BOOK VIII.
CHAPTER I.
On the 8th of May the vote of the plebiscite was recorded,--between seven
and eight millions of Frenchmen in support of the Imperial programme--in
plain words, of the Emperor himself--against a minority of 1,500,000.
But among the 1,500,000 were the old throne-shakers-those who compose and
those who lead the mob of Paris. On the 14th, as Rameau was about to
quit the editorial bureau of his printing-office, a note was brought in
to him which strongly excited his nervous system. It contained a request
to see him forthwith, signed by those two distinguished foreign members
of the Secret Council of Ten, Thaddeus Loubinsky and Leonardo Raselli.
The meetings of that Council had been so long suspended that Rameau
had almost forgotten its existence. He gave orders to admit the
conspirators. The two men entered, the Pole, tall, stalwart, and with
martial stride--the Italian, small, emaciated, with skulking, noiseless,
cat-like step, both looking wondrous threadbare, and in that state called
"shabby genteel," which belongs to the man who cannot work for his
livelihood, and assumes a superiority over the man who can. Their
outward appearance was in notable discord with that of the poet-
politician--he all new in the last fashions of Parisian elegance, and
redolent of Parisian prosperity and _extrait de Mousseline_!
"Confrere," said the Pole, seating himself on the edge of the table,
while the Italian leaned against the mantelpiece, and glanced round the
room with furtive eye, as if to detect its innermost secrets, or decide
where safest to drop a Lucifer-match for its conflagration,--
"_confrere_," said the Pole, "your country needs you--"
"Rather the cause of all countries," interposed the Italian softly,--
"Humanity."
"Please to explain yourselves; but stay, wait a moment," said Rameau; and
rising, he went to the door, opened it, looked forth, ascertained that
the coast was clear, then reclosed the door as cautiously as a prudent
man closes his pocket whenever shabby-genteel visitors appeal to him in
the cause of his country, still more if they appeal in that of Humanity.
"Confrere," said the Pole, "this day a movement is to be made--a
demonstration on behalf of your country--"
"Of Humanity," again softly interposed the Italian. "Attend and share
it," said the Pole.
"Pardon me," said Rameau, "I do not know what you mean. I am now the
editor of a journal in which the proprietor does not countenance
violence; and if you come to me as a member of the Council, you must be
aware that I should obey no orders but that of its president, whom I--
I have not seen for nearly a year; indeed I know not if the Council still
exists."
"The Council exists, and with it the obligation it imposes," replied
Thaddeus.
"Pampered with luxury," here the Pole raised his voice, "do you dare to
reject the voice of Poverty and Freedom?"
"Hush, dear but too vehement confrere," murmured the bland Italian;
"permit me to dispel the reasonable doubts of our _confrere_," and he
took out of his breast-pocket a paper which he presented to Rameau; on it
were written these words:
"This evening May 24th. Demonstration.--Faubourg du Temple.--Watch
events, under orders of A. M. Bid the youngest member take that first
opportunity to test nerves and discretion. He is not to act, but to
observe."
No name was appended to this instruction, but a cipher intelligible to
all members of the Council as significant of its president, Jean Lebeau.
"If I err not," said the Italian, "Citizen Rameau is our youngest
confrere."
Rameau paused. The penalties for disobedience to an order of the
President of the Council were too formidable to be disregarded. There
could be no doubt that,--though his name was not mentioned, he, Rameau,
was accurately designated as the youngest member of the Council. Still,
however he might have owed his present position to the recommendation of
Lebeau, there was nothing in the conversation of M. de Mauleon which
would warrant participation in a popular _emeute_ by the editor of a
journal belonging to that mocker of the mob. Ah! but--and here again he
glanced over the paper--he was asked "not to act; but to observe." To
observe was the duty of a journalist. He might go to the demonstration
as De Mauleon confessed he had gone to the Communist Club, a
philosophical spectator.
"You do not disobey this order?" said the Pole, crossing his arms.
"I shall certainly go into the Faubourg du Temple this evening," answered
Rameau, drily, "I have business that way."
