1. M. Loubet and Paul DÉroulÈde

On 16th February 1899, President Faure (known familiarly and gaily in Paris as “FÉlix”) died suddenly. Two days later the Upper and Lower Chambers, solemnly assembled at Versailles, proclaimed M. Émile Loubet his successor. And now, after seven years in the ÉlysÉe, M. Loubet makes way for the eighth President of the Third French Republic and retires into a tranquil, simple appartement.

Seven years ago! But it seems only yesterday that I found myself, one cold, misty afternoon, before the St-Lazare station, where the newly elected President was to arrive. I was eager to witness his dÉbut in Paris as Chief of the State. Eager, too, to “receive him” were thousands of Parisians.

But as I surveyed the dense, excited crowd, I gathered at a glance that the reception it reserved for M. Loubet was to be very far from friendly. Here, there and everywhere chattered and whispered the followers of MM. Edouard Drumont, Lucien Millevoye, Henri Rochefort and Jules GuÉrin. In full force, too, were the paid hirelings of those notorious agitators; collarless, shabby, unshaven fellows, “Messieurs les Quarante-Sous.” And present again was the “Emperor of the Camelots,” a striking-looking man with long hair, bold, brilliant eyes and a humorous expression; not only the composer and seller of “topical” songs, not only the indefatigable electioneering agent and the ironical pamphleteer, but the ingenious, the illustrious, the incomparable organiser of “popular demonstrations.”

Often did agitators say to the “Emperor”: “I want So-and-so hissed,” or “I want So-and-so cheered.” Obligingly and genially the “Emperor” replied: “Nothing is easier.” And in truth, the operation was simple. The agitator provided the money: and the “Emperor” called together a fine army of manifestants.

Thus the crowd before the St-Lazare station looked threatening on that memorable winter’s afternoon. Of course those garrulous, gesticulating bodies, the “Ligue de la Patrie FranÇaise” and M. Paul DÉroulÈde’s “League of the Patriots,” were strongly represented. Inevitably, too, the little, nervous, impetuous policemen of Paris figured conspicuously in the scene. And everyone was restless, everyone was impatient, save the “Emperor of the Camelots,” who, making his way urbanely and imperturbably through the crowd, occasionally spoke a word to his subjects, his army: the shabby, unshaven fellows, Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. No doubt he was asking them whether their voices were in good condition, and whether their whistles were handy. And most probably he was instructing them how to keep out of the clutches of the alert, watchful police.

“À bas Loubet!”

The cry came from the interior of the station. No sooner had it been uttered than the crowd excitedly exclaimed: “He has arrived.”

And then, what a din of shouting, of hissing, of hooting! And then, what a blowing of shrill, piercing whistles! And then, as the Presidential carriage drove away (with M. Loubet seated by the window, pale, grave, dignified, venerable), what a hoarse, violent uproar of “À bas Loubet!” and “Mort aux traÎtres!” and “Panama! Panama! Panama!”[9] Not one hat raised to him. Not one cheer given him. Not one courtesy paid him. It was to the ear-splitting notes of whistles, it was to a chorus of calumny and abuse, it was in the midst of a howling, hostile mob, that the new Chief of the State made his dÉbut in Paris.

What, it may be asked, was the reason of M. Loubet’s unpopularity? Well, the Dreyfus days had begun: those wild, frenzied days of feuds, duels and hatreds; of frauds, riots and conspiracies, when Parisians allowed themselves to be governed and blinded by their passions and prejudices. M. Loubet was notoriously in favour of granting the unhappy prisoner on the Devil’s Island a new trial. Paris, on the other hand, misled, intimidated, deceived by the Nationalists, was Anti-Dreyfusard. And hence the tempestuous reception—at once spontaneous and “organised”—accorded the new President on his return from Versailles.

However, in the present paper, it is not my intention to examine the political situation in France during the tumultuous winter, summer and autumn of 1899. My aim is to portray certain scenes and to record certain incidents which may convey an idea of the state of Paris in that epoch, and of her attitude towards M. Loubet. And here let me return without further ado to the crowd before the St-Lazare station, where, after the President’s departure, there appeared yet another amazing agitator in the person of M. DÉroulÈde.

