1. M. Loubet and Paul Déroulède
On 16th February 1899, President Faure (known familiarly and gaily in Paris as “Félix”) died suddenly. Two days later the Upper and Lower Chambers, solemnly assembled at Versailles, proclaimed M. Émile Loubet his successor. And now, after seven years in the Élysée, M. Loubet makes way for the eighth President of the Third French Republic and retires into a tranquil, simple appartement.
Seven years ago! But it seems only yesterday that I found myself, one cold, misty afternoon, before the St-Lazare station, where the newly elected President was to arrive. I was eager to witness his début in Paris as Chief of the State. Eager, too, to “receive him” were thousands of Parisians.
But as I surveyed the dense, excited crowd, I gathered at a glance that the reception it reserved for M. Loubet was to be very far from friendly. Here, there and everywhere chattered and whispered the followers of MM. Edouard Drumont, Lucien Millevoye, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin. In full force, too, were the paid hirelings of those notorious agitators; collarless, shabby, unshaven fellows, “Messieurs les Quarante-Sous.” And present again was the “Emperor of the Camelots,” a striking-looking man with long hair, bold, brilliant eyes and a humorous expression; not only the composer and seller of “topical” songs, not only the indefatigable electioneering agent and the ironical pamphleteer, but the ingenious, the illustrious, the incomparable organiser of “popular demonstrations.”
Often did agitators say to the “Emperor”: “I want So-and-so hissed,” or “I want So-and-so cheered.” Obligingly and genially the “Emperor” replied: “Nothing is easier.” And in truth, the operation was simple. The agitator provided the money: and the “Emperor” called together a fine army of manifestants.
Thus the crowd before the St-Lazare station looked threatening on that memorable winter’s afternoon. Of course those garrulous, gesticulating bodies, the “Ligue de la Patrie Française” and M. Paul Déroulède’s “League of the Patriots,” were strongly represented. Inevitably, too, the little, nervous, impetuous policemen of Paris figured conspicuously in the scene. And everyone was restless, everyone was impatient, save the “Emperor of the Camelots,” who, making his way urbanely and imperturbably through the crowd, occasionally spoke a word to his subjects, his army: the shabby, unshaven fellows, Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. No doubt he was asking them whether their voices were in good condition, and whether their whistles were handy. And most probably he was instructing them how to keep out of the clutches of the alert, watchful police.
“À bas Loubet!”
The cry came from the interior of the station. No sooner had it been uttered than the crowd excitedly exclaimed: “He has arrived.”
And then, what a din of shouting, of hissing, of hooting! And then, what a blowing of shrill, piercing whistles! And then, as the Presidential carriage drove away (with M. Loubet seated by the window, pale, grave, dignified, venerable), what a hoarse, violent uproar of “À bas Loubet!” and “Mort aux traîtres!” and “Panama! Panama! Panama!”[9] Not one hat raised to him. Not one cheer given him. Not one courtesy paid him. It was to the ear-splitting notes of whistles, it was to a chorus of calumny and abuse, it was in the midst of a howling, hostile mob, that the new Chief of the State made his début in Paris.
What, it may be asked, was the reason of M. Loubet’s unpopularity? Well, the Dreyfus days had begun: those wild, frenzied days of feuds, duels and hatreds; of frauds, riots and conspiracies, when Parisians allowed themselves to be governed and blinded by their passions and prejudices. M. Loubet was notoriously in favour of granting the unhappy prisoner on the Devil’s Island a new trial. Paris, on the other hand, misled, intimidated, deceived by the Nationalists, was Anti-Dreyfusard. And hence the tempestuous reception—at once spontaneous and “organised”—accorded the new President on his return from Versailles.
However, in the present paper, it is not my intention to examine the political situation in France during the tumultuous winter, summer and autumn of 1899. My aim is to portray certain scenes and to record certain incidents which may convey an idea of the state of Paris in that epoch, and of her attitude towards M. Loubet. And here let me return without further ado to the crowd before the St-Lazare station, where, after the President’s departure, there appeared yet another amazing agitator in the person of M. Déroulède.