"Bon!" said the Pole; "I did not think you would fail us, though you do
edit a journal which says not a word on the duties that bind the French
people to the resuscitation of Poland."
"And is not pronounced in decided accents upon the cause of the human
race," put in the Italian, whispering.
"I do not write the political articles in Le Seas Commun," answered
Rameau; "and I suppose that our president is satisfied with them since he
recommended me to the preference of the person who does. Have you more
to say? Pardon me, my time is precious, for it does not belong to me."
"Eno'!" said the Italian, "we will detain you no longer." Here, with a
bow and a smile, he glided towards the door.
"Confrere," muttered the Pole, lingering, "you must have become very
rich!--do not forget the wrongs of Poland--I am their Representative--I
--speaking in that character, not as myself individually--I have not
breakfasted!"
Rameau, too thoroughly Parisian not to be as lavish of his own money as
he was envious of another's, slipped some pieces of gold in the Pole's
hand. The Pole's bosom heaved with manly emotion: "These pieces bear the
effigies of the tyrant--I accept them as redeemed from disgrace by their
uses to Freedom."
"Share them with Signor Raselli in the name of the same cause," whispered
Rameau, with a smile he might have plagiarised from De Mauleon.
The Italian, whose ear was inured to whispers, heard and turned round as
he stood at the threshold.
"No, confrere of France--no, confrere of Poland--I am Italian. All ways
to take the life of an enemy are honourable--no way is honourable which
begs money from a friend."
An hour or so later, Rameau was driven in his comfortable coupe to the
Faubourg du Temple.
Suddenly, at the angle of a street, his coachman was stopped--a rough-
looking man appeared at the door--__"Descends, mon petit bourgeois__."
Behind the rough-looking man were menacing faces.
Rameau was not physically a coward--very few Frenchmen are, still fewer
Parisians; and still fewer no matter what their birthplace, the men whom
we call vain--the men who over-much covet distinction, and over-much
dread reproach.
"Why should I descend at your summons?" said Rameau, haughtily. "Bah!
Coachman, drive on!"
The rough-looking man opened the door, and silently extended a hand to
Rameau, saying gently: "Take my advice, _mon bourgeois_. Get out--we
want your carriage. It is a day of barricades--every little helps, even
your coupe!"
While this man spoke others gesticulated; some shrieked out, "He is an
employer! he thinks he can drive over the employed!"
Some leader of the crowd--a Parisian crowd always has a classical leader,
who has never read the classics--thundered forth, "Tarquin's car! Down
with Tarquin!" Therewith came a yell, "_A la lanterne_--Tarquin!"
We Anglo-Saxons, of the old country or the new, are not familiarised to
the dread roar of a populace delighted to have a Roman authority for
tearing us to pieces; still Americans know what is Lynch law. Rameau was
in danger of Lynch law, when suddenly a face not unknown to him
interposed between himself and the rough-looking man.
"Ha!" cried this new comer, "my young confrere, Gustave Rameau, welcome!
Citizens, make way. I answer for this patriot--I, Armand Monnier. He
comes to help use! Is this the way you receive him?" Then in a low
voice to Rameau, "Come out. Give your coupe to the barricade. What
matters such rubbish? Trust to me--I expected you. Hist!--Lebeau bids
me see that you are safe." Rameau then, seeking to drape himself in
majesty,--as the aristocrats of journalism in a city wherein no other
aristocracy is recognised naturally and commendably do, when ignorance
combined with physical strength asserts itself to be a power, beside
which the power of knowledge is what a learned poodle is to a tiger--
Rameau then descended from his coupe, and said to this Titan of labour,
as a French marquis might have said to his valet, and as, when the French
marquis has become a ghost of the past, the man who keeps a coupe says to
the man who mends its wheels, "Honest fellow, I trust you."
Monnier led the journalist through the mob to the rear of the barricade
hastily constructed. Here were assembled very motley groups.
