France in the Nineteenth Century

by Elizabeth Wormeley Latimer

Bismarck and Favre presented a great contrast. Bismarck was then fifty-five years of age; Jules Favre was six years older. Bismarck wore the uniform of a colonel of White Cuirassiers,—a white coat, a white cap, and yellow trimmings. He seemed like a colossus, with his square shoulders and his mighty strength. Jules Favre, on the contrary, was tall and thin, bowed down by a sense of his position, wearing a black frock-coat that had become too wide for him, with his white hair resting on its collar. He was especially urgent that the National Guard in Paris should retain its arms. He consented to the disarmament of the Mobiles and the army, but he said it would be impossible to disarm the National Guard. At length Bismarck yielded this point, but with superior sagacity remarked: "So be it. But believe me you are doing a foolish thing. Sooner or later you will be sorry you did not disarm those unquiet spirits. Their arms will be turned against you."

When the question was raised concerning the indemnity to be paid by Paris, Bismarck said, laughing, that Paris was so great a lady, it would be an indignity to ask of her less than a milliard of francs ($200,000,000). The ransom was finally settled at two hundred millions of francs ($40,000,000).

"The dinner-hour having arrived, the chancellor invited us," says d'Hérisson, "to take seats at his table. Jules Favre, who wanted to write out carefully the notes I had taken, begged to have his dinner sent up to him; so I alone followed the chancellor to the dining-room, where about a dozen military and civil functionaries were assembled, but all were in uniform. The chancellor, who sat at the head of the table, placed me on his right. There was plenty of massive silver, belonging evidently to a travelling case. The only deficiency was in light, the table being illuminated by only two wax candles stuck in empty wine-bottles. This was the only evidence of a time of war."

As soon as the chancellor was seated, he began to eat with a good appetite, talking all the time, and drinking alternately beer and champagne from a great silver goblet marked with his initials. The conversation was in French. Suddenly the chancellor remembered having met M. d'Hérisson eight years before at the Princess Mentzichoff's, and their relations became those of two gentlemen who recognize each other in good society.

The Parisians thought that d'Hérisson had been far too lively on this occasion; but he feels sure that his sprightly talk and free participation in the good things of the table, formed a favorable contrast to the deep depression of Jules Favre at the same board the day before. "M. de Bismarck," he says, "is not at all like the conventional statesman. He is not solemn. He is very gay, and even when discussing the gravest questions often makes jokes, though under his playful sallies gleam the lion's claws."

They talked of hunting. The chancellor related anecdotes of his own prowess, and by the time they returned to Jules Favre, the French aide-de-camp and the Prussian prime minister were on the best terms with each other. But before long the chancellor gave a specimen of the violence of his displeasure. "Three times," says d'Hérisson, "I saw him angry,—once à propos of Garibaldi; once when speaking of the resistance of St. Quentin, an unwalled town, which he said should have submitted at once; and once it was my own fault."

On the table stood a saucer with three choice cigars. The chancellor took it up and offered it to Jules Favre, who replied that he never smoked; "There you are wrong," said Bismarck; "when a conversation is about to take place which may lead to differences of opinion, it is better to smoke. The cigar between a man's lips, which he must not let fall, controls his physical impatience. It soothes him imperceptibly. He grows more conciliatory. He is more disposed to make concessions. And diplomacy is made up of reciprocal concessions. You who don't smoke have one advantage over me,—you are more on the alert. But I have an advantage over you,—you will be more likely than I shall be to lose your self control and give way to sudden impressions."

The negotiation was resumed very quietly. With astonishing frankness the chancellor said simply and plainly what he wanted. He went straight to his point, bewildering Jules Favre, a lawyer by profession, who was accustomed to diplomatic circumlocutions, and was not prepared for such imperious openness.

The chancellor spoke French admirably, "making use," says d'Hérisson "of strong and choice expressions, and never seeming at a loss for a word." But when the subject of Garibaldi and his army came up, his eyes began to flash, and he seemed to curb himself with difficulty. "I intend," he said, "to leave him and his followers out of the armistice. He is not one of your own people. You can very well leave him to me. Our army opposed to him is about equal to his. Let them fight it out between them." Jules Favre replied that this was impossible; for though France had not asked Garibaldi for his services, and had in the first instance refused them, circumstances had made him general-in-chief of a large corps d'armée composed almost entirely of Frenchmen, and to abandon him would be indefensible. Then the anger of the chancellor blazed forth against Garibaldi. "I want to parade him through the streets of Berlin," he cried, "with a placard on his back: 'This is Gratitude!'"

Here d'Hérisson interrupted his burst of anger by picking up the saucer from the table and holding it to his breast as beggars do at the church-doors. The chancellor caught his idea after a moment. He laughed, and Garibaldi, with his corps d'armée, was included in the armistice.