THE CAUSES OF THE WAR.
The Treaty of Prague, the secret military conventions signed at Nikolsburg, the ascendancy secured by Von Bismarck, now elevated to the dignity of a Count, together with the complete removal of alien Powers from Italy, wrought a radical change in the political relations of the European States. Excluded from Germany, although including powerful German elements, the dominions of Austria still extended to the verge of Venetia and the Lombard plains; but as the Prussian statesman had already hinted, her future lay Eastward, and her centre of gravity had been removed to Buda-Pesth. In the South German Courts, no doubt, there was a bias towards Vienna, and a dislike of Prussia; yet both the leaning and the repugnance were counterbalanced by a deeper dread of France rooted in the people by the vivid memories of repeated and cruel invasions. Russia, somewhat alarmed by the rapid success of King William, had been soothed by diplomatic reassurances, the tenour of which is not positively known, although a series of subsequent events more than justified the inference made at that time, that promises, bearing on the Czar’s Eastern designs, were tendered and accepted as a valuable consideration for the coveted boon of benevolent neutrality, if not something more substantial. Like Russia, France had lost nothing by the campaign of 1866; her territories were intact; her ruler had mediated between Austria and Prussia; and he had the honour of protecting the Pope, who, as a spiritual and temporal Prince, was still in possession of Rome and restricted territorial domains. But the Napoleonic Court, and many who looked upon its head as a usurper, experienced, on the morrow of Sadowa, and in a greater degree after the preface to a peace had been signed at Nikolsburg, a sensation of diminished magnitude, a consciousness of lessened prestige, and a painful impression that their political, perhaps even their military place in Europe, as the heirs of Richelieu, Louis XIV., and Napoleon, had been suddenly occupied by a Power which they had taught themselves to contemn as an inferior. Until the summer of 1866 the Emperor Napoleon fancied that he was strong enough to play with the Prussian Minister a game of diplomatic finesse; indeed, he seems to have thought that the Pomeranian gentleman would be an easy prey; but having thus put it to the proof, he did not concur in the maxim that it is as pleasant to be cheated as to cheat, especially when the result is chiefly due to complaisant self-deception. On the other hand, Herr von Bismarck had no longer any delusions concerning Louis Napoleon. If, at an early period, when the English Radicals were considering whether the new Emperor was “stupid,” a proposition they had taken for granted theretofore, he had over-estimated the capacity of the self-styled “parvenu,” later experience had reduced the estimate to just proportions, and had produced a correct judgment upon the character of one who, down to the last, was always taken for more than he was worth. If any one knew him well, it was probably his cousin, the Duc de Morny, and M. St. Marc Girardin has preserved a sentence which is an illuminative commentary upon so many curious transactions during the Second Empire. “The greatest difficulty with the Emperor,” said De Morny, “is to remove from his mind a fixed idea, and to give him a steadfast will.” His fixed ideas were not always compatible one with another. He professed great devotion to the “principle of nationalities;” yet he desired to carry the French frontiers as far as the Rhine, adding further German populations and Flemish towns whose inhabitants are not French to those acquired by Louis XIV. He wished for peace, no doubt, when he said that the Empire was synonymous with that word, but he also hungered for the fruits of war; and, knowing that his internal position and his external projects required, to uphold the one and realize the other, a strong and complete army, he had neither the wit to construct a trustworthy instrument, nor the ceaseless industry needed to make the most of an inferior product, nor that absolute independence of the party whose audacity gave him his crown, which would have enabled him to select, in all cases, the best officers for the higher and highest commands. Before, and during the war of 1866, he wavered between two lines of policy, hoping to combine the advantages of both; and when it was over he demanded compensation for his “services” as an alarmed spectator, although he had made no bargain for payment, but had stood inactive because he conjectured that it would be the more profitable course.
French demands for the Rhine.
