Emperor there and then. But impatient or not, we had to wait, and, what was worse or better, the train that finally took us came to a dead stop at Persan, where the news reached us that the rails had been broken up by the insurgents at Pontoise, that a frightful accident had happened in consequence to the train we had missed by a few minutes at Amiens, in which at least thirty lives were lost, besides a great number of wounded. But for the merest chance we should have been among the passengers. Was I right in saying that the Prince was justified in believing in his star?"
I did not meet with Louis-Napoléon until he was a candidate for the presidency of the Second Republic, and while he was staying at the Hôtel du Rhin in the Place Vendôme. Of course, I had heard a great deal about him, but my informants, to a man, were English. While the latter were almost unanimous in predicting Louis-Napoléon's eventual advent to the throne, the French, though in no way denying the influence of the Napoleonic legend, were apt to shrug their shoulders more or less contemptuously at the pretensions of Hortense's son; for few ever designated him by any other name, until later on, when the nickname of "Badinguet" began to be on every one's lips. Consequently, I was anxious to catch a glimpse of him; but before noting the impressions produced by that first meeting, I will devote a few lines to the origin of that celebrated sobriquet.
Personally, I never heard it in connection with Louis-Napoléon until his betrothal to Mdlle. Eugénie de Montijo became common "talk;" but I had heard and seen it in print a good many years before, and even as late as '48. There was, however, not the slightest attempt at that time to couple it with the person of the future Emperor. Three solutions have made the round of the papers at various times: (1) that it was the name of the stonemason or bricklayer who lent Louis-Napoléon his clothes to facilitate his escape from Ham in June, 1845; (2) that it was the name ofthe soldier who was wounded by the Prince on the 5th of August, 1840, at Boulogne, when the latter fired on Captain Col-Puygellier; (3) that about the latter end of the forties a pipe-manufacturer introduced a pipe, the head of which resembled that of Louis-Napoléon, and that the pipemaker's name was Badinguet.
The latter solution may be dismissed at once as utterly without foundation. With regard to that having reference to the stonemason, no stonemason lent Louis-Napoléon his clothes. The disguise was provided by Dr. Conneau from a source which has never been revealed. There was, moreover, no stonemason of the name of Badinguet at Ham, and, when Louis-Napoléon crossed the drawbridge of the castle, his face partially hidden by a board he was carrying on his shoulder, a workman, who mistook him for one of his mates, exclaimed, "Hullo, there goes Bertoux." Bertoux, not Badinguet.
The name of the soldier wounded by Louis-Napoléon was Geoffroy; he was a grenadier, decorated on the battle-field; and shortly after Napoléon's accession to the throne, he granted him a pension. There can be no possible mistake about the name, seeing that it was attested at the trial subsequent to the fiasco before the Court of Peers.
The real fact is this: Gavarni, like Balzac, invented many names, suggested in many instances by those of their friends and acquaintances, or sometimes merely altered from those they had seen on signboards. The great caricaturist had a friend in the Département des Landes named Badingo; about '38 he began his sketches of students and their companions ("Étudiants et Étudiantes"), and in one of them a medical student shows his lady-love an articulated skeleton.
"Look at this," says the former; "this is Eugénie, the former sweetheart of Badinguet—that tall, fair girl who was so fond ofmeringues. He has had her mounted for thirty-six francs."
The connection is very obvious; it only wanted one single wag to remember the skit when Napoléon became engaged to Eugénie de Montijo. He set the ball rolling, and the rest followed as a matter of course.
At the same time, Gavarni had not been half as original, as he imagined, in the invention of the name. Badinguet was a character in a one-act farce entitled "Le Mobilier de Rosine," played for the first time in 1828, at the Théâtre Montansier; and there is a piece of an earlier date even, inwhich Grassot played a character by the name of Badinguet. In 1848, there was a kind of Jules Vernesque piece at the Porte Saint-Martin, in which Badinguet, a Parisian shopkeeper, starts with his wife Euphémie for some distant island.