The majority were ragged boys, the _gamins_ of Paris, commingled with
several women of no reputable appearance, some dingily, some gaudily
apparelled. The crowd did not appear as if the business in hand was a
very serious one. Amidst the din of voices the sounds of laughter rose
predominant, jests and _bon mots_ flew from lip to lip. The astonishing
good-humour of the Parisians was not yet excited into the ferocity that
grows out of it by a street contest. It was less like a popular _emeute_
than a gathering of schoolboys, bent not less on fun than on mischief.
But, still, amid this gayer crowd were sinister, lowering faces; the
fiercest were not those of the very poor, but rather of artisans, who,
to judge by their dress, seemed well off of men belonging to yet higher
grades. Rameau distinguished amongst these the _medecin des pauvres_,
the philosophical atheist, sundry young, long-haired artists, middle aged
writers for the Republican press, in close neighbourhood with ruffians of
villainous aspect, who might have been newly returned from the galleys.
None were regularly armed; still revolvers and muskets and long knives
were by no means unfrequently interspersed among the rioters. The whole
scene was to Rameau a confused panorama, and the dissonant tumult of
yells and laughter, of menace and joke, began rapidly to act on his
impressionable nerves. He felt that which is the prevalent character of
a Parisian riot--the intoxication of an impulsive sympathy; coming there
as a reluctant spectator, if action commenced he would have been borne
readily into the thick of the action--he could not have helped it;
already he grew impatient of the suspense of strife. Monnier having
deposited him safely with his back to a wall, at the corner of a street
handy for flight, if flight became expedient, had left him for several
minutes, having business elsewhere. Suddenly the whisper of the Italian
stole into his ear--"These men are fools. This is not the way to do
business; this does not hurt the robber of Nice--Garibaldi's Nice: they
should have left it to me."
"What would you do?"
"I have invented a new machine," whispered the Friend of humanity; "it
would remove all at one blow--lion and lioness, whelp and jackals--and
then the Revolution if you will! not this paltry tumult. The cause of
the human race is being frittered away. I am disgusted with Lebeau.
Thrones are not overturned by _gamins_."
Before Rameau could answer, Monnier rejoined him. The artisan's face was
overcast--his lips compressed, yet quivering with indignation.
"Brother," he said to Rameau, "to-day the cause is betrayed"--(the word
_trahi_ was just then coming into vogue at Paris)--"the blouses I counted
on are recreant. I have just learned that all is quiet in the other
_quartiers_ where the rising was to have been simultaneous with this. We
are in a _guet-apens_--the soldiers will be down on us in a few minutes;
hark! don't you hear the distant tramp? Nothing for us but to die like
men. Our blood will be avenged later. Here," and he thrust a revolver
into Rameau's hand. Then with a lusty voice that rang through the crowd,
he shouted "_Vive le peuple_!" The rioters caught and re-echoed the cry,
mingled with other cries,' "_Vive la Republique_!" "_Vive le drapeau
rouge_!"
The shouts were yet at their full when a strong hand grasped Monnier's
arm, and a clear, deep, but low voice thrilled through his ear: "Obey!
I warned you. No fight to-day. Time not ripe. All that is needed is
done--do not undo it. Hist! the _sergens de ville_ are force enough to
disperse the swarm of those gnats. Behind the _sergens_ come soldiers
who will not fraternise. Lose not one life to-day. The morrow when we
shall need every man--nay, every _gamin_--will dawn soon. Answer not.
Obey!" The same strong hand quitting its hold on Monnier, then seized
Rameau by the wrist, and the same deep voice said, "Come with me."
Rameau, turning in amaze, not unmixed with anger, saw beside him a tall
man with sombrero hat pressed close over his head, and in the blouse of a
labourer, but through such disguise he recognized the pale grey whiskers
and green spectacles of Lebeau. He yielded passively to the grasp that
led him away down the deserted street at the angle.
At the further end of that street, however, was heard the steady thud of
hoofs.
"The soldiers are taking the mob at its rear," said Lebeau, calmly; "we
have not a moment to lose--this way," and he plunged into a dismal court,
then into a labyrinth of lanes, followed mechanically by Rameau. They
issued at last on the Boulevards, in which the usual loungers were
quietly sauntering, wholly unconscious of the riot elsewhere. "Now, take
that _fiacre_ and go home; write down your impressions of what you have
seen, and take your MS. to M. de Mauleon." Lebeau here quitted him.