In making that calculation he erred profoundly. M. Benedetti, the French Ambassador to the Court of Berlin, was instructed as early as the first week in August, 1866, to claim the left bank of the Rhine as far as, and including the important fortress of Mainz. “Knowing the temper of the Minister-President,” and knowing also, as he had repeatedly told his Government, that all Germany would resist any proposal to cede the least portion of territory, he first sent in a copy of M. Drouyn de Lhuys’ despatch, and afterwards called on the Minister. Prince von Bismarck, in 1871, published in the official newspapers his account of the famous interview, which shows that Benedetti, as he had pledged himself to do, resolutely pressed the large demand. He was told that it meant war, and that he had “better go to Paris to prevent a rupture.” Unmoved, he replied that he would return home, “but only to maintain a proposition the abandonment of which would imperil the dynasty.” “The parting words” of the Prussian statesman to Count Benedetti, as nearly as they could be remembered by the man who spoke them, were calculated to suggest grave reflections. “Please to call His Majesty’s attention to this,” said Herr von Bismarck. “Should a war arise out of this complication, it might be a war attended by a revolutionary crisis. In such a case the German dynasties are likely to prove more solid than that of the Emperor Napoleon.” It was a menace and a prophetic warning, which touched a sensitive fibre in the heart of the French ruler, who, after a conversation with Count Benedetti, wrote, on the 12th of August, a remarkable letter to M. de Lavalette, who became the ad interim successor of M. Drouyn de Lhuys. Expressing his fears lest “the journals” should taunt him with the refusal of his demand for the Rhine provinces, he directed that the report should be contradicted, flatly; and he added, “the true interest of France is not to obtain an insignificant increase of territory, but to aid Germany in constituting herself after a fashion which will be most favourable to our interests and those of Europe.” Neither Dodona nor Delphos could have been more oracular. Alarmed as he was, he did not altogether recede from his position, but occupied it in a different way. On the 16th of August a fresh set of proposals was forwarded to Count Benedetti, comprising a regular scale of concessions—the frontiers of 1814 and the annexation of Belgium, or Luxemburg and Belgium, or the Duchy with Belgium, without Antwerp, which was to be “declared a free city.” The last-named device was designed “to obviate the intervention of England” when the projected act of violence was committed. “The minimum we require,” wrote the French Government to M. Benedetti, “is an ostensible treaty which gives us Luxemburg, and a secret treaty which, stipulating for an offensive and defensive alliance, leaves us the chance of annexing Belgium at the right moment, Prussia engaging to assist us, by force of arms, if necessary, in carrying out this purpose.” If Herr von Bismarck asked what he should gain by such a treaty, the answer was to be that he would secure a powerful ally, and that “he was only desired to consent to the cession of what does not belong to him.” The official papers on which these statements are founded were discovered and acquired by the Germans in CerÇay, M. Rouher’s chÂteau, during the war of 1870; neither their authenticity nor the construction put on them have ever been contested; and they show, plainly, what was the kind of projects nourished by the French Court in 1866–67. The precise manner in which Count von Bismarck actually dealt with them has not been revealed, but he kept a rough copy of the project drawn up by Benedetti, which was handed to him by the French Ambassador in 1867, and the boxes of papers found at CerÇay gave him the draft treaty itself annotated by the Emperor. Practically, the secret negotiation dropped, was not renewed for several months, and was only “resumed, subsequently, at various times,” without producing any other result than that of letting Bismarck know the plans which were conceived in Paris, and inducing him to keep the Napoleonic Government in play. There can be no doubt on one point. The Prussian statesman did, at various periods, probably at Biarritz in 1865, when he captivated Prosper MerimÉe, and afterwards, while refusing point-blank to cede an inch of German soil, ask his interested auditors why they could not indemnify themselves by seizing Belgium. But a grim smile of irony must have lighted up his face when he pointed to a prey which would not have to be ceded, but caught and overpowered by main strength. He was tempting, probing, playing with the Frenchman, employing what he called the “dilatory” method, because he wanted time to equip the new and still imperfect Germany; and, considering their own dark schemes, can it be said that they deserved better treatment?
Having direct knowledge of the steps taken by France in August, 1866, the earliest recorded formal attempt to procure secret treaties on the basis of territorial concessions, with what searching comment must Bismarck have read the astonishing diplomatic circular, signed by M. de Lavalette, and sent out on the 2nd of September, at the very time when the dark proceedings just briefly sketched were in full swing! It was a despatch framed for public consumption, and intended to present the Imperial policy in a broad, generous, and philosophic light, having no relation to the course which, either then or afterwards, the French ruler followed. Louis Napoleon told the whole world that France could not pursue “an ambiguous policy,” at the moment when he was meditating the forcible acquisition of Belgium. The Emperor painted himself as one who rejoiced in the change effected by the war, perhaps because it shattered the treaties of 1815. Prussia, he said, had insured the independence of Germany; and France need not see in that fact any shadow cast over herself. “Proud of her admirable unity, and indestructible nationality, she cannot oppose or condemn the work of fusion going on in Germany.” By imitating, she took a step nearer to, not farther from, France; and the Imperial philosopher professed not to see why public opinion “should recognize adversaries, instead of allies, in those nations which—enfranchised from a past inimical to us—are summoned to new life.” But there was consolation for those alarmed patriots who could read between the lines. Petty states, they were assured, tended to disappear and give place to large agglomerations; the Imperial Government had always understood that annexations should only bring together kindred populations; and France, especially, could desire only such additions as would not affect her internal cohesiveness—sentences which, like finger-posts, pointed to the acquisition of Belgium. The war of 1866, it was admitted, showed the necessity of perfecting the organization of the army; yet smooth things were predicted by the Imperial soothsayer, for, on the whole, the horizon, in September, as scanned from Paris, seemed to be clear of menacing possibilities, and a lasting peace was secure! The despatch was, in fact, prepared and administered as a powerful anodyne. By keeping the French moderately quiet, it suited the purposes of Bismarck, who, well aware of the uneasiness which it covered, felt quite equal to the task of coping with each fresh attempt to obtain “compensation” as it might arise. Perhaps Louis Napoleon was sincere when he dictated this interesting State paper, for it is not devoid of some “fixed ideas” which he cherished; yet probably it may take rank as a curious example of the subtle tactics which he often applied to deceive himself, as well as to cajole his people and his neighbours. At all events, his will, if he willed peace, did not endure for he soon sanctioned and set in motion renewed projects, for he intended to push forward the boundary posts of France.
