[CHAPTER II]
Le Corsaire trial—The Duc d'Orléans as caricaturist—The Tribune trial—The right of association established by jury—Statistics of the political sentences under the Restoration—Le Pré-aux-Clercs
Let us return to the political trials which were a feature of the close of the year 1832. Of course, at this period, a political trial was thought more of than a literary one, and people were much more sure of being acquitted if they had conspired against the Government than if they had conspired against the Academy. The trial of the newspaper Le Corsaire followed that of Le Roi s'amuse, or even, I believe, preceded it. Le Corsaire was then republican; it had given an account of the 5th and 6th of June according to our point of view. It is an odd thing: every newspaper which supported the revolution in politics, supported the statu quo in literature. I will relate, shortly, my quarrel with Carrel. This is how the Corsaire had expressed itself. We quote only the passage which was impeached by the public prosecutor:—
"... The National Guard of the suburbs had arrived, and it was in the actual courtyard of the Tuileries itself that cartridges and brandy were distributed. All at once, the roar of firing was heard on the quai de la Mégisserie, in the rue Saint-Martin, by the Saint-Méry convent and in the rue Montmartre and Saint-Honoré. Soon, cannon intermingled with it, and, during this time, a considerable number of soldiers went to various quarters of the city; the drums beat the invitation to the citizens, but the greater mass of them listened unheeding and declined Civil War. One part of the city was barricaded. A royal parade had taken place. The King of the French and his son the Duc de Nemours, accompanied by M. de Montalivet, sword in hand, and by M. d'Argout, provided with the crutch he had not discarded since his last illness, as the ministerial newspapers grotesquely put it, had gone through the boulevards and returned by the quays. More than fifteen hundred cavalry escorted the king. Meantime, blood was shed in the quartier Saint-Martin. The National Guard of the district showed an excitement of which it was difficult thoroughly to understand the cause; the firing did not cease; more than forty thousand men were in action...."
This article was prosecuted for provoking to rebellion. As can be seen, it was not amiably disposed to the July Government, and the question ought, we think, to have been put in an entirely different way. Had the attacked Government the right of defending itself? Without a doubt it had. Had it the right to distribute brandy and cartridges in the Tuileries courtyard? Certainly! Had we not indeed seen M. de Rumigny distributing powder and shot and wine at the Palais-Royal on 31 July and 1 August, on the morning of the parade of Rambouillet? Yes; but then the action was sympathetic and approved, whilst, to-day, there was immense opposition organised against Louis-Philippe, and all his actions were blamed, even those of legitimate defence.... They attacked the king, they attacked the princes, they attacked the ministers: this had all been well done and well received.
Philippon, the witty editor of the Journal four rire, had conceived the idea of depicting Louis-Philippe in the shape of a fear: all the walls of Paris were covered with this grotesque likeness. He published the journal La Caricature, to which Decamps contributed some of his early drawings, and La Caricature was a tremendous success. Everyone, even the Duc d'Orléans, had a hand in it. We know that the prince could draw cleverly and with originality and that he also engraved. I still possess drawings and engravings by him. He was a pupil of Fielding, and drew animals with great skill. One day, an idea for a caricature came into his head, inspired by the daily quips which the Chamber made at his father: it was to draw the king as Gulliver and the deputies as Lilliputians. The king was laid full length asleep, bound and gagged, with all the Lilliputian population about him, taking advantage of his enforced immobility to feel him over and examine him. A host of episodes each funnier than the others sprang out of the first idea. M. Jacques Lefebvre, the banker, was rolling a 5-franc piece towards the effigy of King Louis-Philippe with the same amount of exertion as a wheelwright rolls a wheel. M. Humann, Minister of Finance—so far as I can recollect—at that time, and consequently, supervisor of the excise duties, was plunged up to the knees in the powder so strongly appreciated by Sganarelle, and sneezing fit to shake his head off. M. Ganneron, who had made his fortune in tallow, came forward candle in hand towards the bridge made by Gulliver's half-open breeches, less courageous than the Comte Max Edmond of the Burgraves, and uncertain whether he might venture into the darkness of the cavern. M. Thiers and M. Guizot, who already disputed power between them, had each stretched a rope from the fobs of the king's waistcoat, and advanced each with scales in hand towards the two royal fobs which bore the titles of Ministère de l'intérieur and Ministère des affaires Étrangères; M. Thiers's scales were labelled Libéralisme and M. Guizot's Réaction. M. Mold and M. Dupin were playing on a see-saw. All these Lilliputians were as lifelike as possible. We need not speak of the king, who was eight to ten inches in length and a perfect portrait. But this is the most curious part of the story.
The Duc d'Orléans had obtained his stones from the lithographic office of Motte, father-in-law of our dear friend Achille Devéria. They forgot to say that this piece of lithography, not being intended for the public, did not need to be deposited with the Ministère de l'intérieur: the head workman did the thing in all conscientiousness and sent in a proof to the Ministère de l'intérieur; it was signed F.O., the duke's usual signature, for Ferdinand d'Orléans. It need hardly be said that the print was not only forbidden publication, but taken to the king.
The king recognised his son's signature! We can comprehend the paternal dressing-down His Royal Highness received. Honourable amends were made: the lithographer scratched out the head, and, instead of that of the Chief of the State, put the first head that came into his mind.
In 1834, the Duc d'Orléans gave me two copies of this caricature, one before the head was scratched out and one after; I was stupid enough to let myself be robbed of both. If the Duc d'Orléans were still living, I had only to ask him for others, and I did not then realise the price they were worth. This digression is intended to convey an idea of the sort of opposition that was raised at that period.