Meanwhile all happened as Lebeau had predicted. The _sergens de ville_
showed themselves in front of the barricades, a small troop of mounted
soldiers appeared in the rear. The mob greeted the first with yells and
a shower of stones; at the sight of the last they fled in all directions;
and the _sergens de ville_, calmly scaling the barricades, carried off in
triumph, as prisoners of war, 4 gamins, 3 women, and 1 Irishman loudly
protesting innocence, and shrieking "Murther!" So ended the first
inglorious rise against the plebiscite and the Empire, on the 14th of
May, 1870.
From Isaura Cicogna to Madame de Grantmesnil.
Saturday. May 21.
"I am still, dearest Eulalie, under the excitement of impressions wholly
new to me. I have this day witnessed one of those scenes which take us
out of our private life, not into the world of fiction, but of history,
in which we live as in the life of a nation. You know how intimate I
have become with Valerie Duplessis. She is in herself so charming in her
combination of petulant wilfulness and guileless _naivete_, that she
might sit as a model for one of your exquisite heroines. Her father, who
is in great favour at Court, had tickets for the _Salle des Etats_ of the
Louvre today--when, as the journals will tell you, the results of the
_plebiscite_ were formally announced to the Emperor--and I accompanied
him and Valerie. I felt, on entering the hall, as if I had been living
for months in an atmosphere of false rumours, for those I chiefly meet in
the circles of artists and men of letters, and the wits and _flaneurs_
who haunt such circles, are nearly all hostile to the Emperor. They
agree, at least, in asserting the decline of his popularity--the failure
of his intellectual powers; in predicting his downfall--deriding the
notion of a successor in his son. Well, I know not how to reconcile
these statements with the spectacle I have beheld to-day.
"In the chorus of acclamation amidst which the Emperor entered the hall,
it seemed as if one heard the voice of the France he had just appealed
to. If the Fates are really weaving woe and shame in his woof, it is in
hues which, to mortal eyes, seem brilliant with glory and joy.
"You will read the address of the President of the _Corps Legislatif_;
I wonder how it will strike you! I own fairly that me it wholly carried
away. At each sentiment I murmured to myself, 'Is not this true? and,
if true, are France and human nature ungrateful?'
"'It is now,' said the President, 'eighteen years since France, wearied
with confusion, and anxious for security, confiding in your genuis and
the Napoleonic dynasty, placed in your hands, together with the Imperial
Crown, the authority which the public necessity demanded.' Then the
address proceeded to enumerate the blessings that ensued--social order
speedily restored--the welfare of all classes of society promoted--
advances in commerce and manufactures to an extent hitherto unknown.
Is not this true? and, if so, are you, noble daughter of France,
ungrateful?
"Then came words which touched me deeply--me, who, knowing nothing of
politics, still feel the link that unites Art to Freedom: 'But from the
first your Majesty has looked forward to the time when this concentration
of power would no longer correspond to the aspirations of a tranquil and
reassured country, and, foreseeing the progress of modern society, you
proclaimed that 'Liberty must be the crowning of the edifice.'' Passing
then over the previous gradual advances in popular government, the
President came to the 'present self-abnegation, unprecedented in
history,' and to the vindication of that plebiscite which I have heard so
assailed--viz., Fidelity to the great principle upon which the throne was
founded, required that so important a modification of a power bestowed by
the people should not be made without the participation of the people
themselves. Then, enumerating the millions who had welcomed the new form
of government--the President paused a second or two, as if with
suppressed emotion--and every one present held his breath, till, in a
deeper voice, through which there ran a quiver that thrilled through the
hall, he concluded with--'France is with you; France places the cause of
liberty under the protection of your dynasty and the great bodies of the
State.' Is France with him? I know not; but if the malcontents of
France had been in the hall at that moment, I believe they would have
felt the power of that wonderful sympathy which compels all the hearts in
great audiences to beat in accord, and would have answered, 'It is true.'