Luxemburg.
As he found Prussia polite yet intractable, and prompt to use plain language, if concessions were demanded, the Emperor Napoleon formed, or was advised to form, an ingenious plan whereby he hoped to secure Luxemburg. He entered into secret negotiations with Holland for the purchase of the Duchy. The Queen of Holland, a Princess of the House of WÜrtemburg, was a keen partizan of France. She it was, who, in July, 1866, uttered a cry of warning which reached the Tuileries. “It is the dynasty,” she wrote, “which is menaced by a powerful Germany and a powerful Italy, and the dynasty will have to suffer the consequences. When Venetia was ceded, you should have succoured Austria, marched on the Rhine, and imposed your own conditions. To permit the destruction of Austria is more than a crime, it is a blunder.” Perhaps the notion that Luxemburg could be acquired by purchase came from this zealous, clear-sighted, and outspoken lady. Wherever it may have originated, the scheme was hotly pursued, negotiations were opened at the Hague, the usual Napoleonic operations were actually begun to obtain a plÉbiscite from the Duchy. Count von Bismarck was discreetly sounded by M. Benedetti, with the usual indefinite result, and the consent of the King of Holland was obtained without much difficulty. At the same time there was a strong current of opposition in the Dutch Government, and Prince Henry, the Governor of Luxemburg, made no secret of his hostility. The King himself was subject to recurring tremors caused by his reflections on the possible action of the Prussian Court; and his alarms were only mitigated or allayed from time to time by assurances based, in reality, on M. Benedetti’s “impressions” that the Chancellor was not unfavourable to the plan of cession. The truth is that M. Benedetti did not accurately perceive the position which Bismarck had taken up from the outset. It might be thus expressed: “Luxemburg belongs to the King of Holland. It is his to keep or give away. If you want the Duchy, why don’t you take it, and with it the consequences, which it is for you to forecast.” The French Court and its Ministers still laboured under the belief that they could manage the Berlin Government, and they put their own interpretation on the vague, perhaps tempting language of the Chancellor. At a certain moment, the fear, always lurking in the King of Holland’s breast, gained the mastery, and he caused the secret to be disclosed to the public. “He would do nothing without the consent of the King of Prussia;” and by revealing the negotiations he forced on a decision. The incident which terrified the King of Holland was, no doubt, startling. M. Thiers had made a strong anti-German speech in the Chamber, and M. Rouher had developed his theory of the “trois tronÇons,” or triple division of Germany. The Chancellor, who had acquired full knowledge of French pretensions from French Ministers, answered both statesmen by printing, in the foreground of the “Official Gazette,” the treaty which gave King William the control of the Bavarian army, in case of war. That fact also produced a decisive effect upon the Dutch monarch, who saw in this characteristic indirect retort to the French parliamentary display a menace specially directed against himself. Hence the revelation sufficed to thwart the bargain, then so far finished that signatures were alone wanting to render it binding. The German people fired up at the bare mention of such a proposal as the cession of a German province. M. de Moustier, vexed and taken aback, called on Bismarck to restrain the passions of his countrymen, and vainly urged the Dutch monarch to sign the treaties. On the morning of the day when he was to be questioned in the Reichstag, Bismarck asked Benedetti whether he would authorize the Minister to state in the Chamber that the treaties had been signed at the Hague. The Ambassador could not give the required authority, seeing that although the King, under conditions, had pledged his word to the Emperor, the formal act had not been done, because Prussia had not answered the appeal for consent from the Hague. On April 1, 1867, while Napoleon was opening the Exhibition in Paris, Herr von Bennigsen put his famous question respecting the current rumours about a treaty of cession. If the French were not prepared for the fierce outburst of Teutonic fervour, still less could they relish the question put by Herr von Bennigsen and the answer which it drew from the Chancellor. The former described the Duchy as an “ancient province of the collective Fatherland,” and the latter, while “taking into account the French nation’s susceptibilities,” and giving a brief history of the position in which Luxemburg stood towards Germany, made his meaning clear to the French Court. “The confederate Governments,” he said, “are of opinion that no foreign power will interfere with the indisputable rights of German States and German populations. They hope to be able to vindicate and protect those rights by peaceful negotiations, without prejudicing the friendly relations which Germany has hitherto entertained with her neighbours.” Napoleon and his advisers were not likely to misconstrue language which, although it lacked the directness of Von Bennigsen’s sentences, obviously meant that the French scheme could not be worked out. Indeed, a few days earlier, the Chancellor had used a significant phrase. Answering a question in the Chamber, he said:—“If the previous speaker can manage to induce the Grand Duke (of Luxemburg) to come into the North German Federation, he