Socially, in fact, “Mulai’s” visit to France is anything but a success. He has been raging against French boots, because, after putting on a pair, they pinched him. He has been cursing French automobiles, because they travel so fast. And he has hurled a French suit of clothes (especially made for him) out of the window, because of the buttons.
“Ah non, c’est trop fort,” cries Hippolyte Durand, as he reads of “Mulai’s” outbursts in the papers. And still greater becomes his indignation, when he comes upon the following statement:—“The situation in Morocco continues serious. The Vled Bu Beker, of the Rehama tribe, is active. The attitude of the Vled Belghina and the Vled Amrane Fukania is threatening. The Hiania tribesmen are gathered at Safrata on the Wed Sebu. At Ben Guerie, Bab Aissa, Suk-el-Arba and——”
“I will read no more; I understand nothing, I am distracted!” cries M. Hippolyte Durand. “Ah, nom d’un nom, what a sinister country is this Morocco!”
Earlier in this paper, I observed that Royal visits to Paris never “vary,” but in one respect this statement requires correction. The most delicate, the most anxious duty of the French Government is to watch over the safety of her illustrious guests. Paris, rightly or wrongly, is alleged to abound with anarchists, fanatics and lunatics. Ask M. Guichard, one of the chiefs of the Criminal Investigation Department: and he will tell you that a Royal visit, if a delight to the public, is a misery and a nightmare to the detective police. The extent, the depth of the misery depends upon the nationality of the monarch. Of course, no fears as to old Sisowath’s safety; and peril for Mulai Hafid, who was nearly always in bed, caused even slighter apprehensions. The kings of Belgium, Sweden and Norway—well, the detective police, although watchful, “breathed” freely and slept of nights when their Majesties came to Paris. But the King of Italy, a hundred thousand precautions; the King of Spain—extraordinary vigilance: and even then a bomb fell within a few yards of the Royal carriage; the Tsar—a state of panic and siege that still haunts me after the interval of eighteen long years. Weeks before his Imperial Majesty’s arrival, Russian detectives descended upon Paris. Together with their French colleagues they searched for conspirators and bombs—even forcing their way into the rooms of the poor Russian girl students of the Latin Quarter, seizing their correspondence, subjecting them to offensive cross-examinations. Still rougher methods with the male students: with Russian plumbers, clerks and mechanics; many were arrested on no evidence as “revolutionaries” and imprisoned (without being allowed to communicate with their friends) until after the Imperial Visitor’s departure. Often, as a result of the raids of the detective police, the poorer Russian residents in Paris were given congé by terrified concierges, and had to take refuge in stifling, common lodging-houses, or seek for shelter on the outskirts of Paris. Meanwhile, Paris was decking herself out with flowers and flags, rehearsing coloured electrical “effects,” setting the supports for the panoramic fireworks, buying up the photographs of the Tsar of All the Russias. But it was a pale, uneasy, harassed-looking Emperor that drove through the splendidly decorated thoroughfares; it was a beautiful, but a sad-faced, Consort who accompanied him; it was cheers all the way; but it was also a detective in plain clothes at one’s elbow, more detectives in corners and doorways, still more detectives on roofs and—I dare say—up chimneys; it was festoons and illuminations and fireworks: but it was also bayonets and sabres; it was the democratic Marseillaise of France and the National Anthem of despotic Russia; it was “Long live the Emperor”; and “Long live the Republic”—but it was an ironical, a pitiable spectacle: this Imperial guest, come on a visit to a friendly country, protected and surrounded by an illimitable, armed bodyguard, as though he were entering—not Paris—but the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Numbers of Russian decorations for the Paris detective police, when the Tsar had departed in safety! Out of prison came the perfectly innocent “revolutionaries”: the Russian girls were permitted to resume their studies in the Latin Quarter... not the silliest little bomb had spluttered, not a seditious cry had been raised... and a high police official of my acquaintance was granted by a grateful Government a prolonged holiday on increased pay. He deserved it. Dark shadows under his eyes, hectic spots in his cheeks, dyspepsia, insomnia, acute neurasthenia: such was his plight after the glorious visit to Paris of the Tsar of All the Russias. To-day, eighteen years later, my detective friend has risen to one of the highest positions at the Sûreté, and he can produce many a decoration or gift awarded him by foreign Royalty, and is particularly proud of a gold watch presented to him by King Edward the Seventh. The late King was so popular in Paris that he was known familiarly and affectionately as “Edouard.” Nevertheless, he was watched over by the private detective police. “Mais oui, we had even to attend to the safety of ‘Edouard,’ the most admirable of kings; he often gave me cigars, and you have already seen the gold watch,” my detective friend recently told me. “We were concerned about the Indians in Paris. Oh, nobody else would have assailed Edouard. As for the Indians, they were kept under observation day and night.” The detective was alluding to the notorious Krishnavarna, who “ran” a scurrilous little newspaper in a house off the Champs Élysées. Odd, sinister-looking Indians (I am still quoting my police friend) called frequently at the place. They remained there for hours and hours: what were they doing? But the police have their eye on them—especially closely and keenly fixed on them now that King George and Queen Mary are about to make their entrance into Paris. Also—so I am informed by the same high detective official—the police have been instructed to beware of the militant Suffragettes. Miss Christabel Pankhurst “under observation”; the comings and goings of her visitors watched and recorded; the lady passengers on the Havre, Dieppe and Calais steamers carefully scrutinised on their arrival; the police actually taught to shout “Votes for Women” in order that they may promptly distinguish that cry in the event of its being uttered! Dear Paris—dear, excitable, incoherent, wonderful, incomparable Paris—into what difficulties as well as delights, into what a whirl of pleasure and confusion, does a Royal visit plunge you!
But, never mind the difficulties, tant pis for the confusion; vivent the more than compensating thrills of emotion and delight. This evening, as I close this paper, Paris is once again shouting: “Vive le Roi” and “Vive la Reine”—shouting herself “hoarse,” so the French and English Press unanimously declare; and the decorations and illuminations of the past have been triumphantly eclipsed, and the State banquets, the reception at the Hôtel de Ville, the gala performance at the Opera, the race-meeting and the military review have surpassed in brilliancy and splendour even the golden ceremonies that solemnised the visit of the Tsar of All the Russias. Very remarkable, too, the State speeches delivered by the President of the Republic and the King of England in the banqueting-hall of the Élysée. Both speeches of unusual length: the old, banal, stilted phrases superseded by a note of eloquent and vigorous sincerity.
As a matter of fact, the reception of his son has excited even higher and livelier enthusiasm than did the official visit of King Edward the Seventh—because he is his son: because, since the year 1904, the entente cordiale has matured and strengthened. At all events, unprecedented things have happened. Until to-day, the French newspapers could scarcely contrive to publish an English word, or name, or sentence without misspelling, mangling or otherwise distorting it. Our Prime Minister used to be “Sir Askit,” whilst our ex-Home Secretary, Mr “Winsy Churkil,” was frequently and severally described as Chief of the Police and—Prefect of the Thames. Vanished, to-day, all those inexactitudes and incoherencies of recent times. Before me, almost surrounding me, spread and bulge a mass of French newspapers of all opinions. But every one of them has become “correct,” impeccable in its English, and right across the top of the front page of Gil Blas, in gigantic characters, the familiar, cordial invitation:
“Shake hands, King George.”