He has been likened to—Don Quixote. And it has also been good-humouredly agreed that in his devoted lieutenant, M. Marcel Habert, he possesses an admirable Sancho Panza. For M. Déroulède is an exalté. M. Déroulède is extravagant, theatrical, often absurd: yet with a noble sincerity in him and an attachment to the idea. And as he stood in the thick of the St-Lazare crowd, with his official Deputy’s sash, with his decoration in his button-hole, with fire in his eye, with a flush on his cheeks and with burning “patriotic” utterances on his lips—as he stood there haranguing and gesticulating, M. Paul Déroulède held everyone’s attention. At that moment, he was passionately inviting his hearers to follow him to Joan of Arc’s statue, there to hold a “patriotic” demonstration. Often, he made such a pilgrimage. Often, too, he made pilgrimages to the Strasbourg monument on the Place de la Concorde: and to the cemeteries where rest the “heroic victims” of Germany. There were many who laughed at him, but his courage and honesty no one, not even his adversaries, doubted. He had fought valiantly in the Franco-Prussian War, and ever since that appalling campaign he had looked after the interests of the scrubby little soldier—le pioupiou—and composed songs and poems in his honour. “Vive l’Armée!” and “Vive la France!” were the eternal, emotional cries of M. Déroulède. At his bidding, Paris echoed those cries. And Paris also “supported” him enthusiastically when he made his pilgrimages to the Place de la Concorde, and the cemeteries, and Joan of Arc’s statue; for in what is essential and fine in him, his noble sincerity and devotion to the idea, even when in the wrong, M. Déroulède stands as the outward and visible type of a quality that belongs to the soul and the genius of France.
Well, upon the present occasion, M. Déroulède’s audience was particularly responsive. “Then follow me!” he shouted triumphantly. And so, behold him leading a long, animated procession from the St-Lazare station to the rue de Rivoli. And behold him again, a few minutes later, standing against the railing that encircles “La Pucelle” astride of her horse. And behold his followers—hundreds of them—closely surrounding him, and the police—scores of them—ready to “charge” the crowd at the first outbreak of disorder. But M. Déroulède, unlike the Anti-Semitic Jules Guérin, was no lover of brawls. He wished only to “defend” the “honour of the Army” (which, by the way, had never been assailed). He desired only to point out that France was governed by a number of men who dreamt day and night, dreamt night and day, dreamt always and always of “selling their country to the enemy.” Ah, these abominable, these infamous traitors! Even as he, Paul Déroulède, stood there, at the foot of Joan of Arc’s statue, this sinister, this diabolical Government was plotting the “réhabilitation” of a man—no, a scoundrel—convicted by his own colleagues of treason.
“Citizens, our France, our beloved France, is in danger. Citizens, do your duty. Citizens, drive away the traitors who govern you. Citizens, show your execration of these traitors by crying with me: “Vive l’Armée!” “Vive la France!” “Vive la patrie!”
And again the crowd was responsive. This time, indeed, there were shouts of “Vive Déroulède!” Parisians came running up from neighbouring streets, so that the crowd grew and expanded. On the tops of the omnibuses passengers cheered encouragingly. At every window and on every doorstep stood spectators. In fine, much animation around Joan of Arc’s statue.
“En avant!” cried, martially, our Don Quixote. Warned by the police to be “prudent,” he replied that he was a “patriot,” and hotly demanded that his Deputy’s sash should be respected. Then, placing himself at the head of his followers, he led them triumphantly towards the grands boulevards. Again, “patriotic” cries. Again, fierce denunciations of the “Government of Traitors.”
And, in M. Déroulède’s organ, Le Drapeau, next morning, what an exultant account of M. Loubet’s tempestuous début in Paris, and what a glowing recital of the “grandiose” and “glorious” manifestation held at the foot of Joan of Arc’s gilded statue.
