Perhaps the Emperor Napoleon suffered some pangs of disappointment. “Austria was his last card,” says M. Rothan, who, from the French standpoint, has so keenly studied the period preceding the war of 1870. He wanted an offensive and defensive alliance, which Austria would not accord, Count von Beust fearing that so grave a fact would never escape the lynx-eyes of Bismarck, who, when it came to his knowledge, would not fail to provoke a war before either ally had fully, or even partially, completed his military preparations, then so much in arrear. Not only were they backward in 1867, but Austria, at all events, was still unprovided in 1870. The Archduke Albrecht, who visited Paris during the month of February of that year, impressed the fact on the Emperor Napoleon. “The story runs,” says M. Rothan, “that, after having quitted the study of his Majesty, the Archduke returned, and; through the half-opened door, exclaimed, ’sire, above all things do not forget, whatever may happen, that we shall not be in a fit state to fall into line before a year.’” Hence, it may well be that the Austrian Chancellor was even then determined, in case of a conflict, to shape his policy in accordance with the first victories; and that the meditations of the Emperor Napoleon, as he re-crossed the Rhine, were tinged with bitter reflections on his political isolation. A little later, when he knew that Bismarck had discovered the drift of the conversation at Salzburg, his anxieties must have become more poignant. That Chancellor, who had secured afresh the goodwill of Russia, and beheld with satisfaction the effect of the Imperial display on Germany, enlarged, in a circular despatch, on the proof thus once more afforded that German national feeling could not endure “the mere notion” of “foreign tutelage” where the interests of the Fatherland were concerned. Germany had a right to mould her own fortunes and frame her own constitution. So that, as Von Buest had foreseen, the dreaded Chancellor had promptly turned to account even the colloquies of Salzburg. “France, with one hand,” he said, “presents us with soothing notes, and with the other permits us to see the point of her sword.” There was no open quarrel between the two antagonists, but each suspected and closely watched the other. M. Rothan, himself a vigilant and zealous official, furnishes an amusing example. In November, 1866, he learned from “a Foreign minister accredited to a South German Court,” what was to him the appalling fact that the Imperial work of mediation at Nikolsburg had been counteracted, “even before it had been sanctioned by the Treaty of Prague.” He referred to the now famous military treaties. M. de X—, his informant, he says, obtained his knowledge of the secret by a sort of inquisitorial method, “a la façon d’un juge d’instruction,” that is, he affirmed the existence of the documents, and thus extorted confessions, express or implied. “The Bavarian Foreign Minister,” he said, blushed; “the Minister of Würtemberg was confused; the Minister of Baden did not deny it, and the Minister of Hesse avowed everything.” Further, M. de X— asserted that, when it was no longer necessary to keep France in good humour, Prussia would enforce the clauses which gave her supreme command, and would bring the Southern armies into harmony with her own organization. Apparently, this authentic information did not obtain a ready belief in the autumn of 1866; but it alarmed and disturbed the French Court, and the public confirmation of the unwelcome report, less than a year afterwards, visible to all men in the actual re-organization of the Southern armies, together with the failure to purchase Luxemburg, still further increased the suspicion, deepened the alarm, and aroused the indignation of the Emperor at the slights inflicted on France, who, as the “predominant” Continental power and the “vanguard of civilization,” always considered that she ought to have her own way.
The Emperor seeks Allies.
In the beginning of 1868 the principal parties were engaged in preparing for a conflict which each considered to be inevitable; and the other Powers, great and small, more or less concerned, were agitated by hopes and fears. Russia desired to recover her freedom of movement in the East, and especially to throw off what Prince Gortchakoff called his “robe de Nessus,” the clause in the treaty of Paris which declared the Euxine to be a neutral sea. Austria aimed at the restoration of her authority in Germany, and was not yet convinced that her path lay eastward. Italy had many longings, but her pressing necessity was to seat herself in the capital of the Cæsars and the Popes, once again occupied by the French, who had re-entered the Papal States to expel the Garibaldians. It was in the skirmish at Mentana that the new breech-loading rifle, the Chassepot, “wrought miracles,” according to General de Failly, and established its superiority over the “needle gun.” Holland, Belgium, and even Switzerland were troubled by the uncertain prospect which the Imperial theory of “large agglomerations” had laid bare; Spain was in the throes of a revolutionary convulsion; and England—she had just mended her constitution, and had begun to look on Continental politics with relative indifference, except in so far as they affected the fortunes of “parties,” and might be used strategically as a means of gaining or holding fast the possession of power. Yet so strained