will be able to say that he has called an European question into existence; what more, Time alone can show.” The phrase could hardly have escaped the notice of M. de Moustier, and coupled with the second reply, already quoted, gave rise to indignation not unmixed with alarm. At first the Emperor seemed determined not to recede, and he took counsel with his generals, who could not give him encouragement, because they knew that the Government was absolutely without the means of making even a respectable defence against an invasion. The period of suspense at the Tuileries did not endure long. Shortly after the scene in the Reichstag, the Prussian Minister at the Hague brought the matter to a crisis by a message which he delivered to the Dutch Government. The King of the Netherlands, he is reported to have said, can act as he pleases, but he is responsible for what he may do. If he had believed that the meditated cession was a guarantee of peace, it was the Minister’s duty to destroy the illusion. “My Government,” he added, “advises him in the most formal manner, not to give up Luxemburg to France.” The blow was fatal; the King of course, took the advice to heart, and such a stroke was all the more deeply felt in Paris because there the Emperor, who had considered the end gained, now knew from Marshal Niel that it would be madness to provoke a war. Yet, unless a loophole of escape could be found, war was imminent. M. de Moustier discovered a safe and dignified line of retreat. The Chancellor had referred to the treaty of 1839 which governed the status of Luxemburg; M. de Moustier took him at his word, and virtually brought the dispute within the purview of Europe, by formally demanding that the Prussian garrison should be withdrawn. He held that since the German forces were practically centred in the hands of Prussia, Luxemburg, no longer a mere defensive post, had become a menace to France. In this contention there was much truth, seeing that the new Confederation of the North, and its allies in the South, constituted a political and military entity far more formidable and mobile than the old Bund. When the Chancellor refused a demand, which his adversaries assert he was at one time prepared to grant, the French Government, declaring that they had no wish for other than friendly relations with Berlin, appealed to Europe. The dispute ended in a compromise arranged as usual beforehand, and settled at a conference held in London. The garrison was withdrawn, the fortifications were to be razed, and the Duchy, like Belgium, was thenceforth to be neutral ground, covered by a collective guarantee of the Powers; but it still remained within the German Zollverein.
There were at work several influences which largely operated to determine a peaceful issue. The French possessed no real army, and the Emperor had only just begun to think about the needful military organization on a new model; he had, besides, on hand an international Exhibition, by which he set great store; and in addition a summons to withdraw a garrison did not provide a casus belli certain to secure the support of public opinion. Nor did the Prussian Government consider the moment opportune, or the question raised a suitable ground on which to determine the inveterate cause of quarrel between France and Germany. Upon this subject Dr. Busch has recorded some characteristic observations made by the Chancellor, at Versailles, in 1870. “I remember,” he said, “when I was at the Paris Exhibition of 1867, I thought to myself ‘how would it have been by now, if we had fought out the Luxemburg quarrel? Should I be in Paris, or the French in Berlin?’ We were not nearly as strong then as we are now. The Hanoverians and Hessians of that day could not have supplied us with so many good soldiers as to-day. As for the Schleswig-Holsteiners, who have lately been fighting like lions, they had no army at all. The Saxon army was broken up, and had to be entirely reconstructed. And there was but little to be expected from the South Germans. What splendid fellows the WÜrtembergers are now, quite magnificent! but in 1866 no soldier could help laughing at them, as they marched into Frankfort like a civic guard. Nor was all well with the Baden forces; the Grand Duke has done a great deal for them since then. Doubtless public opinion throughout Germany was with us, if we had chosen to make war about Luxemburg. But that would not have made up for all those shortcomings.” It is plain, from this retrospective comment, which comes in aid of other evidence, that the great conflict, deferred to 1870, was nearly brought about in 1867, and that France was saved from utter rout, at that early period, by the operation of a set of influences over which neither of the principal actors had full control. The Franco-Dutch negotiation was the last attempt which the Emperor Napoleon made to obtain territory by direct or furtive diplomatic processes. In the early stages of the risky business he had full confidence in his own ascendancy, not to say “preponderance” in European councils. He was rudely undeceived. Herr von Bismarck had tempted him with all kinds of suggestions, but the Emperor himself, his Ministers and Ambassadors had been content to take the “impressions,” which they derived from confidential conversations, for definite, binding promises. One French agent correctly described the fact when he said that “Herr von Bismarck is ready, not to offer us compensations, but to allow us to take them;” he might have added, “if we can and at our own risk.” There is no published