After this we had daily, almost hourly, manifestations. Very affairé, but always urbane and imperturbable, was the “Emperor of the Camelots.” Very active and zealous were Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. And very garrulous, excited and nervous were the Parisians. In cafés they emotionally agreed that the situation was “grave.” In cafés, also, they whispered of plots against the President and the Republic—sensational plots that greatly agitated the Chief of the Police. Yes, M. Lépine was alarmed; M. Lépine had lost his appetite; M. Lépine could not rest at night for thinking of the shoals and shoals of conspirators then present in Paris. A veritable plague of conspirators!
Here, there and everywhere, a conspirator. Who knew: perhaps one’s very neighbour in cafés, trains, omnibuses and trams was a dangerous conspirator? And so, when we spoke of conspirators and conspiracies, we lowered our voices and glanced apprehensively over our shoulders, and were altogether very uneasy, suspicious and mysterious. Heavens, what rumours! And mercy, what an effervescence! Now it was the “agents” of the Bonapartists who were “active.” Anon it was the Orleanists who were “at work.” Next it was the Clericals who were conspiring. And, finally, it was the Militarists, who had actually appointed the day and the hour when they would give a Dictator to France. Already it had been arranged that the Dictator should appear in Paris on a splendid black charger, surrounded by a brilliant, dashing staff. And the Dictator, from his saddle, was eloquently to address the populace. And when the Dictator spoke the sacred name “France,” he was to draw and flourish his sword. And the brilliant staff was to cheer. And the dashing staff was to cry—— No matter: the approaching arrival in Paris of the Dictator and retinue was a secret; only whispered timidly and fearfully amongst us when we felt ourselves secure from conspiring eavesdroppers. Such was the gossip; such was the nervousness. Little wonder, then, that the Chief of the Police passed restless, unhappy nights. Never a moment’s peace, never a moment’s leisure for poor M. Lépine. All around him, conspirators. And before him, at the same time, the task of making preparations for M. Félix Faure’s funeral, which was to be solemn, imposing and magnificent.
And magnificent it was. Almost interminable was the procession that left the Élysée for Notre Dame, to the tragic strains of Chopin’s Funeral March. All along the route, soldiers and policemen. And behind the soldiers and policemen, the people of Paris—men, women and even children—who murmured their admiration at the plumes, at the flowers and at the brilliant uniforms in the cortège. Each foreign Power was imposingly represented. But most imposing of them all were the Emperor William’s envoys: three Prussian officers, veritable giants. Then, mourners from the French Army; mourners from the Chambers; mourners from the Corps Diplomatique; mourners from the Academy and Institute; mourners from every distinguished official, social and artistic sphere. And at the head of all these grand mourners the homely, plainly dressed figure of M. Émile Loubet.
However, one mourner was missing: a friend of the late M. Faure: none other than M. Paul Déroulède. And yet he had deeply deplored the death of the late President, and fiercely denounced the advent of his successor.
But—M. Déroulède was busy. Think: at that moment the Élysée had no master. So, what an opportunity. And as the funeral procession proceeded slowly and solemnly from Notre Dame to the cemetery, M. Déroulède might have been seen in a distant quarter of Paris with his hand on the bridle of General Roget’s horse.
“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.”
Only think of it. There was General Roget with soldiers under his command, who would follow him wherever he led them. And the Élysée—practically—was empty. And thus it was the moment of moments to achieve a brilliant coup d’état.
“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.”
But General Roget refused to turn his horse’s head in the direction of the Élysée. He preferred to return to the barracks with his men, and therefore begged M. Déroulède to release his hold of the bridle.
Manqué, M. Déroulède’s conspiracy. In vain, his tremendous coup d’état. Behold our Don Quixote and his devoted Sancho Panza, in dismay and despair. Behold them some time later on their trial for conspiracy. But behold them acquitted by the jury amidst a scene of the wildest enthusiasm. And hear the joyous, triumphant proclamations that their acquittal was yet another bitter humiliation for M. Loubet.