were the relations of France and Prussia that General von Moltke actually framed, in the spring of 1868, the plan of campaign which he literally carried out in 1870—a fact implying that even then he considered that his Government was sufficiently prepared to encounter the new and imperfectly developed scheme of army organization and armament originally devised by the Emperor and Marshal Niel, and modified to satisfy the objections and suspicions raised in a deferential Senate and an obliging Chamber of Deputies. For while the Opposition distrusted the Emperor, the whole body shrank from the sacrifices which Cæsar and his Minister of War considered necessary to the safety of the State from a defensive, and absolutely indispensable from an offensive point of view. The prime actors in the drama expressed a love of peace, perhaps with equal sincerity: but as Germany thirsted for unity, all the more because France, true to her traditional policy, forbad it, the love so loudly avowed could not be gratified unless Germany submitted, or France ceased to dictate. “I did not share the opinion of those politicians,” said Bismarck in July, 1870, “who advised me not to do all I could to avoid war with France because it was inevitable. Nobody,” he added, “can exactly foresee the purposes of Divine Providence in the future; and I regard even a victorious war as an evil from which statesmanship should strive to preserve nations. I could not exclude from my calculations the possibility that chances might accrue in France’s constitution and policy which might avert the necessity of war from two great neighbour races—a hope in connection with which every postponement of a rupture was so much to the good.” The language is a little obscure, but the meaning will be grasped when it is remembered that his remark on the “chances” referred to the probable grant of increased freedom to the French Parliament, which he thought would fetter the Court and thwart the politicians. That forecast was not justified by the event, since it was the partially-liberated Chamber and the Liberal Ministry which so hastily sanctioned the declaration of war. The truth is, however, that each rival nationality inherited the liabilities contracted in the past. The French had been accustomed for more than two hundred years to meddle directly in Germany and find there allies, either against Austria, Prussia, or England; and the habit of centuries had been more than confirmed by the colossal raids, victories, and annexations of Napoleon I. A Germany which should escape from French control and reverse, by its own energetic action the policy of Henri IV., Richelieu, Louis XIV., his degenerate grandson, Louis XV, and of the great Napoleon himself, was an affront to French pride, and could not be patiently endured. The opposing forces which had grown up were so strong that the wit of man was unable to keep them asunder; and all the control over the issue left to kings and statesmen was restricted to the fabrication of means wherewith to deliver or sustain the shock, and the choice of the hour, if such choice were allowed.
To that end the adversaries had, indeed, applied themselves after the last French failure to obtain any material compensation, not even what M. Rouher called such a rag of territory as Luxemburg. Thenceforth, keeping an eye on Prussia, the French Government sought to gain over Austria and Italy, and form a defensive alliance which, at the fitting moment, might be converted into an offensive alliance strong enough to prevent the accomplishment of German unity, win campaigns, and enable each confederate to grasp the reward which he desired. Carried on during more than two years, the negotiations never got beyond a kind of vague preliminary understanding which signified the willingness of the three Courts to reach a definite, formal treaty if they could. But obstacles always arose when the vital questions lying at the root of the business had to be solved. Italy demanded and Austria was willing that she should have Rome. To that France steadfastly demurred, even down to the last moment, as will presently be seen. Austria also, besides being unready, in a military sense, was visited by the chronic fear that, if she plunged into war against Germany, Russia would at once break into her provinces from Lithuania and the Polish Quadrilateral, and settle the heavy account opened when Prince Schwarzenberg displayed his “immense ingratitude” during the Crimean war. Nor was the Court of Vienna exempt from apprehensions growing out of the possible, even probable conduct of half-reconciled Hungary. Count von Beust also deluded himself with the notion that the Prussian treaties with the South German States were mere “rags of paper,” and nourished the fond belief, except when he had a lucid interval, that the South German people would not fight for the Fatherland. Waiting on Providence, the would-be confederates, at the same time, counted on the fortune of war, arguing that France was certain to win at first, and that one victory under the tricolour would bring the inchoate alliance instantly to maturity, and the armies it controlled into the field. Based on such conjectural foundations, and opposed by such solid obstacles, the grand design was doomed to fail; indeed it never got nearer to completion than an exchange of letters by the Sovereigns; grounded on the very eve, and went to pieces on the day of battle.