evidence that the Prussian statesman ever offered to cede Luxemburg, or sanction the annexation of Belgium, or preclude himself from adopting, at any conjuncture, the line which appeared most accordant with German interests. On the contrary, long after the interviews at Biarritz and in Paris, and the battle of Sadowa, Napoleon III., to use his own terms, wanted, at least, “une certitude relative” that the Prussian Government would not interpose any obstacle in the way of French “aggrandizement” in the North. He asked, not for words, but an act which he could never obtain; and the Luxemburg incident proved to him conclusively that nothing could be gained by making demands on the Court of Prussia. In 1867 and afterwards in November, 1870, according to Dr. Busch, Bismarck described with his usual frankness the hesitation of the Emperor. He had not understood his advantages, in 1866, when he might have done a good business, although not on German soil, was the earlier commentary. The later was more illuminative. “In the summer of 1866,” said Bismarck, “Napoleon had not the pluck to do what was the right thing from his point of view. He ought—well, he ought to have taken possession of the subject of Benedetti’s proposal [Belgium], when we were marching against the Austrians, and have held it in pawn for whatever might happen. At that time we could not stop him and it was not likely that England would attack him—at least he might have waited to see.” On this it may be observed that the influence of Lord Cowley and Lord Clarendon would probably have sufficed to turn him from such a plan had it entered into the Emperor’s mind; and had he delivered the blow, in defiance of their protests, or without consulting them, England, at that time, would have been enraged at the treachery, and would have certainly occupied Antwerp. The Emperor was a man who caressed audacious projects which he had not always the nerve and courage to carry out. What is more astonishing, he did not or could not provide the means essential to the accomplishment of his desires. Thus the precedent afforded by his conduct in 1866 was followed in 1867, and in each case the result was the same—vexatious failure.
An Interlude of Peace.
The war-clouds sank below the horizon, the Paris Exhibition was duly opened, sovereigns and princes, statesmen and generals, journeyed to the French capital, and the Court of the Tuileries gave itself up to amusement, gaiety, and dissipation, neglecting nothing which could give pleasure to its illustrious guests. It was the last hour of splendour, the sunset of the Empire. Yet the brilliant scenes, which followed each other day by day, were even then flecked with dark shades. If politics were evaded or ignored in the palace, they were not absent from the highways. Polish hatred found vent in the attempt of Berezowski to slay the unfortunate Emperor Alexander II., and M. Floquet shouted in his ear as he passed through the Courts of Justice, “Vive la Pologne!” The crime and the insult augured ill for the future of that Franco-Russian alliance which Charles X. endeavoured to establish and certain French statesmen have always sighed for. M. Hansen records a sharp observation made by Prince Gortchakoff during the Polish insurrection which the Western Powers regarded with friendly eyes. The Vice-Chancellor held that France and Russia were natural allies, because their interests were the same. “If the Emperor Napoleon will not admit it,” he roughly said, “so much the worse for him. Governments vanish, nations remain.” Still, in 1867, he did not find the nation more favourable than the Government had been in 1864. Twenty years later, although Russia had become less unpopular, at least with the politicians, and a yearning for a Russian alliance had gathered strength, the ultras proved how little they understood some conditions essential to its gratification by clamoring for the pardon and liberation of Berezowski! The Prussian King and Queen were not exposed to any outrage, and the Parisians gazed with curiosity upon Bismarck and Moltke, whom they admired, and had not yet learned to detest; but the sparkling and joyful assemblies, although the actors, on both sides, were doubtless sincere at the time, nevertheless suggests a famous incident in the French Revolution which figures on historical pages as “le baiser de l’amourette.” And underneath the shining surface were concealed gnawing anxieties and fears. The Emperor Napoleon had dreamed that he could found a Mexican empire, and he had induced the Austrian Archduke Maximilian to accept at his hands an Imperial crown. The enterprise, which was pushed on by French troops, not only failed, but irritated England, who had been deceived, and offended the United States, whose Government, victors in a civil war, would not tolerate the establishment of the “Latin race” in the centre of the huge continent. Not only had it become necessary to recall the troops, but to bear a still deeper misfortune—if the word may be applied to the consequences of a reckless and unscrupulous adventure. It was while opening the Exhibition that the earliest hints reached the Emperor of an event which dealt him a heavy blow; and, on the eve of the day fixed for the distribution of prizes to the competitors he had assembled, came the confirmation of the dreaded intelligence, whispered weeks before. The gallant Archduke and Emperor Maximilian, who had fallen into the hands of the triumphant and implacable Mexicans, had been tried and shot, a deed which his French patron was powerless to avenge.