"All eyes now fixed on the Emperor, and I noticed few eyes which were not
moist with tears. You know that calm unrevealing face of his--a face
which sometimes disappoints expectation. But there is that in it which I
have seen in no other, but which I can imagine to have been common to the
Romans of old, the dignity that arises from self-control--an expression
which seems removed from the elation of joy, the depression of sorrow--
not unbecoming to one who has known great vicissitudes of Fortune, and is
prepared alike for her frowns or her smiles.
"I had looked at that face while M. Schneider was reading the address--
it moved not a muscle, it might have been a face of marble. Even when at
moments the words were drowned in applause and the Empress, striving at
equal composure, still allowed us to see a movement of her eye lids, a
tremble on her lips. The boy at his right, heir to his dynasty, had his
looks fixed on the President, as if eagerly swallowing each word in the
address, save once or twice, when he looked around the hall curiously,
and with a smile as a mere child might look. He struck me as a mere
child. Next to the Prince was one of those countenances which once seen
are never to be forgotten--the true Napoleonic type, brooding,
thoughtful, ominous, beautiful. But not with the serene energy that
characterises the head of the first Napoleon when Emperor, and wholly
without the restless eagerness for action which is stamped in the lean
outline of Napoleon when First Consul: no--in Prince Napoleon there is a
beauty to which, as woman, I could never give my heart--were I a man, the
intellect that would not command my trust. But, nevertheless, in beauty,
it is signal, and in that beauty the expression of intellect is
predominant.
"Oh, dear Eulalie, how I am digressing! The Emperor spoke--and believe
me, Eulalie, whatever the journals or your compatriots may insinuate,
there is in that man no sign of declining intellect or failing health.
I care not what may be his years, but that man is in mind and in health
as young as Caesar when he crossed the Rubicon.
"The old cling to the past--they do not go forward to the future. There
was no going back in that speech of the Emperor. There was something
grand and something young in the modesty with which he put aside all
references to that which his Empire had done in the past, and said with a
simple earnestness of manner which I cannot adequately describe--
"'We must more than ever look fearlessly forward to the future. Who can
be opposed to the progressive march of a regime founded by a great people
in the midst of political disturbance, and which now is fortified by
liberty?'
"As he closed, the walls of that vast hall seemed to rock with an
applause that must have been heard on the other side of the Seine.
"'Vive l'Empereur!'" "'Vive l'Imperatrice!'" "'Vive le Prince
Imperial!'"--and the last cry was yet more prolonged than the others,
as if to affirm the dynasty.
"Certainly I can imagine no Court in the old days of chivalry more
splendid than the audience in that grand hall of the Louvre. To the
right of the throne all the ambassadors of the civilised world in the
blaze of their rich costumes and manifold orders. In the gallery at the
left, yet more behind, the dresses and jewels of the dames d'honneur and
of the great officers of State. And when the Empress rose to depart,
certainly my fancy cannot picture a more queenlike image, or one that
seemed more in unison with the representation of royal pomp and power.
The very dress, of colour which would have been fatal to the beauty of
most women equally fair--a deep golden colour--(Valerie profanely called
it buff)--seemed so to suit the splendour of the ceremony and the day; it
seemed as if that stately form stood in the midst of a sunlight reflected
from itself. Day seemed darkened when that sunlight passed away.
"I fear you will think I have suddenly grown servile to the gauds and
shows of mere royalty. I ask myself if that be so--I think not. Surely
it is a higher sense of greatness which has been impressed on me by the
pageant of to-day I feel as if there were brought vividly before me the
majesty of France, through the representation of the ruler she has
crowned.
"I feel also as if there, in that hall, I found a refuge from all the
warring contests in which no two seem to me in agreement as to the sort
of government to be established in place of the present. The 'Liberty'
clamoured for by one would cut the throat of the 'Liberty' worshipped by
another.
"I see a thousand phantom forms of LIBERTY--but only one living symbol of
ORDER--that which spoke from a throne to-day."