He has been likened to—Don Quixote. And it has also been good-humouredly agreed that in his devoted lieutenant, M. Marcel Habert, he possesses an admirable Sancho Panza. For M. DÉroulÈde is an exaltÉ. M. DÉroulÈde is extravagant, theatrical, often absurd: yet with a noble sincerity in him and an attachment to the idea. And as he stood in the thick of the St-Lazare crowd, with his official Deputy’s sash, with his decoration in his button-hole, with fire in his eye, with a flush on his cheeks and with burning “patriotic” utterances on his lips—as he stood there haranguing and gesticulating, M. Paul DÉroulÈde held everyone’s attention. At that moment, he was passionately inviting his hearers to follow him to Joan of Arc’s statue, there to hold a “patriotic” demonstration. Often, he made such a pilgrimage. Often, too, he made pilgrimages to the Strasbourg monument on the Place de la Concorde: and to the cemeteries where rest the “heroic victims” of Germany. There were many who laughed at him, but his courage and honesty no one, not even his adversaries, doubted. He had fought valiantly in the Franco-Prussian War, and ever since that appalling campaign he had looked after the interests of the scrubby little soldier—le pioupiou—and composed songs and poems in his honour. “Vive l’ArmÉe!” and “Vive la France!” were the eternal, emotional cries of M. DÉroulÈde. At his bidding, Paris echoed those cries. And Paris also “supported” him enthusiastically when he made his pilgrimages to the Place de la Concorde, and the cemeteries, and Joan of Arc’s statue; for in what is essential and fine in him, his noble sincerity and devotion to the idea, even when in the wrong, M. DÉroulÈde stands as the outward and visible type of a quality that belongs to the soul and the genius of France.

Well, upon the present occasion, M. DÉroulÈde’s audience was particularly responsive. “Then follow me!” he shouted triumphantly. And so, behold him leading a long, animated procession from the St-Lazare station to the rue de Rivoli. And behold him again, a few minutes later, standing against the railing that encircles “La Pucelle” astride of her horse. And behold his followers—hundreds of them—closely surrounding him, and the police—scores of them—ready to “charge” the crowd at the first outbreak of disorder. But M. DÉroulÈde, unlike the Anti-Semitic Jules GuÉrin, was no lover of brawls. He wished only to “defend” the “honour of the Army” (which, by the way, had never been assailed). He desired only to point out that France was governed by a number of men who dreamt day and night, dreamt night and day, dreamt always and always of “selling their country to the enemy.” Ah, these abominable, these infamous traitors! Even as he, Paul DÉroulÈde, stood there, at the foot of Joan of Arc’s statue, this sinister, this diabolical Government was plotting the “rÉhabilitation” of a man—no, a scoundrel—convicted by his own colleagues of treason.

“Citizens, our France, our beloved France, is in danger. Citizens, do your duty. Citizens, drive away the traitors who govern you. Citizens, show your execration of these traitors by crying with me: “Vive l’ArmÉe!” “Vive la France!” “Vive la patrie!”

And again the crowd was responsive. This time, indeed, there were shouts of “Vive DÉroulÈde!” Parisians came running up from neighbouring streets, so that the crowd grew and expanded. On the tops of the omnibuses passengers cheered encouragingly. At every window and on every doorstep stood spectators. In fine, much animation around Joan of Arc’s statue.

“En avant!” cried, martially, our Don Quixote. Warned by the police to be “prudent,” he replied that he was a “patriot,” and hotly demanded that his Deputy’s sash should be respected. Then, placing himself at the head of his followers, he led them triumphantly towards the grands boulevards. Again, “patriotic” cries. Again, fierce denunciations of the “Government of Traitors.”

And, in M. DÉroulÈde’s organ, Le Drapeau, next morning, what an exultant account of M. Loubet’s tempestuous dÉbut in Paris, and what a glowing recital of the “grandiose” and “glorious” manifestation held at the foot of Joan of Arc’s gilded statue.

After this we had daily, almost hourly, manifestations. Very affairÉ, but always urbane and imperturbable, was the “Emperor of the Camelots.” Very active and zealous were Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. And very garrulous, excited and nervous were the Parisians. In cafÉs they emotionally agreed that the situation was “grave.” In cafÉs, also, they whispered of plots against the President and the Republic—sensational plots that greatly agitated the Chief of the Police. Yes, M. LÉpine was alarmed; M. LÉpine had lost his appetite; M. LÉpine could not rest at night for thinking of the shoals and shoals of conspirators then present in Paris. A veritable plague of conspirators!

Here, there and everywhere, a conspirator. Who knew: perhaps one’s very neighbour in cafÉs, trains, omnibuses and trams was a dangerous conspirator? And so, when we spoke of conspirators and conspiracies, we lowered our voices and glanced apprehensively over our shoulders, and were altogether very uneasy, suspicious and mysterious. Heavens, what rumours! And mercy, what an effervescence! Now it was the “agents” of the Bonapartists who were “active.” Anon it was the Orleanists who were “at work.” Next it was the Clericals who were conspiring. And, finally, it was the Militarists, who had actually appointed the day and the hour when they would give a Dictator to France. Already it had been arranged that the Dictator should appear in Paris on a splendid black charger, surrounded by a brilliant, dashing staff. And the Dictator, from his saddle, was eloquently to address the populace. And when the Dictator spoke the sacred name “France,” he was to draw and flourish his sword. And the brilliant staff was to cheer. And the dashing staff was to cry—— No matter: the approaching arrival in Paris of the Dictator and retinue was a secret; only whispered timidly and fearfully amongst us when we felt ourselves secure from conspiring eavesdroppers. Such was the gossip; such was the nervousness. Little wonder, then, that the Chief of the Police passed restless, unhappy nights. Never a moment’s peace, never a moment’s leisure for poor M. LÉpine. All around him, conspirators. And before him, at the same time, the task of making preparations for M. FÉlix Faure’s funeral, which was to be solemn, imposing and magnificent.