The Salzburg Interview.
The tragedy of Quaretaro reacted upon European politics, and incidentally emphasized afresh the perennial antagonism between France and Germany. Still smarting from the wounds of 1866, Austria hungered for an ally, and the Saxon Count von Beust, whom the Emperor Francis Joseph had made his Chancellor, was eager to try one more fall with Count von Bismarck. Swayed by political reasons, the Austrian Emperor not only did not resent the death of his brother, but was even willing to welcome as his guest Louis Napoleon, who had so successfully seduced the Archduke by dangling before him the bait of an Imperial crown. The French Emperor and his Empress, therefore, travelled in state through South Germany to Salzburg, where they met their Austrian hosts. The occasion was, nominally, one of condolence and mourning, and the vain regrets on both sides were doubtless genuine. Yet it so chanced that the days spent in the lovely scenery of Salzburg were given up to gay mirth and feasting—not to sorrow and gloom; and that the irrepressible spirit of politics intruded on the brilliant company gathered round an open grave. Both emperors felt aggrieved; one by the loss of his high estate in Germany and his Italian provinces, the other because his demand for the Rhenish territory had been rejected, and he had not been allowed to take Belgium or buy Luxemburg. The common enemy was Prussia, who had worsted Austria in battle, and France in diplomacy and at Salzburg, perhaps earlier, the ground plans were sketched for an edifice which the architects trusted might be built up sufficiently large and strong to contain, at least, two allies. The sketch was vague, yet it was definite enough at least to reveal the designs of the draughtsmen; and the Emperors returned home still in jubilation.
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.
During that eventful 13th of July Count Bismarck, recently arrived in Berlin from Pomerania, had seen and had spoken to Lord Augustus Loftus in language which plainly showed how steadfastly he kept his grip on the real question, which was that France sought to gain an advantage over “Prussia,” as some kind of compensation for KÖniggrÄtz. The Duc de Gramont also conversed with Lord Lyons in Paris, and induced him to set in motion Lord Granville, from whose ingenious brain came forth a plausible compromise wholly unsuitable to the exigency, and promptly rejected at Berlin, but having an air of fairness which made it look well in the pages of a Blue Book. It was a last effort on the part of diplomacy, and served well enough to represent statesmanship as it was understood by the Cabinet to which Lord Granville belonged. On the evening of that day Count Bismarck entertained at dinner General von Moltke and General von Roon; and the host read aloud to them a telegram from Ems, giving an account of what had occurred, and the royal authority to make the story public. “Both Generals,” writes Dr. Moritz Busch, “regarded the situation as still peaceful. The Chancellor observed—that would depend a good deal upon the tone and contents of the publication he had just been authorized to make. In the presence of his two guests he then put together some extracts from the telegram, which were forthwith despatched to all the Prussian Legations abroad, and to the Berlin newspapers in the following form:—‘Telegram from Ems, July 13th, 1870. When the intelligence of the Hereditary Prince of Hohenzollern’s renunciation was communicated by the Spanish to the French Government, the French Ambassador demanded of His Majesty the King, at Ems, that the latter should authorize him to telegraph to Paris that His Majesty would pledge himself for all time to come never again to give his consent, should the Hohenzollerns hark back to their candidature. Upon this His Majesty refused to receive the French Ambassador again, and sent the aide-de-camp in attendance to tell him that His Majesty had nothing further to communicate to the Ambassador.’”
Substantially, it was the grotesque pile of misrepresentation built up on this blunt telegram—M. Benedetti read it next morning in the “Cologne Gazette,” and took no exception whatever to the brief and exact narrative it contained—which set the Parisians on fire. Travestied in many ways by calculating politicians, as well as gossips, the message became a “Note,” or a “despatch,” imputing the extreme of intentional rudeness to King William, and imposing the depth of humiliation, publicly inflicted, upon France through her representative, who, all the time, was not only unconscious of any insult, but emphatic in his acknowledgments of the King’s courtesy, kindness, and patience. Probably Count Bismarck wrote his telegram for Germany, but its effect in satisfying the Fatherland, was not greater than its influence upon the fiery French, who never read the text until months afterwards, and in July, 1870, were set a-flame by the distorted versions freely supplied by rumour’s forked tongue.
The French Government and the Chamber.