To return to Louis-Napoléon at the Hôtel du Rhin, and my first glimpse of him. I must own that I was disappointed with it. Though I had not the slightest ground for expecting to see a fine man, I did not expect to see so utterly an insignificant one, and badly dressed in the bargain. On the evening in question, he wore a brown coat of a peculiar colour, a green plush waistcoat, and a pair of yellowish trousers, the like of which I have never seen on the legs of any one off the stage. And yet Lord Normanby, and a good many more who have said that he looked every inch a king, were not altogether wrong. There was a certain gracefulness about him which owed absolutely nothing either to his tailor, his barber, or his bootmaker. "The gracefulness of awkwardness" sounds remarkably like an Irish bull, yet I can find no other term to describe his gait and carriage. Louis-Napoléon's legs seemed to have been an afterthought of his Creator—they were too short for his body, and his head appeared constantly bent down, to supervise their motion; consequently, their owner was always at a disadvantage when compelled to make use of them. But when standing still, or on horseback, there was an indescribable something about the man which at once commanded attention. I am not overlooking the fact that, on the occasion of our first meeting, my curiosity had been aroused; but I doubt whether any one, endowed with the smallest power of observation, though utterly ignorant with regard to his previous history, and equally sceptical with regard to his future destiny, could have been in his company for any length of time without being struck with his appearance.
When I entered the apartment on the evening in question, Louis-Napoléon was leaning in his favourite attitude against the mantelpiece, smoking the scarcely ever absent cigarette, and pulling at the heavy brown moustache, the ends of which in those days were not waxed into points as they were later on. There was not the remotest likeness to any portrait of the Bonaparte family I had ever seen. He wore his thin, lank hair much longer than he did afterwards. The most startling features were decidedly the aquilinenose and the eyes; the latter, of a greyish-blue, were comparatively small and somewhat almond-shaped, but, except at rare intervals, there was an impenetrable look, which made it exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to read their owner's thoughts by them. If they were "the windows of his soul," their blinds were constantly down. The "I am pleased to see you, sir," with which he welcomed me, holding out his hand at the same time, was the English of an educated German who had taken great pains to get the right accent and pronunciation, without, however, completely succeeding; and when I heard him speak French, I detected at once his constant struggle with the same difficulties. The struggle lasted till the very end of his life, though, by dint of speaking very slowly, he overcame them to a marvellous extent. But the moment he became in any way excited, thef's and thet's and thep's were always trying to oust thev's, thed's and theb's from their newly-acquired positions, and often gained a momentary victory. There is an amusing story to that effect, in connection with Napoléon's first interview with Bismarck. I will not vouch for its truth, but, on the face of it, it sounds blunt enough to be genuine. The Emperor was complimenting the German statesman on his French.
"M. de Bismarck, I have never heard a German speak French as you do," said Napoléon.
"Will you allow me to return the compliment, sire?"
"Certainly."
"I have never heard a Frenchman speak French as you do."[47]
When Prince Louis-Napoléon held out his hand and I looked into his face, I felt almost tempted to put him down as an opium-eater. Ten minutes afterwards, I felt convinced that, to use a metaphor, he himself was the drug, and that every one with whom he came in contact was bound to yield to its influence. When I came away that evening, I could have given Cavaignac, Thiers, Lamartine, Hugo, and the rest, who wanted to make a cat's-paw of him, a timely warning, if they would have condescended to listen to, and profitby it, which I am certain they would not have done. Strange as it may seem, every one of these men, and, with the exception of one, all undoubtedly clever, thought Louis-Napoléon either an imbecile or a secret drunkard. And, what is more, they endeavoured to propagate their opinion throughout the length and breadth, not only of France, but of Europe.