And magnificent it was. Almost interminable was the procession that left the ÉlysÉe for Notre Dame, to the tragic strains of Chopin’s Funeral March. All along the route, soldiers and policemen. And behind the soldiers and policemen, the people of Paris—men, women and even children—who murmured their admiration at the plumes, at the flowers and at the brilliant uniforms in the cortÈge. Each foreign Power was imposingly represented. But most imposing of them all were the Emperor William’s envoys: three Prussian officers, veritable giants. Then, mourners from the French Army; mourners from the Chambers; mourners from the Corps Diplomatique; mourners from the Academy and Institute; mourners from every distinguished official, social and artistic sphere. And at the head of all these grand mourners the homely, plainly dressed figure of M. Émile Loubet.

However, one mourner was missing: a friend of the late M. Faure: none other than M. Paul DÉroulÈde. And yet he had deeply deplored the death of the late President, and fiercely denounced the advent of his successor.

But—M. DÉroulÈde was busy. Think: at that moment the ÉlysÉe had no master. So, what an opportunity. And as the funeral procession proceeded slowly and solemnly from Notre Dame to the cemetery, M. DÉroulÈde might have been seen in a distant quarter of Paris with his hand on the bridle of General Roget’s horse.

“À l’ÉlysÉe, GÉnÉral; À l’ÉlysÉe.”

Only think of it. There was General Roget with soldiers under his command, who would follow him wherever he led them. And the ÉlysÉe—practically—was empty. And thus it was the moment of moments to achieve a brilliant coup d’État.

“À l’ÉlysÉe, GÉnÉral; À l’ÉlysÉe.”

But General Roget refused to turn his horse’s head in the direction of the ÉlysÉe. He preferred to return to the barracks with his men, and therefore begged M. DÉroulÈde to release his hold of the bridle.

ManquÉ, M. DÉroulÈde’s conspiracy. In vain, his tremendous coup d’État. Behold our Don Quixote and his devoted Sancho Panza, in dismay and despair. Behold them some time later on their trial for conspiracy. But behold them acquitted by the jury amidst a scene of the wildest enthusiasm. And hear the joyous, triumphant proclamations that their acquittal was yet another bitter humiliation for M. Loubet.

What insults and what calumnies followed! Every Nationalist organ began a fierce campaign against M. Loubet, accused him of corruption, of every conceivable meanness and crime, and exultantly related how his name was constantly being conspuÉ in Paris. Since it was “seditious” to cry “À bas Loubet,” they cried “Vive l’ArmÉe!” and “Mort aux traÎtres,” which M. Lucien Millevoye, Édouard Drumont, Henri Rochefort and Jules GuÉrin declared to be the same thing.

Those were the only cries that greeted M. Loubet when he drove out in the Presidential carriage—pale, grave, dignified, venerable. From his native place, the village of MontÉlimar, came a message imploring him to resign. More hissing and hooting in the streets, but always a calm smile on the President’s kindly face; always that determined, imperturbable expression.

Other “incidents”? Well, for months there was incident after incident: and when Émile Loubet drove to the Longchamps Races surrounded by cavalry, it was stated that he feared assassination. At Longchamps up rushed an elegant young aristocrat with a stick in his hand, and the stick was aimed at the President’s head. It only smashed the President’s hat: but the Nationalists rejoiced. And the elegant young aristocrat was regarded as a hero, and caricaturists always portrayed Émile Loubet with his hat smashed over his head. Came another message from MontÉlimar, inviting him to accept the public verdict: but came, also, messages of sympathy and esteem from all the Courts in Europe.

And here, passing over other incidents, let me arrive at once at the day when the man in the street began to admire Émile Loubet’s patience, tact, determination, and when he was delighted at the calm, kindly smile; and when—day of days—he said: “Ce bon Loubet,” and then—moment of moments—cried, “Vive Loubet.” A change, a change! Through the streets drove the President, saluting, saluted. Parisians rejoiced to learn that the Tsar had a veritable affection for Émile Loubet, and Parisians were pleased to see him drive across Paris with the King of England, chatting, smiling, laughing. Cordial the shouts of “Vive Loubet.” Cordial the newspaper appreciations of Émile Loubet. And the streets lined to see him take train to London.

In London, scores of journalists accompanying him, and also scores of camelots. Yes, real Paris camelots in Soho, and in the public-houses and little restaurants of Soho, the camelots loud in their praises of Émile Loubet.