Isaura left her letter uncompleted. On the following Monday she was
present at a crowded soiree given by M. Louvier. Among the guests were
some of the most eminent leaders of the Opposition, including that
vivacious master of sharp sayings, M. P-------, whom Savarin entitled
"the French Sheridan;" if laws could be framed in epigrams he would be
also the French Solon.
There, too, was Victor de Mauleon, regarded by the Republican party with
equal admiration and distrust. For the distrust, he himself pleasantly
accounted in talk with Savarin.
"How can I expect to be trusted? I represent 'Common Sense;' every
Parisian likes Common Sense in print, and cries '_Je suis trahi_' when
Common Sense is to be put into action."
A group of admiring listeners had collected round one (perhaps the most
brilliant) of those oratorical lawyers by whom, in France, the respect
for all laws has been so often talked away: he was speaking of the
Saturday's ceremonial with eloquent indignation. It was a mockery to
France to talk of her placing Liberty under the protection of the Empire.
There was a flagrant token of the military force under which civil
freedom was held in the very dress of the Emperor and his insignificant
son: the first in the uniform of a General of Division; the second,
forsooth, in that of a _sous-lieutenant_. The other liberal chiefs
chimed in: "The army," said one, "was an absurd expense; it must be put
down:" "The world was grown too civilised for war," said another: "The
Empress was priest-ridden," said a third: "Churches might be tolerated;
Voltaire built a church, but a church simply to the God of Nature, not of
priestcraft,"--and so on.
Isaura, whom any sneer at religion pained and revolted, here turned away
from the orators to whom she bad before been listening with earnest
attention, and her eyes fell on the countenance of De Mauleon, who was
seated opposite.
The countenance startled her, its expression was so angrily scornful;
that expression, however, vanished at once as De Mauleon's eyes met her
own, and drawing his chair near to her, he said, smiling: "Your look
tells me that I almost frightened you by the ill-bred frankness with
which my face must have betrayed my anger, at hearing such imbecile
twaddle from men who aspire to govern our turbulent France. You remember
that after Lisbon was destroyed by an earthquake a quack advertised
'pills against earthquakes.' These _messieurs_ are not so cunning as
the quack; he did not name the ingredients of his pills."
"But, M. de Mauleon," said Isaura, "if you, being opposed to the Empire,
think so ill of the wisdom of those who would destroy it, are you
prepared with remedies for earthquakes more efficacious than their
pills?"
"I reply as a famous English statesman, when in opposition, replied to a
somewhat similar question,--'I don't prescribe till I'm called in.'"
"To judge by the seven millions and a half whose votes were announced on
Saturday, and by the enthusiasm with which the Emperor was greeted, there
is too little fear of an earthquake for a good trade of the pills of
these _messieurs_, or for fair play to the remedies you will not disclose
till called in."
"Ah, Mademoiselle! playful wit from lips not formed for politics makes
me forget all about emperors and earthquakes. Pardon that commonplace
compliment--remember I am a Frenchman, and cannot help being frivolous."
"You rebuke my presumption too gently. True, I ought not to intrude
political subjects on one like you--I understand so little about them--
but this is my excuse, I do so desire to know more."
M. de Mauleon paused, and looked at her earnestly with a kindly, half
compassionate look, wholly free from the impertinence of gallantry.
"Young poetess," he said, softly, "you care for politics. Happy, indeed,
is he--and whether he succeed or fail in his ambition abroad, proud
should he be of an ambition crowned at home--he who has made you desire
to know more of politics!"
The girl felt the blood surge to her temples. How could she have been so
self-confessed? She made no reply, nor did M. de Mauleon seem to expect
one; with that rare delicacy of high breeding which appears in France to
belong to a former generation, he changed his tone, and went on as if
there had been no interruption to the question her words implied.