As usual, the one who was really the greatest nonentity among the latter was most lavish in his contempt. I am alluding to General Cavaignac. The nobodies who have governed or misgoverned France since the Fall of Sedan were, from an intellectual point of view, eagles compared to that surly and bumptious drill-sergeant, who had nothing, absolutely nothing, to recommend him for the elevated position he coveted. He was the least among all those brilliant African soldiers whose names and prowess were on every one's lips; he had really been made a hero of, at so much per line, by the staff of theNational, where his brother Godefroy wielded unlimited power. He was all buckram; and, in the very heart of Paris, and in the midst of that republic whose fiercest watchword, whose loudest cry, was "equality," he treated partisans and opponents alike, as he would have treated a batch of refractory Arabs in a distant province of that newly-conquered African soil. He disliked every one who did not wear a uniform, and assumed a critical attitude towards every one who did. His republicanism was probably as sincere as that of Thiers—it meant "La République c'est moi:" with this difference, that Thiers was amiable, witty, and charming, though treacherous, and that Cavaignac was the very reverse. His honesty was beyond suspicion; that is, he felt convinced that he was the only possible saviour of France: but it was impaired by his equally sincere conviction that bribery and coercion—of cajoling he would have none—were admissible, nay, incumbent to attain that end. "Thiers, c'est la république en écureuil, Cavaignac c'est la république en ours mal léché," said a witty journalist. He and Louis-Napoléon were virtually the two men who were contending for the presidential chair, and the chances of Cavaignac may be judged by the conclusion of the verbal report of one of Lamoricière's emissaries, who canvassed one of the departments.
"'The thing might be feasible,' said an elector, 'if your general's name was Geneviève de Brabant, or that of one ofthe four sons of Aymon.[48]But his name is simply Cavaignac—Cavaignac, and that's all. I prefer Napoléon; at any rate, there is a ring about that name.' And I am afraid that eleven-twelfths of the electors are of the same opinion."
As for Ledru Rollin, Raspail, Changarnier, and even Lamartine and the Prince de Joinville, some of whom were candidates against their will, they were out of the running from the very start, though, curiously enough, the son of the monarch whom the republic had driven from the throne obtained more votes than the man who had proclaimed that republic. These votes were altogether discarded as unconstitutional, though one really fails to see why one member of a preceding dynasty should have been held to be more eligible than another. Be this as it may, the votes polled by the sailor prince amounted to over twenty-three thousand, showing that he enjoyed a certain measure of popularity. It is doubtful whether the Duc d'Aumale or the Duc de Nemours would have obtained a fifth of that number. As I have already said, the latter was disliked by his father's opponents for his suspected legitimist tendencies, and tacitly blamed by some of the partisans of the Orleanist régime for his lack of resistance on the 24th of February; the former's submission "to the will of the nation," as embodied in a manifesto "to the inhabitants of Algeria," provoked no enthusiasm either among friends or foes.[49]Perhaps public rumour was not altogether wrong, when it averred that the D'Orléans were too tight-fisted to spend their money in electioneering literature. The expense involved in that item was a terrible obstacle to Louis-Napoléon and his few faithful henchmen; for, though the Napoleonic idea was pervading all classes of society, there was, correctly speaking, no Bonapartist party to shape it for the practical purposes of the moment. The Napoleonic idea was a fond remembrance of France's glorious past, rather than a hope of its renewal in the future. Even the greatest number of the most ardent worshippers of that marvellous soldier of fortune, doubted whether his nephew was sufficiently popular to obtain an appreciable following, and those who did not doubt were mostly poor. While Dufaure andLamoricière were scattering money broadcast, and using pressure of the most arbitrary kind, in order to insure Cavaignac's success, Louis-Napoléon and his knot of partisans were absolutely reduced to their own personal resources. Miss Howard—afterwards Comtesse de Beauregard—and Princesse Mathilde had given all they could; a small loan was obtained from M. Fould; and some comparatively scanty supplies had been forthcoming from England—it was said at the time, with how much truth I know not, that Lords Palmerston and Malmesbury had contributed: but the exchequer was virtually empty. A stray remittance of a few thousand francs, from an altogether unexpected quarter, and most frequently from an anonymous sender, arrived now and then; but it was what the Germans call "a drop of water in a very hot frying-pan;" it barely sufficed to stop a hole. Money was imperatively wanted for the printing of millions upon millions of handbills, thousands and thousands of posters, and their distribution; for the expenses of canvassers, electioneering agents, and so forth. The money went to the latter, the rest was obtained on credit. Prince Louis, confident of success, emptied his pockets of the last five-franc pieces; when he had no more, he promised to pay. He was as badly off as his famous uncle before the turn of fortune came.