Diverted from Luxemburg, the French Government did not relax its efforts to pave the way for the annexation of Belgium. During the spring and summer of 1869 a successful effort was made to secure political, commercial, and strategic advantages by obtaining a certain control over the Belgian railways, notably the line which runs from Luxemburg to Liège, and thence to the North Sea ports. These proceedings, of course, did not escape notice at Berlin, where the ends in view were perfectly appreciated; but they form only a petty incident in the great struggle, and can only be mentioned with brevity in order to indicate its growth. It may be stated here that, in 1873, the German Chancellor reversed the process, and secured for his Government the control of the Luxemburg lines. Another railway question which cropped up in May, 1870, was the famous railway which, by means of an ingenious tunnel within the Alps near St. Gothard, placed Germany in direct communication with Italy through neutral territory. Count von Bismarck openly said it was a Prussian interest, and the Northern Confederation paid a part of the cost, which aroused indignation in France. At one moment it seemed possible that this enterprise would serve as a casus belli; but the French Government, after careful deliberation, decided, in June, 1870, that they could not reasonably oppose the project, although it certainly was regarded at the Foreign Office in Paris as a further proof of German antagonism, and a sort of bribe tendered to Italy. Since the beginning of the year France had been in the enjoyment of certain Liberal concessions made by the Emperor, and confirmed, in May, by the famous “plébiscite,” which gave him a majority of more than five millions. Now, although the Emperor’s reflections on this triumphant result of an appeal to universal suffrage were embittered by the knowledge that large numbers of soldiers had helped to swell the million and a half of Frenchmen who voted “No,” still the Foreign Minister and his agents, according to M. Ollivier, were so elated that they exclaimed with pride, “Henceforth, all negotiations are easy to the Government,” since the world thoroughly understood that, for France, peace would never mean “complaisance or effacement.” Yet Prince Napoleon, in his brief sketch of these critical months, says plainly that the Government concerned itself less with foreseeing the political complications which might lead up to war, than with the best mode of proceeding when war arrived. So true is this, that a General was sent to Vienna to discuss the bases of a campaign with the Austrian War Office. But in the spring of 1870 fortune seemed to smile on official France; and on the last day of June M. Ollivier, instructed by the Foreign Minister, considered himself authorized to boast before the admiring Deputies that the peace of Europe had never been less in danger than it was at the moment when he delivered his optimistic declaration. In England, also, the Foreign Secretary could not discern “a cloud in the sky.”
The Hohenzollern Candidature.
One week later, not only M. Ollivier and Lord Granville, but Europe, nay, the whole world, saw plainly enough the signs and portents of discord and convulsion. On the 3rd of July the Duc de Gramont learned from the French Minister at Madrid that Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, with his own full consent, had been selected as a candidate for the vacant throne of Spain, and that, at no distant date, the Cortes would be formally requested to elect him. The French Government quivered with indignation, and the political atmosphere of Paris became hot with rage. Not that the former were unfamiliar with the suggestion. It had been made in 1869, considered, and apparently abandoned. Indeed, the Emperor himself had, at one time, when he failed to obtain the Rhenish provinces, proposed that they should be formed into a State to be ruled by the King of Saxony, and at another, that the Sovereign should be the Hereditary Prince of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen; the very Prince put forward by Marshal Prim. He had been grievously hampered and perplexed in the choice of a Sovereign of Spain by some Powers, especially by France; but now the Imperial Government turned the whole tide of its resentment, not upon Madrid, but Berlin, which, it was assumed, aimed at establishing an enemy to France beyond the Pyrenees. Explanations were demanded directly from the Prussian Government, but M. Le Sourd, the chargé d’affaires, could extract no other answer than this—that the Prussian Government knew nothing about the matter. The Duc de Gramont, who had succeeded Lavalette, in May, as Minister for Foreign Affairs, regarded the statement as a subterfuge, and forthwith determined to fasten on the King a responsibility which he could not fasten on the Government. The Duc de Gramont was not a wise counsellor; he was deep in negotiations having for their object an offensive and defensive alliance against Prussia, and he was hardly less moved by a noisy external opinion than by his own political passions. He ordered M. Benedetti, who had only just sought repose at Wildbad, to betake himself at once to Ems, whither King William, according to custom, had repaired to drink the waters. The French Ambassador reached the pleasant village on the Lahn late at night on the 8th of July, and the next day began a series of interviews with the King, which take rank among the most curious examples of diplomacy recorded in history.
Before the ambassador could commence his singular task, an event had occurred in Paris which seemed to render a war unavoidable. The politicians of the French capital had become feverish with excitement. Not only did a species of delirium afflict the immediate advisers of the Emperor, but the band of expectants, who, more ardent Imperialists than he was, still believed that nothing could withstand the French army; while the opposition, loving France not less, but what they called liberty more, were eager to take advantage of an incident which seemed likely to throw discredit on the Bonapartes. Wisdom would have prevented, but party tactics demanded a movement in the Chamber which took the innocent-looking form of an inquiry. The Government dreaded, yet could not evade, the ordeal, and M. Cochery put his question on the 6th of July. Had the Duc de Gramont been a clever Minister, or had he represented a Government strongly rooted in the national respect and affection, he would have been able to deliver a colourless response, if he could not have based a refusal to answer upon public grounds. The truth is, he was carried off his feet by the sudden storm which raged through the journals and society, and it may be surmised that, even then, despite the plébiscite, fears for the stability of the dynasty had no small share in determining his conduct. Yet, it must be stated, that he was only one of the Council of Ministers who sanctioned the use of language which read, and still reads, like an indirect declaration of war. After expressing sympathy with Spain, and asserting, what was not true, that the Imperial Government had observed a strict neutrality with regard to the several candidates for the crown, he struck a note of defiance: “We do not believe,” he exclaimed, “that respect for the rights of a neighbouring people obliges us to endure that a foreign State, by placing one of its princes on the throne of Charles V., should be able to derange, to our injury, the balance of power in Europe, and to imperil the interests and honour of France.” The pacific sentences uttered by M. Ollivier on this memorable occasion were forgotten; the trumpet-blast of the Duc de Gramont rang through the world, and still rings in the memory. Prussia was not named by the Minister, but everyone beyond the Rhine knew who was meant by the “German people,” and a “foreign Power;” while, as Benedetti has stated in a private despatch to Gramont, the King deeply felt it as a “provocation.”