"You think the Empire secure--that it is menaced by on earthquake? You
deceive yourself. The Emperor began with a fatal mistake, but a mistake
it needs many years to discover. He disdained the slow natural process
of adjustment between demand and supply--employer and workmen. He
desired--no ignoble ambition--to make Paris the wonder of the world,
the eternal monument of his reign. In so doing, he sought to create
artificial modes of content for revolutionary workmen. Never has any
ruler had such tender heed of manual labour to the disparagement of
intellectual culture. Paris is embellished; Paris is the wonder of the
world; other great towns have followed its example; they, too, have their
rows of palaces and temples. Well, the time comes when the magician can
no longer give work to the spirits he raises; then they must fall on him
and rend: out of the very houses he built for the better habitation of
workmen will flock the malcontents who cry, 'Down with the Empire!' On
the 21st of May you witnessed the pompous ceremony which announces to the
Empire a vast majority of votes, that will be utterly useless to it
except as food for gunpowder in the times that are at hand. Seven days
before, on the 14th of May, there was a riot in the Faubourg d'Temple--
easily put down--you scarcely hear of it. That riot was not the less
necessary to those who would warn the Empire that it is mortal. True,
the riot disperses--but it is unpunished; riot unpunished is a revolution
begun. The earthquake is nearer than you think; and for that earthquake
what are the pills you quacks advertise? They prate of an age too
enlightened for war; they would mutilate the army--nay, disband it if
they could--with Prussia next door to France. Prussia, desiring, not
unreasonably, to take that place in the world which France now holds,
will never challenge France; if she did, she would be too much in the
wrong to find a second: Prussia knowing that she has to do with the
vainest, the most conceited, the rashest antagonist that ever flourished
a rapier in the face of a _spadassin_--Prussia will make France challenge
her.
"And how do _ces messieurs_ deal with the French army? Do they dare to
say to the ministers, 'Reform it'? Do they dare say, 'Prefer for men
whose first duty it is to obey, discipline to equality--insist on the
distinction between the officer and the private, and never confound it;
Prussian officers are well-educated gentlemen, see that yours are'? Oh
no; they are democrats too stanch not to fraternise with an armed mob;
they content themselves with grudging an extra sou to the Commissariat,
and winking at the millions fraudulently pocketed by some 'Liberal
contractor.' _Dieu des dieux_! France to be beaten, not as at Waterloo
by hosts combined, but in fair duel by a single foe! Oh, the shame! the
shame! But as the French army is now organised, beaten she must be, if
she meets the march of the German."
"You appal me with your sinister predictions," said Isaura; "but,
happily, there is no sign of war. M. Duplessis, who is in the confidence
of the Emperor, told us only the other day that Napoleon, on learning the
result of the plebiscite, said: 'The foreign journalists who have been
insisting that the Empire cannot coexist with free institutions, will no
longer hint that it can be safely assailed from without.' And more than
ever I may say _L'Empire c'est la paix_!"
Monsieur de Mauleon shrugged his shoulders. "The old story--Troy and the
wooden horse."
"Tell me, M. de Mauleon, why do you, who so despise the Opposition, join
with it in opposing the Empire?"
"Mademoiselle, the Empire opposes me; while it lasts I cannot be even a
_Depute_; when it is gone, Heaven knows that I may be, perhaps Dictator;
one thing, you may rely upon, that I would, if not Dictator myself,
support any man who was better fitted for that task."
"Better fitted to destroy the liberty which he pretended to fight for."
"Not exactly so," replied M. de Mauleon, imperturbably--"better fitted to
establish a good government in lieu of the bad one he had fought against,
and the much worse governments that would seek to turn France into a
madhouse, and make the maddest of the inmates the mad doctor!" He turned
away, and here their conversation ended.
But it so impressed Isaura, that the same night she concluded her letter
to Madame de Grantmesnil, by giving a sketch of its substance, prefaced
by an ingenuous confession that she felt less sanguine confidence in the
importance of the applauses which had greeted the Emperor at the
Saturday's ceremonial, and ending thus: "I can but confusedly transcribe
the words of this singular man, and can give you no notion of the manner
and the voice which made them eloquent. Tell me, can there be any truth
in his gloomy predictions? I try not to think so, but they seem to rest
over that brilliant hall of the Louvre like an ominous thunder-cloud."