In connection with this dire impecuniosity, I remember a story for the truth of which I can vouch as if I had had it from Louis-Napoléon's own lips. In front of Siraudin's confectioner's shop at the angle of the Boulevard des Capucines and the Rue de la Paix, there sits an old woman with two wooden legs. About '48, when she was very pretty and dressed with a certain coquettishness, she was already there, though sitting a little higher up, in front of the wall of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, which has since made room for the handsome establishment of Giroux. Behind her, on the wall, were suspended for sale some cheap and not very artistically executed reproductions of Fragonard, "Le Coucher de la Mariée," etc., all of which would fetch high prices now; also songs, the tunes of which she played with great taste on her violin. It was reported that she had been killed during the attack on the ministry, but to people's great surprise she reappeared a few days afterwards. Prince Louis, who was staying at the Place Vendôme, then used to take a short cut by the Rue Neuve des Capucines to the Boulevards, and it seems that he never passed her without giving hersomething. In a few weeks she came to look upon his contributions as a certain part of her income. She knew who he was, and, curiously enough, seemed to be aware not only of his political preoccupations, but of his pecuniary embarrassments. I am unable to say whether she was in sympathy with the former, but she was evidently concerned about the latter; for, one evening, after thanking Louis-Napoléon, she added, "Monseigneur, je voudrais vous dire un mot."
"Parlez, madame."
"On me dit que vous êtes fort gêné dans ce moment. J'ai trois billets de mille francs chez moi, qui ne font rien. Voulez-vous me permettre de vous les offrir; vous me les rendrez quand vous serez empereur."
Prince Louis did not accept them, but he never forgot a kindness, and when he did become Emperor, he offered her a small annuity. The answer was characteristic of her independence. "Dites à l'empereur qu'il est bien bon de se rappeler de moi, mais je ne puis pas accepter son offre. S'il avait accepté mon argent, je ne dis pas, maintenant, non." And while I am writing these notes, she still sits in her usual place, though I have heard it said more than once that she is the owner of one or two houses in the Avenue de l'Opéra, and that she gave a considerable marriage portion to her daughter, who has remained ignorant of the sources of her mother's income, who was educated in the country, and has never been to Paris. One of the conditions of her marriage was that she should emigrate to Australia. For the latter part of the story, I will, however, not vouch.
During the months of October and November, '48, I saw Prince Louis at least a dozen times, though only once away from his own apartments. There was really "nowhere to go," for most of the salons had closed their doors, and those which remained open were invaded by political partisans of all shades. Conversation, except on one topic, there was little or none. Social entertainments were scarcely to be thought of after the bloody disorders in June: Paris trade suffered in consequence, and the whole of the shopkeeping element, which virtually constituted the greater part of the Garde Nationale, regretted the fall of the Orléans dynasty to which it had so materially contributed. After these disorders in June, the troops bivouacked for a whole month on the Boulevards; on the Boulevard du Temple with its seven theatres; on the Boulevard Poissonnière, almost in front ofthe Gymnase; on the Boulevard Montmartre, in front of the Variétés; on the Place de la Bourse, in front of the Vaudeville. The new masters did not care to be held up to ridicule; they insinuated, rather than asserted, that the insults levelled from the stage had contributed to the insurrection; and seeing that the bourgeoisie, very contrite already, did not care to hear "the praise of the saviours of the country" by command, they deserted the play-houses and kept their money in their pockets. The Constituent Assembly was compelled to grant the managers an indemnity; but, as it could not keep the soldiers there for ever, and as it cared still less to vote funds to its enemies while its supporters were clamouring for every cent of it, the strict supervision gradually relaxed. The first to take advantage of this altered state of things was Clairville, with his "La Propriété c'est le Vol" (November 28, '48), a skit on the celebrated phrase of Proudhon. It is very doubtful whether the latter had uttered it in the sense with which the playwright invested it; but fear is proverbially illogical, and every one in Paris ran to see the piece, trusting probably that it might produce a salutary effect on those who intended to take the philosopher's axiom literally.