Here, there and everywhere the motto: “Entente Cordiale.”

I remember the King of the Camelots telling me in Soho that he and his men had taken a great fancy to Englishmen.

His appreciation was worth having, for he was no enthusiast. Indeed, he had done a great trade some time ago in Anti-English caricatures, toys and post cards. He drank to the entente in a bottle of Bass. He vowed that Bass was better than bock. He paid tributes to roast beef, apple tart and kippers; indeed, regretted with veritable emotion that there were no kippers in France. So kind and affable and flattering was the King of the Camelots that I could write of him for hours. However, I must leave him on the kerbstone in Holborn, shouting: “Vive Loubet,” and waving his hat and receiving (so, at least, he declared afterwards) a special salute from the smiling, delighted President.

Everyone charmed with Émile Loubet, and Émile Loubet charmed with everything. Of course, King and President held little private conversations; it is certain that Lord Lansdowne and M. DelcassÉ met often and talked long.

Then, Paris again—and crowds in the street once more to shout: “Vive Loubet.” Heavens, what a change since the February afternoon four years ago! To-day, nothing but sympathy and esteem for the President, part author of the Anglo-French Agreement. To-day, nothing but sincere pleasure at the Agreement, which brings together two naturally friendly and sympathetic countries. “Perhaps the most important Treaty ever signed in time of peace,” said an enthusiastic Parisian to me. And then, with equal enthusiasm: “Vive Loubet!”

2. M. Armand FalliÈres. Morocco and the Floods

A day or two ago, in the Presidential palace of the ÉlysÉe, M. Armand FalliÈres celebrated his seventy-second birthday. I do not know whether there were gifts, flowers, a birthday cake, champagne and speeches: but, according to an incorrigible gossip in a boulevard newspaper, M. le PrÉsident stated that this was the blithest birthday he had known for seven years. “I breathe again,” he is reported to have said. “This time next year, I shall pass my anniversary, not in a frock coat and varnished boots, but in a dressing-gown and carpet slippers.”

I believe this is the “mood” that would obsess anyone who had passed seven years of his life as President of the French Republic. It was M. Émile Loubet’s mood. Nothing in this world would have induced him to accept a second Septennat; and to-day M. Loubet lives in a quiet little flat on the Rive Gauche, where (in his slippers) he has often exclaimed: “Ce pauvre FalliÈres!” And then gone to bed tranquilly and comfortably; whilst his successor at the ÉlysÉe was in consultation with the Minister of Foreign Affairs over the miseries of Morocco. President Casimir-PÉrier endured just six months of Presidency. “On m’embÊte; je m’en vais,” said he. He was too elegant to care for slippers. But a day or two after his resignation he was discovered stretched in an easy-chair in the garden of a Bois de Boulogne restaurant, in white duck trousers. “I breathe again,” he stated—just as President FalliÈres has now declared on his seventy-second birthday.

Thus it would miraculously appear that one stops breathing upon being appointed President of the French Republic, and doesn’t regain one’s breath until one’s martyrdom at the ÉlysÉe has expired. Certain it is that the President of the French Republic, living as he does in the most amazing city in the world, must experience and endure amazing tribulations and adventures. President Loubet went through the Dreyfus Affair; President FalliÈres through the Floods. Up and down the Seine in a barge sailed M. FalliÈres, and because of his bulk and lest the barge might capsize, the boatmen had to implore M. le PrÉsident not to move. He was a heroic, but not a dignified, figure as he sat, massive and motionless, in that barge. Nor could he ever look other than bulky in the Presidential carriage (which, when he entered it, nearly tilted over) as he drove forth to meet foreign sovereigns, or to attend the great military review or gala performances at the FranÇais and OpÉra. That vast bulk has always been against him. Not a Parisian that has not commented on it, not an illustrated newspaper that has not depicted it, not a theatrical revue that has not exaggerated it.

Although M. Armand FalliÈres has left Paris for his country residence at Rambouillet, the French “Presidential Holiday” has not yet begun. To start with, Rambouillet is a State chÂteau, almost another ÉlysÉe, in that Cabinet meetings are held there, the Ministers motoring down from Paris with their portfolios and wearing their official, inscrutable expressions. Outside in the park, flowers, birds, winding paths, shady trees, hidden, tranquil corners; but within the Council Chamber, the old, eternal complications and miseries of politics.

No doubt, when the Ministers have left, M. le PrÉsident seeks to lead the simple, the ordinary life. But, as Rambouillet is a State residence, flunkeys abound, and not only gardeners, but detectives, haunt the park. Impossible, to put it vulgarly, to be “on one’s own.” Worse than that, how the majestic, powdered flunkeys wink and grin when M. Armand FalliÈres has turned his back upon them in his slippers, alpaca jacket and vast gardening hat! For M. le PrÉsident is burly, with a formidable embonpoint; and when he enters a carriage, it tilts; and when he steps into a rowing boat, it very nearly capsizes, and when——

“I am the most inelegant of Presidents,” M. Armand FalliÈres himself has admitted. “Heavens, how my servants despise me!”

