7.
While life was being arranged in the great palace and everyone settling down as if he were to stay there for a month instead of three days; while the head of the kitchens, acting under the inspiration of the head of the ceremonial department, was cudgelling his brains to bring his menus into harmony with politics by introducing subtle alliances of French and Russian dishes; while the musicians were tuning their violins for the "gala" concert of the evening and Mme. Bartet, that divine actress, preparing to utter, in her entrancing voice, M. Edmund Rostand's famous lines beginning, "Oh! Oh! Voici une impératrice!"[3] while the Tsaritsa, at first a little lost amid these new surroundings, found a friend in the Marquise de Montebello, our agreeable ambassadress in St. Petersburg, of whom people used to say that she justified Turgenev's epigram when he declared that, wherever you see a Frenchwoman, you see all France; while the most complete serenity seemed to reign among the inhabitants of the château, a solemn question was stirring all men's minds. Would the Tsar go to Paris? As it was, the people of Paris were disappointed because the reception had not been held in the capital, as in 1896; would he give it the compensation of a few hours' visit? A special train was awaiting, with steam up, in the station at Compiègne; long confabulations took place between the Emperor and M. Waldeck-Rousseau; a luncheon was prepared at the Élysée with a view to the entertainment of an illustrious guest; secret orders were given to the police. In short, nobody doubted that Nicholas II intended to carry out a plan which everybody ascribed to him.
Nothing came of it. The Tsar did not go to Paris.
This sudden change of purpose was interpreted in different ways. Some people pretended that the prime minister was at the bottom of it, M. Waldeck-Rousseau having declared that he could not answer for the Emperor's safety in view of the inadequate nature of the preparations. In reality, we never learnt the true reasons; and I have often asked myself whether this regrettable decision should not be attributed to the influence of "Philippe."
Who was "Philippe"? A strange, disconcerting being, who had something of the quack about him and something of the prophet and who followed the Tsar like a shadow.
His story was an astounding one from start to finish. He was a native of Lyons—a Frenchman, therefore—who pretended, with the assistance of mystical practices and of inner voices which he summoned forth and consulted, to be able to cure maladies, to forestall dangers, to foresee future events. He gave consultations and wrote prescriptions, for he did not reject the aid of science. And, as he came within the law which forbids the illegal practice of medicine, he hit upon the obvious expedient of marrying his daughter to a doctor, who acted as his man of straw. His waiting-room was never empty from the day when the Grand-duke Nicholas Michaelovitch, chancing to pass through Lyons and to hear of this mysterious personage, thought that he would consult him about his rheumatism. What happened? This much is certain, that the grand-duke, on returning to Russia, declared that Philippe had cured him as though by magic and that he possessed the power not only of driving out pain, but of securing the fulfilment of every wish. The Emperor, at that time, was longing for an heir. Greatly impressed by his cousin's stories and by his profound conviction, he resolved to summon the miracle-monger to St. Petersburg. This laid the foundation of Philippe's fortunes. Admirably served by his lucky star, highly intelligent, gifted with the manners of an apostle and an appearance of absolute disinterestedness, he gradually succeeded in acquiring a considerable hold not only on the imperial family, but on the whole court. People began to believe very seriously in his supernatural powers. Made much of and respected, he had free access to the sovereigns and ended by supplanting both doctors and advisers. He also treated cases at a distance, by auto-suggestion. Whenever he obtained leave to go home on a visit, he kept up with his illustrious clients an exchange of telegrams that would tend to make us smile, if they did not stupefy us at the thought of so much credulity. Thus, a given person of quality would wire:
"Suffering violent pains head entreat give relief."
Whereupon Philippe would at once reply:
"Have concentrated thought on pain; expect cure between this and five o'clock to-morrow."
This is not an invention: I have seen the telegrams.
For people to have so blind a faith in his mediation, he must obviously have effected a certain number of cures. As a matter of fact, I believe that the power of the will is such that, in certain affections which depended partly upon the nervous system, he succeeded in suggesting to a patient that he was not and could not be ill.
However, what was bound to happen, happened. His star declined from the day when people became persuaded that he was not infallible. The Tsar's set precipitated his disgrace when the Tsaritsa brought another daughter into the world, instead of the promised son. One fine day, Philippe went back to Lyons for good; he died there a few years ago. And, in the following year, the mighty empire had an heir!
At the time of the visit of the sovereigns to Compiègne, he was still at the height of his favour. He accompanied our imperial hosts; and his presence at the château surprised us as much as anything. In fact, like the Doge of Venice who came to Versailles under Louis XIV, he himself might have said:
"What astonishes me most is to see myself here!"
But Philippe was astonished at nothing. Anxious to retain his personality in the midst of that gold-laced crowd, he walked about the apartments in a grey suit and brown shoes; on the first day, he was within an ace of being arrested; we took him for an anarchist!
Our extreme distrust, to which the unfortunate Philippe nearly fell a victim, was only too well justified. I believe that I am not guilty of an indiscretion—for the memorable events of 1901 are now a matter of history—when I say to-day that there was an attempt, an attempt of which our guests never heard, because a miraculous accident enabled us to defeat its execution in the nick of time.
It was in the cathedral of Rheims that the criminal effort was to be accomplished during the visit of the sovereigns, who had expressed a desire to see the inside of that exquisite fabric. On learning of Their Majesties' intention, our colleagues of the Russian police displayed the greatest nervousness:
"Nothing could be easier," they told us, a few days before the visit, "than for a Terrorist to deposit a bomb in some dark place, under a chair, behind a confessional, or at the foot of a statue. The interior of the cathedral must be watched from this moment, together with the people who enter it."
Although we had already thought of this, they decided, on their part, to entrust this task to an "informer"—in other words, a spy—of Belgian nationality, who had joined the Russian detective-service. Hennion, who was always prudent, hastened, in his turn, to set a watch on the "informer." Twenty-four hours later, one of his men came to see him in a great state of fright:
"M. Hennion," he said, "I have obtained proof that the 'informer' is connected with a gang of Terrorists. They are preparing an attack in the cathedral!"
Hennion did not hesitate for a moment. He hastened to Rheims, instituted a police-search in a room which the "informer" had secretly hired under a false name and seized a correspondence which left no doubt whatever as to the existence of the plot. The "informer" himself was to do the dirty work!
He was at once arrested and pressed with questions:
"I swear that I know nothing about it," he exclaimed, "and that's the plain truth!"
"Very well," said Hennion, who held absolute proof. "Take this man to prison," he ordered, "since he's telling the truth, and drag him back to me when he decides to tell a lie."
The next day, the man confessed.
This was the only tragic episode that occurred during the imperial visit. Nevertheless, in spite of the satisfaction which we had felt at receiving the Tsar and Tsaritsa, we heaved a sigh of relief when, on the following day, we saw the train that was to take them back to Russia steam out of the station.
They were still alive, God be praised! But that was almost more than could be said of us!