Not the least impressive characteristic of these proceedings is the hot haste in which they hurried along. M. Benedetti neither in that respect nor in the swiftness and doggedness which he imparted to the negotiations, is to blame. The impulse and the orders came from Paris; he somewhat tempered the first, but he obeyed the second with zeal, and, without overstepping the limits of propriety in the form, he did not spare the King in the substance of his demands. Nor, in the first instance, were they other than those permitted by diplomatic precedent; afterwards they certainly exceeded these limits. The first was that the King himself should press Prince Leopold to withdraw his consent: indeed, direct him so to do. The answer was that, as King, he had nothing to do with the business; that as head of the Hohenzollern family he had been consulted, and had not encouraged or opposed the wish of the Prince to accept the proffered crown; that he would still leave him entire freedom to act as he pleased, but that his Majesty would communicate with Prince Antoine, the father of Prince Leopold, and learn his opinion. With this reply, unable to resist the plea for delay, the ambassador had perforce to be content. Not so the Imperial Government. The Duc de Gramont sent telegram on telegram to Ems, urging Benedetti to transmit an explicit answer from the King, saying that he had ordered Prince Leopold to give up the project, and alleging, as a reason for haste, that the French could not wait longer, since Prussia might anticipate them by calling out the army. The ambassador, to check this hurry, prudently warned his principals, saying, that if they ostentatiously prepared for war, then the calamity would be inevitable. “If the King,” wrote De Gramont, on the 10th of July, “will not advise the Prince to renounce his design—well, it is war at once, and in a few days we shall be on the Rhine.” And so on from hour to hour. A little wearied, perhaps, by the pertinacity of the ambassador, and nettled by the attempt to fix on him the responsibility for the Spanish scheme, the King at length said that he looked every moment for an answer from Sigmaringen, which he would transmit without delay. It is impossible, in a few sentences, to give the least idea of the terrier-like obstinacy displayed by M. Benedetti in attacking the King. Indeed, it grew to be almost a persecution, so thoroughly did he obey his importunate instructions. At length the King was able to say that Prince Antoine’s answer would arrive on the 13th, and the ambassador felt sure of a qualified success, inasmuch as he would obtain the Prince’s renunciation, sanctioned by King William. But, while he was writing his despatch, a new source of vexation sprang up in Paris—the Spanish Ambassador, Señor Olozaga, announced to the Duc de Gramont the fact that Prince Antoine, on behalf of his son, had notified at Madrid the withdrawal of his pretensions to the crown. It was reasonably assumed that, having attained the object ostensibly sought, the French Government would be well content with a diplomatic victory so decisive, and would allow M. Benedetti to rest once more at Wildbad. He himself held stoutly that the “satisfaction” accorded to the wounded interests and honour of France was not insufficient. The Emperor and the Duc de Gramont thought otherwise, because, as yet, no positive defeat had been inflicted, personally, upon King William. The Foreign Minister, therefore, obeying precise instructions from St. Cloud, directed Benedetti to see the King at once, and demand from him a plain declaration that he would not, at any future time, sanction any similar proposal coming from Prince Leopold. The Duc de Gramont’s mind was so constructed that, at least a year afterwards, he did not regard this demand as an ultimatum! Yet how could the King, and still more Bismarck, take it in any other light? Early on the 13th the King, who saw the ambassador in the public garden, advanced to meet him, and it was there that he refused, point blank, Louis Napoleon’s preposterous and uncalled-for request, saying that he neither could nor would bind himself in an engagement without limit of time, and applying to every case; but that he should reserve his right to act according to circumstances. King William brought this interview to a speedy close, and M. Benedetti saw him no more except at the railway station when he started for Coblenz. Persistency had reached and stepped over the limits of the endurable, and King William could not do more than send an aide-de-camp with a courteous message, giving M. Benedetti authority to say officially that Prince Leopold’s recent resolution had his Majesty’s approval. During the day the ambassador repeated, unsuccessfully, his request for another audience; and this dramatic episode ended on the 13th with the departure of the King, who had pushed courtesy to its utmost bounds.