At Rambouillet M. FalliÈres’ predecessor, most admirable M. Loubet, also aroused the disdain of the flunkeys by reason of his simplicity—and his real holiday did not begin until he had reached his native town of MontÉlimar, where he was treated—and liked to be treated—as un enfant du pays—a son of the soil. Because MontÉlimar is famous for its nougat, M. Loubet was dubbed by fierce, lurid old Henri Rochefort—“Nougat the First.” But Republican France liked to hear of her President hobnobbing with the people of MontÉlimar and gossiping with the peasantry of neighbouring villages, and leading forth on his arm a little brown-faced and wrinkled old lady, in the dress and cap of a peasant woman—his mother.

But those are all memories. We have nothing to do with MontÉlimar; we are only concerned with the wine-growing districts of Loupillon, where M. FalliÈres (released from official Rambouillet) will be amiable, pottering and peering about amidst his vineyards in a few days. Behold, just as last year, M. le PrÉsident, not only in slippers, but in his shirt-sleeves; and behold, too, the peasantry stretched over hedges and perched high up in trees, that they may view the burly Chief of the State inspecting and admiring his grapes. They are his hobby, his pride, his exquisite joy: and yet it is notorious that they are a very sour, a very inferior, one might almost say, a very terrible little grape.

Ask the Loupillon peasants and they will exclaim: “It is extraordinary, it is unheard-of that a Son of this Soil, and a President of the President, should produce such a grape! Look at it! CrÉ nom d’un nom, what a sad little thing!”

Ask those privileged, intimate friends who lunch en famille at the ÉlysÉe, and they will cry: “Ah, the white wine of FalliÈres! Ah, the Presidential grape from Loupillon! It makes one shudder to mention it.”

But, M. le PrÉsident ignores these criticisms and mockeries. After Morocco and Proportional Representation, his dear little grapes! In spite of their smallness, their sourness, how he loves them!

Six weeks of his grapes—then the ÉlysÉe, Morocco, once again; and then, in February next, nothing but holidays for the Chief of the State. For February will see the end of M. FalliÈres’ seven years’ Presidency, and, like his predecessor, he will not seek re-election. Like M. Loubet, too, his next Paris residence will be a comfortable, bourgeois third-floor appartement—its site, the Boulevard St Germain, within a few minutes’ walk of M. Émile Loubet’s flat in the rue Dante. No flunkeys, no detectives in plain clothes—and no telephone. Moreover, no pianolas, no gramophones, no parrots, no poodles, for M. FalliÈres (who owns the building of flats in which he has decided to reside) has warned his tenants that no such nuisance will be tolerated when he moves to his new quarters. The simple, the ordinary life! Morocco, etc., etc., etc.—only memories. Never ceremonious banquets, with ChÂteau Yquem, and Morton Rothschild, and Lafite, and the finest of Extra Secs. Modest luncheons and dinners en famille. And for wine, nothing but the sour, little white grape of Loupillon.

It has been said that the best rulers are those who feel an extreme disinclination to rule, and who only consent to accept authority under a strong sense of duty. If this be true, then unquestionably M. Émile Loubet and M. Armand FalliÈres were good and loyal presidents, who, without personal ambition and at the cost of their own tastes, as well as of their own interests, served the Republic—for seven years, each of them—to the very best of their knowledge and power. And upon this question of power one has to keep in mind that M. le PrÉsident, though he holds the title of Chief of the State, is very much in the hands of his ministers. He forms ministries? Yes; but here, too, it is not always the most competent and disinterested men, in France particularly, who are most eager for office. Nothing can be more unjust than to make admirable M. Émile Loubet, excellent M. Armand FalliÈres, responsible for everything that happened, and especially for everything that went wrong, during the two periods of seven years these patriotic French citizens devoted to the service of their country.

The difficulties of M. le PrÉsident, the impertinent disregard of his rank in the State shown by the very men he has called to power, is a favourite theme of playwrights and novelists. In L’Habit Vert, the brilliant, satirical comedy by MM. de Flers and de Caillavet, just produced at the VariÉtÉs theatre, a Cabinet Minister submits an important political telegram for the President’s official approbation. “Yes, that will do; send it off immediately,” says M. le PrÉsident. “That’s all right; it was sent half-an-hour ago,” replies the Minister. Then, in that famous comedy, Le Roi, which so rejoiced the heart of King Edward the Seventh, the French Premier to one of his colleagues: “Cormeau, the Minister of Commerce, has just resigned. Nearly a Ministerial Crisis, but we have escaped it. Telephone the name of Cormeau’s successor, and that all is well, to the Press, the Chamber, the Senate, the Palace of Justice, and—ah yes, I forgot—to the President of the Republic.”