"La Propriété c'est le Vol" was described on the bills as "a socialistic extravaganza in three acts and seven tableaux." The scene of the first tableau represents the garden of Eden. The Serpent, who is the Evil Spirit, declares war at once upon Adam, who embodies the principle of Property. The Serpent was a deliberate caricature of Proudhon with his large spectacles.
In the subsequent tableaux, Adam, by a kind of metempsychosis, had been changed into Bonichon, an owner of house property in the Paris of the nineteenth century. The Serpent, though still wearing his spectacles, had been equally transformed into a modern opponent of all property. We are in February, '48. Bonichon and some of his fellow-bourgeois are feasting in honor of the proposed measures of reform, when they are scared out of their wits by the appearance of the Serpent, who informs them that the Republic has sidled up to Reform, managed to hide itself beneath its cloak, and been proclaimed. The next scene brings us to the year 1852 (four years in advance of the period), when the right of every one to live by the toil of his hands has become law. Bonichon is being harassed and persecuted by a crowd ofhandicraftsmen and others, who insist on working for him whether he likes it or not. The glazier smashes his windows, in order to compel him to have new panes put in. The paper-hanger tears the paper off his walls on the same principle. The hackney coachman flings Bonichon into his cab, takes him for a four hours' drive, and charges accordingly. A dentist imitates the tactics of Peter the Great with his courtiers, forces him into a chair and operates upon his grinders, though, unlike Peter, he claims the full fee. A dozen or so of modistes and dressmakers invade his apartments with double the number of gowns for Madame Eve Bonichon, who, the reverse of her husband, does not object to this violent appeal for her custom. Perhaps Madame Octave, a charming woman who played the part, did well to submit, because during the first tableau, the audience, though by no means squeamish, had come to the conclusion that Madame Eve would be all the better for a little more clothing.
And so the piece goes on. The first performance took place twelve days before the presidential election, when Cavaignac was still at the head of affairs. Notwithstanding his energetic suppression of the disorders in June, every one, with the exception of the journalistic swashbucklers ofLe National, hoped to get rid of him; and a song aimed at him cruelly dissected his utter insignificance from a mental, moral, and political point of view. When Louis-Napoléon gained the day, the song was changed for a more kindly one.
It is no exaggeration to say that during those days France was absolutely governed by theNational. I made a list, by no means complete, at the time, of the various appointments and high places that had fallen to the members of the staff and those connected with it financially and otherwise. I have kept it, and transcribe it here with scarcely any comment.
Armand Marrast, the editor, became a member of the Provisional Government, Mayor of Paris, and subsequently President of the National Assembly.
Marrast (No. 2) became Procureur-Général at Pau.
Marrast (No. 3), who had been a captain of light horse during the reign of Louis-Philippe, was given a colonelcy unattached.
Marrast (No. 4) became Vice-Principal of the Lycée Corneille.
Bastide, one of the staff, became Minister for Foreign Affairs.
Vaulabelle, one of the staff, became Minister of Public Education.
Goudchaux, the banker of theNational, became Minister of Finances.
Recurt, the chief physician to the staff, became Minister of the Interior and subsequently Minister of Public Works (President of the Board of Works).
Trélat, another physician, became Minister of Public Works.
Marie, the solicitor to theNational, became a member of the Provisional Government, a member of the Executive Committee, and subsequently Minister of Justice.
Génin, one of the staff, became chief of the literary department at the Ministry of Public Education.
Charras, one of the staff, became Under-Secretary of State, at the Ministry for War.
Degouve-Denuncques, one of the staff, became Prefect of the Département of the Somme.
Buchez, third physician and an occasional contributor, became Deputy Mayor of Paris and subsequently President of the Assembly up to the 15th of May (when he had to make room for M. Armand Marrast himself). As will be seen, within a month of the republicans' advent to power, M. Buchez had been raised to one of the highest functions in the State, though absolutely devoid of any political or parliamentary talent, as was shown later on by his "Histoire Parlementaire de la Révolution Française," an utterly commonplace production.
Dussart, one of the staff, became Prefect of the Seine-Inférieure.
Adam, one of the staff, became Chief Secretary of the Prefecture of the Seine.
