I found Paris now effervescent and grumbling. The walls were placarded with many-colored posters, and all these posters contained the wildest harangues. Fine, noble ideas were side by side with absurd threats. Workmen, on their way to their daily toil, stopped in front of these bills. One would read aloud, and the gathering crowd would begin the reading over again. And all these human beings, who had just been suffering so much through this abominable war, now echoed these appeals for vengeance. They were very much to be excused. This war, alas! had hollowed out under their very feet a gulf of ruin and of mourning. Poverty had brought the women to rags, the privations of the siege had lowered the vitality of the children, and the shame of the defeat had discouraged the men. Well, these appeals to rebellion, these anarchist shouts, these yells from the crowd, shrieking: “Down with thrones! Down with the Republic! Down with the rich! Down with the priests! Down with the Jews! Down with the army! Down with the masters! Down with those who work! Down with everything!”—all these cries roused the benumbed hearers. The Germans, who fomented all these riots, rendered us a real service without intending it. Those who had given themselves up to resignation were stirred out of their torpor. Others, who were asking for “revenge,” found an aliment for their inactive forces. None of them agreed. There were ten or twenty different parties, devouring each other and threatening each other. It was terrible!
But it was the awakening. It was life after death. I had among my friends about ten of the leaders of different opinions, and all of them interested me, the maddest and the wisest of them. I often saw Gambetta at Girardin’s, and it was a joy to me to listen to this admirable man. What he said was so wise, so well balanced and so captivating! This man with his heavy stomach, his short arms, and huge head, had a halo of beauty round him when he spoke. And he was never common, never ordinary. He took snuff, and the gesture of his hand when he brushed away the stray grains, was full of grace, He smoked huge cigars, but could smoke them without annoying anyone. When he was tired of politics and talked literature, it was a rare charm, for he knew everything and quoted poetry admirably. One evening, after dinner at Girardin’s, we played together the whole of the scene in the first act between Hernani and Doña Sol. He was not handsome, like Mounet-Sully, but he was just as admirable in it.
Another time he recited the whole of “Ruth and Boaz.” But I preferred his political discussions to all that, especially when he criticised the speech of some one whose opinion was opposed to his own. The eminent qualities of this politician’s talent were logic and balance, and his seductive force was chauvinism. The obscure death of so great a thinker is a disconcerting challenge flung at human pride.
I sometimes saw Rochefort, whose wit delighted me. I was not at ease with him, though, for he was the cause of the fall of the Empire, and, although I am very Republican, I liked the Emperor, Napoleon III. He had been too trustful, but very unfortunate, and it seemed to me that Rochefort insulted him too much after his misfortune.
I also frequently saw Paul de Rémusat, the favorite of Thiers. He had great refinement of mind, broad ideas, and fascinating manners. Some people accused him of Orleanism. He was a Republican, and a much more advanced Republican than Thiers. Anyone must have known him very little to believe him anything else but what he said he was. Paul de Rémusat had a horror of untruth. He was sensitive, and had a very straightforward, strong character. He took no active part in politics, except in private circles; and his advice always prevailed, even in the Chamber and in the Senate. He would never speak except in the office. The Ministry of Fine Arts was offered to him a hundred times, but he repeatedly refused it. Finally, after my repeated entreaties, he almost allowed himself to be appointed Minister of Fine Arts, but at the last moment he declined, and wrote me a delicious letter, from which I quote a few passages. As the letter was not written for publication, I do not consider that I have a right to give the whole of it, but there seems to be no harm in publishing these few lines:
Allow me, my charming friend, to remain in the shade. I can see better there than in the dazzling brilliancy of men. You are grateful to me, sometimes, for being attentive to the miseries you point out to me. Let me keep my independence. It is more agreeable to me to have the right to relieve everyone than to be obliged to relieve no matter whom.... In matters of art, I have made for myself an ideal of beauty which would naturally seem too partial....
It is a great pity that the scruples of this delicate-minded man did not allow him to accept this office. The reforms that he pointed out to me were, and still are, very necessary ones. However, that cannot be helped.
I also knew, and frequently saw, a great, foolish fellow full of dreams and Utopian follies. His name was Flourens, and he was tall and nice looking. He wanted everyone to be happy and everyone to have money, and he shot down the soldiers without reflecting that he was commencing by making one or more of them unhappy. Reasoning with him was impossible, but he was charming and brave. I saw him two days before his death. He came to see me with a very young girl, who wanted to devote herself to dramatic art. I promised him to help her. Two days later the poor child came to tell me of the heroic death of Flourens. He had refused to surrender, and, stretching out his arms, and shouted to the hesitating soldiers: “Shoot! shoot! I would not have spared you!” And he had then fallen under the bullets.
Another man, not so interesting, whom I looked upon as a dangerous madman, was a certain Raoul Rigault. For a short time he was Prefect of Police. He was very young and very daring, wildly ambitious, determined to do anything to succeed, and it seemed to him more easy to do harm than good. That man was a real danger. He belonged to that band of students who used to send me verses every day. I came across them everywhere, enthusiastic and mad. They had been nicknamed in Paris “the drivelers.” One day he brought me a little one-act play. This piece was so stupid and the verses so insipid that I sent it back to him with a few words, which he no doubt considered unkind, for he bore me malice for them and attempted to avenge himself in the following way. He called on me one day. Mme. Guérard was there when he was shown in.
“Do you know that I am all-powerful at present?” he said.