On the top of all this, M. le PrÉsident, although practically in the hands of Messieurs les Ministres, is held responsible by the public for the possible blunders and follies and sins of the Cabinet. Salary, £40,000 a year, with all kinds of substantial “perquisites.” Residences: the Palace of the ÉlysÉe and the ChÂteau de Rambouillet. Ironical official title: Chief of the State. Result: Morocco, Floods, or the Dreyfus Affair, helplessness and worry, collapse of the respiratory organ. But, thank heaven! M. le PrÉsident recovereth his breath when the time comes for another to take his place: and he himself may drift into a dressing-gown and carpet slippers and exclaim of his successor, by the tranquil, unofficial fireside: “Ce pauvre——!” Successor at the ÉlysÉe. Who will he be? Of course, after the lofty and admirable statesmanship he has exhibited throughout the Balkan conflict, M. PoincarÉ, the Prime Minister, is hailed by the man in the street as the future Chief of the State? But elegant M. Paul Deschanel, of the French Academy, President of the Chamber of Deputies, and a would-be President of the Republic for the last fourteen years, is also mentioned; and impetuous, despotic, sallow-faced M. Georges Clemenceau, in spite of his recent delirious ups and downs, has hosts of followers. Solid M. Ribot is stated to be an eager candidate. M. LÉon Bourgeois (who did such fine work at The Hague Peace Conference) would probably be elected, were there a Madame Bourgeois to “receive” officially at the ÉlysÉe. After that, M. DelcassÉ, M. LÉpine, M. Briand, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, M. Dranem the comic singer, “Monte Carlo Wells.” But I am anticipating events. I am also in peril of appearing incoherent; so let me hasten to declare that the last-named candidates for the Presidency of the Third Republic are but the gay “selections” of that inveterate gossip in a certain boulevard newspaper. And, that made clear, let us for the moment leave the emptiness of political ambition and share in the dressing-gown and carpet-slipper mood of M. Armand FalliÈres.

3. M. Raymond PoincarÉ and the Record of M. LÉpine

Last February (1913) must be accounted an important month in the history of the Third French Republic. Away, after his seven years’ official tenancy of the ÉlysÉe, went M. Armand FalliÈres to a comfortable bourgeois appartement, there, no doubt, to recall, in dressing-gown and carpet slippers, the rare joys and successes and the many shocks and miseries of his Septennat, and to speculate upon the destiny reserved for his successor, ninth President of the Republic, M. Raymond PoincarÉ.

No commonplace destiny—that was certain. M. FalliÈres took possession of the ÉlysÉe amidst general indifference; M. Émile Loubet assumed office amongst eggs, threats, vegetable stalks, shouts of “traitor” and “bandit”: but M. PoincarÉ found Paris en fÊte—flags flying, hats and handkerchiefs whirling, the crowd in its Sunday best—on the day that he became Chief of the State.

A vast popularity, M. PoincarÉ’s! Exclaimed M. le Bourgeois: “At last we have got a strong man for a President! For the first time, there will be a master at the ÉlysÉe.” On all sides, indeed, it was agreed that M. PoincarÉ’s election to the Presidency signified the collapse of the tradition that the Chief of the State should be a figure-head, a mere signer of documents, placed, none too ceremoniously, before him by his Ministers.

Thus, a new rÉgime had dawned. PoincarÉ was “going to wake things up”; PoincarÉ was also “going to do things”; what precisely PoincarÉ was going to do nobody could explain; but “Vive PoincarÉ,” was the cry of the hour; and not only in luxurious, radiant Paris, but in grim, industrial centres, dull, provincial towns, and remote, obscure hamlets. Such a popularity that into the shop windows came PoincarÉ Pipes, PoincarÉ Braces, PoincarÉ Walking Sticks, the PoincarÉ Safety Razor. Then, on restaurant menus: ConsommÉ PoincarÉ—Poulet PoincarÉ—Omelette PoincarÉ. More PoincarÉ, smiling and bowing, on dizzy kinematograph films and in the music hall revues; and imagine, if you can, the sale of PoincarÉ photographs in the flashy arcade of the rue de Rivoli! “PoincarÉ and Gaby Deslys—that’s what we are selling,” the shopkeepers stated. “But PoincarÉ is surpassing the blonde, elegant Gaby.”