Sain de Bois-le Comte, one of the staff, became minister plenipotentiary at Turin.
Félicien Mallefille, one of the staff, became minister plenipotentiary at Lisbon.
Anselme Petétin, one of the staff, became minister plenipotentiary at Hanover.
Auguste Petétin (his brother), one of the staff, became Prefect of the Department of the Côte-d'Or.
Frédéric Lacroix, one of the staff, became chief secretary for civil affairs in Algeria.
Hetzel, one of the staff, became chief secretary to the Minister for Foreign Affairs.
Rousset, one of the staff, became Prefect of the Department of the Loire.
Duclerc, shorthand reporter, became for a little while Minister of Finances.
Pagnerre, publisher of theNational, and bookseller, became a mayor, a member of the Provisional Government, a member of the Executive Committee, and finally Director of the Comptoir d'Escompte.
Achille Grégoire, the printer of theNational, became Prefect of the Department of the Upper-Saône.
Clément Thomas, called the Constable of theNational, became the Commander-in-chief of the National Guard of the Seine.
There are a few score more, friends and allies, such as Lalanne, who was made director of the national workshops; Levrault, who was sent to Naples as minister plenipotentiary; Carette, who became Civil-Chief at Constantine; Carteron, who was appointed keeper of the national archives, etc.
As a matter of course, all these adventurers had revolving around them a number of satellites, as eager as the former to reap the fruits of the situation. Most of them, like the cat of Heine's epigram, had to devour their steak raw; they did not know how to cook it. Ministers, prefects, and high dignitaries of State as they were, they felt awkward in the society of those to whom no illusion was possible with regard to their origin and that of their political fortunes.
They haunted, therefore, by preference, the less well frequented restaurants and cafés, the wings of the minor theatres, on the pretext that they were the elect of the people, and that the people were their fittest companions. Their erstwhile leader and chief scorned to stoop to such tricks. He was an educated man, with a thick veneer of the gentleman about him, which, however, did not prevent him from being one of the two most arrant snobs I have met anywhere. I advisedly say anywhere, for France herself does not produce that objectionable genus to any appreciable extent. You may find a good many cads, you will find comparatively few snobs. Compared to Armand Marrast, Eugène Sue was nowhere as a snob. He was a thickset man with a rubicundface, with a mass of grey woolly hair and a kind of stubbly, small moustache. His manners were supposed to be modelled on those of the nobles of the old régime; said manners mainly consisting of swaggering impudence to those whom he considered his equals, and freezing insolence to those he deemed his inferiors. The latter, I need not say, were by far the most numerous. He who bellowed most loudly that birth should carry no privilege, never forgot to remind his hearers, by deeds, if not by words, that he was of noble descent. "Si sa famille était noble, sa mère s'est surement endormie dans l'antichambre un jour qu'un valet-de-chambre entreprenant était trop près," said the Marquis d'Arragon one evening.[50]He felt greatly flattered at the caricaturists of the day representing him in the court dress of Louis XVI.'s reign, though to most people he looked like a "marquis de quatre sous."[51]
He professed to be very fond of antique furniture and decorations, and this fondness was the main cause of his ousting his former subaltern, Buchez, from the presidential chair of the Assembly, for, shortly before the revolution of '48, the official residence of that functionary had been put in thorough repair, its magnificent furniture had been restored, etc.