War was now plainly inevitable, yet the decisive word still rested with the Imperial Government. In Paris there were two currents running strongly in opposite ways, and, for a moment, it seemed possible that the tide which made for peace would overpower the surging stream which drove onwards towards war. More than one-half the Ministry believed, and some, M. Ollivier for one, said that the retreat of Prince Leopold, with the consent of the King, a great diplomatic victory for France, was enough, and had, indeed, brought the quarrel to an end. At midday, on the 13th, M. Robert Mitchell, meeting M. Paul de Cassagnac, said, “I have just left Ollivier, and, thank God, peace is secured.” “My father,” was the reply, “has just quitted the Emperor; war is resolved on.” The statement was not then exact, but it may be accepted as a forecast. For, in truth, it was only at noon the next day that the Ministers assembled in council at the Tuileries to answer the momentous question which so profoundly agitated their minds. They sat six hours; they were divided in opinion; yet, although Marshal Leboeuf was authorized to call out the reserves—he had threatened to resign unless that were done—the Ministers separated with the understanding that a peaceful line of action should be adopted, based on a demand for a Congress of the Powers to sanction the principle that no member of any reigning house should accept a foreign throne. The Duc de Gramont’s brief account of this notable Council shows that the hankering after war was powerful therein; since he says that “the Government decided, not without hesitation, but influenced by a love of peace, to propose this pacific solution.” But all, or some of the Ministers, and still more the Emperor, stood in dread of two things: they were alarmed lest the “dynasty” should be injured by a course which bore the semblance of a forced retreat, and they could not rely with confidence on the sober opinion of the Chambers. The Court war-party operated upon the Senators and Deputies through M. ClÉment Duvernois, a schemer, and M. JÉrÔme David, by birth and training a fanatical Bonapartist, the second accentuating the questions of the first, and giving to his own language a substance which made retreat almost impossible. Both these men had a double object. They intended to extort a declaration of war and, at the same time, expel Emile Ollivier, together with what they called the Parliamentary element, from the Ministry. The energetic, aggressive and relentless group were really the mouthpieces of the Emperor and Empress, and in a less degree of M. Rouher, who had been deposed by the new Imperial constitution, and of the Duc de Gramont, who all through the business desired to secure a prolongation of peace, solely because it would give him time to ripen the projects of alliance with Austria and Italy, and also to make war, lest “la Prusse,” aware of his design, should choose her own hour for battle. It so chanced that Marshal Leboeuf, after despatching the orders calling out the reserves, received a note from the Emperor, which, he says, seemed to suggest a regret at the decision adopted by the Council; and thinking, innocent man, that some constitutional scruples had sprung up in the Imperial mind, the Marshal begged that the Ministers might be summoned once more. That night they met again, talked for an hour, and had nearly resolved that the mobilization of the army should be deferred, when papers were placed in the hands of the Duc de Gramont. The exact contents of these documents have not been described, but they seemed to have contained some report of language held by Count Bismarck which exasperated the war party; and, in an instant, the Council resolved on war. That same night, M. Robert Mitchell, walking in the garden of the Foreign Office, asked M. Ollivier why he did not resign? The Minister gave a host of plausible reasons having no real weight; adding these prophetic words: “Whatever happens, I am sacrificed; for the war will sweep away the rÉgime to which I have attached my name. If we are beaten, God protect France! If we are victorious, God protect our Liberties!”
So that, having a clear perception of the future, this Minister, at least, met the Chambers on the morrow. The exciting events of the past week, imperfectly understood and carelessly or purposely misrepresented, had aroused a tempest of passion in Paris and France, which, by its violence and uproar, overpowered, but could not wholly silence, the voices of sagacity and sober judgment. The Senate was unanimous for war. In the Chamber the Opposition waged courageously a desperate contest, so desperate from the outset, that even M. Thiers, perhaps because he told unpleasant truths, could not command an unbroken hearing, while M. Gambetta only secured one by making a rare display of forensic tact, basing himself on Parliamentary ground, and tempering his appeal for “more light” with evidences of his indisputable patriotism. The Duc de Gramont favoured the Senators with a version of the facts, which was neither complete nor candid. M. Emile Ollivier allowed an unhappy phrase to escape from his lips—he went into the war “À coeur leger.” A committee was appointed to inspect the diplomatic documents on which the Court relied; it was easily satisfied, and late in the night, sustained by a large majority, the policy of the Government was amply sanctioned.