In a word, nothing but PoincarÉ, only PoincarÉ, until the announcement that M. LÉpine, Chief of the Paris Police, had tendered his resignation, that his decision to retire was “irrevocable.” Then M. LÉpine leading in the photographic commerce of the rue de Rivoli: and M. PoincarÉ a poor second, and the blonde Mademoiselle Deslys a remote third. Elsewhere and everywhere, M. LÉpine and his resignation superseded M. PoincarÉ and the New RÉgime, as the one and only topic of conversation. For twenty years the Chief of the Police had governed his own departments of Paris with extraordinary skill. Throughout that period he had practically lived in the streets: repressing riots, scattering criminals, dispersing Royalist conspirators, controlling fires, directing all manner of grim or poignant or delirious operations—a short, slender, insignificant-looking figure, in ill-fitting clothes, a dusty “bowler” hat, and square, creaking boots. With him, a shabby umbrella or a stout, common walking-stick, the latter the only weapon he ever carried. Never more than four or five hours’ sleep: even then the telephone placed at his bedside.

It was all work with M. LÉpine—all energy, all courage. The most familiar figure in the streets, he soon became the most famous and most popular of State servants. Cried M. le Bourgeois, whilst out walking with his small son: “VoilÀ—regarde bien—voilÀ LÉpine!”

Everyone “saluted” him, all political parties (except the United Socialists, who admire no one) applauded him. There was (with the same solitary exception) general rejoicing when the dusty, intrepid little Chief of the Police received the supreme distinction of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour.

Yes; a popularity even vaster than M. PoincarÉ’s. Gossips remarked that it was curious that the Presidency of the one should synchronise with the resignation of the other. Critics agreed that if France had gained a strong Chief of the State she had lost an incomparable Chief of the Police. Alarm of M. le Bourgeois, who had got to regard M. LÉpine as his special protector. Once again, and for the hundredth time, M. LÉpine became the hero of the hour. And, as I have already recorded, there was a rush for LÉpine photographs—LÉpine side and full face, LÉpine gay or severe, LÉpine with Grand Cross or shabby umbrella, and a decided “slump” in PoincarÉs and blonde, bejewelled Gaby Deslys’ in the rue de Rivoli arcade.

Impossible, in the space at my disposal, to give more than an idea of M. LÉpine’s amazing record. Born at Lyons in 1846, he is now sixty-seven years of age—a mere nothing for a Frenchman of genius. At thirty he was already Under-Prefect of the Department of the Indre. Successively he was Prefect of the Seine-et-Oise, General Secretary of the PrÉfecture de Police, Governor-General of Algeria, and Chief of the Police. From a biographical dictionary that devotes pages and pages to Louis LÉpine, I take the following passages:—“Actif et ferme, il parvint À rÉtablir les relations rompues entre le Conseil Municipal de Paris et la PrÉfecture de Police, et opÉra d’importantes rÉformes.... NommÉ Gouverneur-GÉnÉral de l’AlgÉrie, il apporta en plan de grands travaux publics et de rÉformes.... NommÉ Conseiller d’État, il prit de nouveau la direction de la PrÉfecture de Police. Il s’est occupÉ de refondre tous les rÈglements administratifs relatifs au service de la navigation et de la circulation dans Paris, et un vaste RÉpertoire de Police a paru sous sa direction.” Thus it will be seen that M. LÉpine was always “reforming,” for ever reorganising, unfailingly “active” and “firm.” He it was who “reformed” the nervous, excitable Paris police in the delirious Dreyfus days of 1899. To their astonishment he preached calm.

“Mais oui, mais oui, mais oui, du calme, nom d’un nom,” he expostulated. “You charge the crowd for no reason. You thump the innocent bourgeois on the back and tear off his collar. You exasperate the Latin Quarter. You are making an inferno of the boulevards. You are bringing ridicule and discredit on the force. In future, I myself shall direct operations.”

Dreyfus riots every day and every night, and M. LÉpine in the thick of them. Short and slender, he was swept about and almost submerged by the Anti-Dreyfus mob. He lost his hat, his umbrella, but never his temper. He was to be seen swarming up lamp-posts, that he might discover the extent of the crowd and whether reinforcements of agitators were coming up side streets, and from which particular windows stones, bottles and lighted fusÉes were being hurled. His orders he issued by prearranged gesticulations. Not only the police, but the Municipal and Republican Guards, had been taught to understand the significance of his signals. A wave of the arm, and it meant “charge.” But it was only in desperate extremities that M. LÉpine sent the crowd flying, battered and wounded. Pressure was his policy; six or seven rows of policemen advancing slowly yet heavily upon the manifestants, truncheon in hand and the formidable horses and shining helmets of the Republican Guard in the rear. When, upon a particularly tumultuous occasion, the “pressure” was resisted, and a number of boulevard kiosks were blazing and heads, too, were on fire, M. LÉpine implored assistance—from Above.