The depression of business inspired M. Armand Marrast with the happy thought of giving some entertainments in the hope of reviving it. During the Third Republic, though I had ceased to live in France permanently, I have seen a good many motley gatherings at the Élysée-Bourbon, and at the Hôtel-de-Ville, especially in M. Grévy's time, though Mac-Mahon's presidency offered some diverting specimens also; but I have never seen anything like the social functions at the Palais-Bourbon during the months of September, October, and November, 1848. They were absolutely the festive scenes of Paul de Kock on a large scale, amidst Louis XIV. and Louis XV. furniture, instead of the bourgeois mahogany, and with an exquisitely artistic background, instead of the commonplace paperhangings of the lower middle-class dwellings. The corps diplomatique was virtuallyon the horns of a dilemma. After the February revolution, the shock of which was felt throughout the whole of Europe, and caused most of the sovereigns to shake on their thrones, it had stood by M. de Lamartine, and even by his successor at the French Foreign Office, M. Bastide, if not with enthusiasm, at least with a kind of complacency. The republic proclaimed by the former, might, after all, contain elements of vitality. The terrible disorders in June tended to shake this reluctant confidence; still, there was but little change in the ambassadors' outward attitude, until it became too evident that, unless a strong dictator should intervene, mob rule was dangerously nigh. Then the corps diplomatique began to hold aloof. Of course there were exceptions, such as, for instance, Mr. Richard Rush, the minister of the United States, who had been the first to congratulate the Provisional Government, and the various representatives of the South-American republics; but even the latter could scarcely refrain from expressing their astonishment at the strange company in which they found themselves. The women were perhaps the most remarkable, as women generally are when out of their element. The greater part had probably never been in a drawing-room before, and, notwithstanding M. Taine's subsequently expressed dictum about the facility with which a Parisien grisette, shopwoman, or lady's-maid may be transformed at a few moments into a semblance of agrande dame, these very petites bourgeoises and their demoiselles made a very indifferent show. Perhaps the grisette, shopwoman, or lady's-maid would have acquitted herself better. Her natural taste, sharpened by constant contact with her social superiors, might have made up for the slender resources of her wardrobe; and, as the French say, "one forgives much in the way of solecism to the prettily dressed woman." As it was, the female section of M. Marrast's guests could advance no valid plea for mercy on that score. The daughters looked limp with their choregraphic exertions: the emblem of innocence, "la sainte mousseline," as Ambroise Thomas called it afterwards, hung in vague, undefined folds on angular figures, perhaps because the starch necessary to it had been appropriated by the matrons. The latter were rigid to a degree, and looked daggers at their spouses and their friends at the slightest attempt to stir them to animation. "Fais donc danser ma vieille," was the consecrated formula with which a not very eager cavalier was dragged to the seat where said"vieille" was reposing in all the majesty of her unaccustomed finery, considerably impaired in the wearer's transit on foot from her domicile at Montrouge or Ménilmontant to the banks of the Seine; for the weather that year was almost tropical, even in the autumn, and consequently the cab had been dispensed with. It would appear, from a remark I overheard, that Jehu, in the way of business, preferred as fares the partisans of and adherents to the fallen régimes, even of the latest one. Said a portly dame to her neighbour, alluding to the cabman, "Il a absolument refusé de nous prendre. Il a dit qu'il était dans l'opposition, et qu'il ne voulait pas trahir ses principes à moins de dix francs. Dix francs, ma chère, nous aurions pu souper chez nous, et sans compter les frais de toilette et de blanchissage. Quant à l'honneur d'être ici, ça ne compte pas pour grand'chose, vu que tout le quartier y est; nous demeurons à Batignolles, et il a fallu descendre en ville ce matin pour avoir une paire de gants blancs. Chez nous, partout la même réponse: 'Des gants blancs, madame, nous n'en avons plus. Presque toutes les dames du quartier vont au Palais-Bourbon ce soir, et depuis hier il nous reste que des petites pointures (sizes), des sept et des sept et demies.'"
As for the "élu du peuple souverain," when he had failed to draw his "vieille" into the mazy dance, and been snubbed for his pains in the bargain, he returned to his fellow-deputies, many of whom might be easily recognized by the golden-fringed tricolour rosette in their buttonholes, though some had merely kept it in their pockets. The "élu du peuple" did not dance himself. Perhaps the most curious group was that of the young attachés and clerks of the Foreign Office who had come to enjoy themselves, who, even at that time, were nearly all of good birth, and who, to use a colloquial expression, looked not unlike brass knockers on a pigsty. This was the society Louis-Napoléon was to sweep away with the aid of men, some of whom I have endeavoured to sketch in subsequent notes. I would fain say a few words of a "shipwrecked one," of the preceding dynasty, whose acquaintance I did not make until the vessel he had steered so long had foundered, and of the self-constituted pilot of the interim régime. I am alluding to MM. Guizot and de Lamartine.