What insults and what calumnies followed! Every Nationalist organ began a fierce campaign against M. Loubet, accused him of corruption, of every conceivable meanness and crime, and exultantly related how his name was constantly being conspué in Paris. Since it was “seditious” to cry “À bas Loubet,” they cried “Vive l’Armée!” and “Mort aux traîtres,” which M. Lucien Millevoye, Édouard Drumont, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin declared to be the same thing.
Those were the only cries that greeted M. Loubet when he drove out in the Presidential carriage—pale, grave, dignified, venerable. From his native place, the village of Montélimar, came a message imploring him to resign. More hissing and hooting in the streets, but always a calm smile on the President’s kindly face; always that determined, imperturbable expression.
Other “incidents”? Well, for months there was incident after incident: and when Émile Loubet drove to the Longchamps Races surrounded by cavalry, it was stated that he feared assassination. At Longchamps up rushed an elegant young aristocrat with a stick in his hand, and the stick was aimed at the President’s head. It only smashed the President’s hat: but the Nationalists rejoiced. And the elegant young aristocrat was regarded as a hero, and caricaturists always portrayed Émile Loubet with his hat smashed over his head. Came another message from Montélimar, inviting him to accept the public verdict: but came, also, messages of sympathy and esteem from all the Courts in Europe.
And here, passing over other incidents, let me arrive at once at the day when the man in the street began to admire Émile Loubet’s patience, tact, determination, and when he was delighted at the calm, kindly smile; and when—day of days—he said: “Ce bon Loubet,” and then—moment of moments—cried, “Vive Loubet.” A change, a change! Through the streets drove the President, saluting, saluted. Parisians rejoiced to learn that the Tsar had a veritable affection for Émile Loubet, and Parisians were pleased to see him drive across Paris with the King of England, chatting, smiling, laughing. Cordial the shouts of “Vive Loubet.” Cordial the newspaper appreciations of Émile Loubet. And the streets lined to see him take train to London.
In London, scores of journalists accompanying him, and also scores of camelots. Yes, real Paris camelots in Soho, and in the public-houses and little restaurants of Soho, the camelots loud in their praises of Émile Loubet.
Here, there and everywhere the motto: “Entente Cordiale.”
I remember the King of the Camelots telling me in Soho that he and his men had taken a great fancy to Englishmen.
His appreciation was worth having, for he was no enthusiast. Indeed, he had done a great trade some time ago in Anti-English caricatures, toys and post cards. He drank to the entente in a bottle of Bass. He vowed that Bass was better than bock. He paid tributes to roast beef, apple tart and kippers; indeed, regretted with veritable emotion that there were no kippers in France. So kind and affable and flattering was the King of the Camelots that I could write of him for hours. However, I must leave him on the kerbstone in Holborn, shouting: “Vive Loubet,” and waving his hat and receiving (so, at least, he declared afterwards) a special salute from the smiling, delighted President.
Everyone charmed with Émile Loubet, and Émile Loubet charmed with everything. Of course, King and President held little private conversations; it is certain that Lord Lansdowne and M. Delcassé met often and talked long.
Then, Paris again—and crowds in the street once more to shout: “Vive Loubet.” Heavens, what a change since the February afternoon four years ago! To-day, nothing but sympathy and esteem for the President, part author of the Anglo-French Agreement. To-day, nothing but sincere pleasure at the Agreement, which brings together two naturally friendly and sympathetic countries. “Perhaps the most important Treaty ever signed in time of peace,” said an enthusiastic Parisian to me. And then, with equal enthusiasm: “Vive Loubet!”
[9] M. Loubet was Premier and Minister of the Interior at the time of the exposure of the Panama scandal. In November, 1892, he was forced to resign, but retained his post of Minister of the Interior under M. Ribot, the new Premier. Two months later, disgusted by the calumnies of their adversaries in the Chamber, both M. Loubet and his colleague M. de Freycinet (Minister of War) retired.