Perhaps a sentence spoken by M. Guyot Montpayroux best illustrates the predominant feeling. “Prussia,” he said, “has forgotten the France of Jena, and the fact must be recalled to her memory.” Thus was war declared by these infuriated legislators on the night of July 15th. M. Thiers, who desired a war with Prussia “at the proper time,” has left on record his judgment that the hour then selected was “detestably ill-chosen.” Yet even he and M. Gambetta were both anxious that “satisfaction” should be obtained for Sadowa; while the thought which animated the Court is admirably expressed in the phrase imputed to the Empress who, pointing to the Prince Imperial, said, “This child will never reign unless we repair the misfortunes of Sadowa.” Such was the ceaseless refrain. The word haunted French imaginations incessantly, and it was the pivot on which the Imperial policy revolved, and it exercised a spell scarcely less powerful and disastrous upon Monarchists like M. Thiers, and Republicans like Gambetta and Jules Favre. Still, it may be said that France was divided in opinion. Consulted through the Prefects, only sixteen departments were for war; no fewer than thirty-four were adverse, and the remainder could not be said to hold with the one or the other. Nor should it be overlooked that these estimates of popular feeling were transmitted by functionaries who have always a wish to please the superior Powers. Germany, on the other hand, was united as it had never been since 1813. King William was applauded everywhere. When he reached Berlin on the evening of the 15th, he was met at the railway station by the Crown Prince, Count von Bismarck, General von Moltke, and General von Roon. There the decision was formally taken to accept the challenge, the fact was repeated to the crowd who had assembled, and whose shouts were loud, deep, and prolonged; and that same night went forth the brief telegraphic orders which from one centre touched a thousand springs, and called into instant being an army, perfectly organized, equipped, trained and supplied. So that when Baron Wimpfen, a secretary of legation, entered Berlin on the 19th of July, and handed to M. Le Sourd the French declaration of war—the sole official document on the subject received by Prussia, as Von Moltke bluntly remarks—that work had already begun which finished in little more than a fortnight, enabled the King to break into France at the head of more than three hundred thousand soldiers.
Only one word more need be said on this subject—the causes of the war. Clearing away the diplomatic mist which hides the realities, the student will discover two deadly opposites; on one side the determination of France to insist on a right of meddling with internal German affairs, and even of prescribing the form or forms which the national aggregate should assume; on the other, the fixed resolve of the German people that the French should no longer dictate or pretend to dictate beyond the Rhine, that an end should be put to the policy of seeking political profits by fomenting the spirit of discord in the petty German Courts; and that, if possible, by dint of “Kraft und Muth,” Germany should secure palpable safeguards against French invasions, and resume possession of the strongholds and dependent territories which were acquired, in times of adversity and disunion, by Louis XIV. Thus, the causes of war were deeply rooted in essential facts. The moment to be chosen, if it can be said to have been chosen, was for statesmen to decide. The Imperial Government, down to the last hour, sought to form a combination adverse to Prussia, intending to wage war at its own time. Prussia refused to be made the victim of a triple alliance, and taking a fair advantage of the imperious conduct of the French Court, seized the golden opportunity, promptly answered the declaration of war, and struck down the French Empire before its hesitating and unprepared allies could move a finger to avert a defeat which neither attempted, nor dared attempt to repair. Austria, the unready, stood in fear of Russia: Italy, the ambitious, demanded the right to enter Rome. “We can grant nothing of the kind,” said the over-confident Duc de Gramont, so late as July 30. “If Italy will not march,” he exclaimed, “let her sit still.” Abundant evidence exists to prove that war between France and Germany was solely a question of time, and Prussia cannot be blamed justly for selecting or seizing the hour most suitable to her and least suitable to her adversaries. The Duc de Gramont asserts that neither the Emperor nor the Government nor France, desired war—certainly not just then; but they intended to make war at a time and under conditions chosen by themselves. He admits that it was the duty of the Imperial Government to evade a war, but also prepare for a war as much as possible; and, failing to do the former, he further confessed many months afterwards, that too much confidence in the army and in its untested military virtues, and the dazzling splendour of a glorious past dragged France, its Government and its representatives, into an unequal struggle. “We believed ourselves too strong to stoop,” he says, “and we knew not how to resist the system of provocations so ably combined and directed by the Cabinet of Berlin.” A frank confession, especially from the pen of a statesman who was himself endeavouring to combine a system of alliances, and who was anticipated by the Power against whom his plans were directed. M. Prevost Paradol, who in a moment of weakness had accepted from the Emperor the post of Minister at Washington, saw more clearly into the future than the Duc de Gramont and some of his colleagues. On the very afternoon of the day when the unhappy journalist killed himself, he saw a countryman, the Comte d’HÉrisson, and his language to the young man showed how deeply he was moved, and with what sagacity he estimated the near future. In his opinion, expressed on the 10th of July, war was even then certain, because not only “la Prusse” desired war, but because, as he said, “The Empire requires war, wishes for it, and will wage it.” The young Frenchmen to whom he spoke made light of the peril, and said he should like to travel in Germany, and study in the libraries of her conquered cities. But the Minister checked his natural exultation, saying, “You will not go to Germany, you will be crushed in France. Believe me, I know the Prussians. We have nothing whatever that is needed to strive with them. We have neither generals, men, nor matÉriel. We shall be ground to powder. Nous serons broyÉs. Before six months are over there will be a Revolution in France, and the Empire will be at an end.” Mourning over the error he made in laying down his sharp critical pen to put on a diplomatic uniform, and maddened by the retrospect and prospect, Paradol, a few hours after uttering his predictions, escaped from unendurable misery by a pistol-shot. It was like an omen of the coming catastrophe.