“Send me rain,” he begged audibly of the heavens, “send me torrents of rain.” And the heavens responded, so people affirmed. A few minutes later the heavens sent M. LÉpine thunder, lightning and a deluge that reduced the blazing kiosks to hissing, sodden ruins; cleared the frantic boulevards; allowed police, soldiers and even M. LÉpine to go to bed. But, on the other hand, caused Jules GuÉrin and his fellow outlaws and conspirators against the Republic to exult wildly and grotesquely on the roof of Fort Chabrol. For GuÉrin was short of water. The supply had been cut off and GuÉrin’s only salvation was surrender or rain. And it rained, and it poured and it thundered. The heavens were equally kind to Rebel, and Chief of the Police. Up there on the roof of conspiring Fort Chabrol assembled GuÉrin and his companions with baths, buckets and basins; with jugs, glasses and mugs; all of which speedily overflowed with the rain. Down there in the street, the soldiers in occupation of the besieged thoroughfare stared upwards, open-mouthed, at the amazing spectacle on the roof—GuÉrin and Company joining hands and dancing with glee amidst their multitudinous rain-catching vessels; GuÉrin bending perilously over the parapet and roaring forth between the explosions of thunder and the flashes of lightning: “We have got enough water for months. Tell LÉpine we defy him.” Another jig from GuÉrin et Cie. GuÉrin once again at the edge of the parapet, mockingly drinking the health of the soldiers below, and then emptying baths full of water into the street and bellowing: “VoilÀ de l’eau,” and performing such delirious, dangerous antics that it was deemed necessary to telephone an account of the scene to the Chief of the Police. “Let him dance his jigs all night in the rain; it will cool him,” replied M. LÉpine. “Je le connais: he is too clever to fall over the parapet.”

Nor did GuÉrin capsize. Nor yet did M. LÉpine put an end to the jigs on the roof—to the rest of the Fort Chabrol farce—until Paris had been appeased by the Rennes Court Martial verdict, and the acutest stage of the Anti-Dreyfusard agitation died out amidst exclamations of: “C’est fini! Quelle sacrÉe affaire! Quel cauchemar! Enfin, n’en parlons plus.”

After the lurid autumn of 1899 came a particularly bleak, cheerless winter. So bitter was the weather that fond mothers kept their children indoors, and thus Edouard and Yvonne yawned with boredom in their nurseries, and quarrelled, and exchanged blows, and gave way to tears.

“Toys are not what they used to be,” complained a mother to M. LÉpine. “They are stupid or vulgar, and children get tired of them.”

This set M. LÉpine thinking. Like all Frenchmen, a lover of children, the Chief of the Police realised that the arrival of winter was a grief and a blow to Edouard and Yvonne. If they couldn’t rejoice in the open, they must be enabled to rejoice in their homes; and the way of rejoicing at home is with toys. But toys, so said that mother, had deteriorated: and this grave state of affairs M. LÉpine resolved to investigate. Behold him, therefore, gazing critically—officially—into the windows of toy-shops, and hear him declaring, as the result of his inspections, that the toys, truly enough, were old-fashioned, and vapid, and banal—poor things to play with in the nursery after the Guignol and roundabouts of the Luxembourg Gardens, and the other delights and surprises to be enjoyed in summer en plein air. Thus “reforms” were imperative.

In a long, official circular M. LÉpine informed the toy manufacturers of Paris that, with the consent of the Government and with the approval of the President of the Republic, an annual Toy Exhibition was to be held, and that prizes and diplomas would be awarded to those manufacturers who displayed the greatest originality in their work. However, not ungainly, ugly originality. “Pas de golliwogs.” Messieurs les Apaches also prohibited; and a stern, official reprimand to the toy-maker in whose window M. LÉpine had discovered a miniature guillotine.

“Des choses amiables, gaies, pratiques, douces, humaines, humoristiques.”

Toys to amuse and also to quicken Edouard and Yvonne’s imagination and intellect. Well, the Paris toy-makers responded brilliantly. The first exhibition was an overwhelming success, and to-day it has become a State Institution. Not only is there the “Prize of the President of the Republic,” but M. le PrÉsident himself visits the show. Then prizes from the Presidents of the Chamber and Senate, prizes from every Cabinet Minister, prizes from the Judges of the Paris Law Courts, and more prizes from scientists, men of letters, the leading newspapers, the haute bourgeoisie, the grand monde. Thus, what an inducement for the toy manufacturers to do their utmost! This winter’s Exhibition I missed, but a letter from a French father of five informed me that it had “surpassed” itself. Continued my friend: “Des choses Épatantes, merveilleuses, inouÏes! I confess, mon vieux, that I go there all by myself; yes, without my five children.” Thus M. le Bourgeois (to which excellent category of society my friend belongs) goes to the LÉpine Exhibition “on his own.” Surely only a Frenchman could find pleasure in that? And surely only a French Chief of the Police—fancy suggesting such a thing to Scotland Yard!—could, in the midst of his grim, poignant or delirious duties, evince so charming and tender a consideration for children as to realise that it is a question of interest to public order that children shall have toys “original” enough to marvel at and rejoice over, during the bleak months of winter. But, inevitably, as in all admirable works, in all excellent reforms, there are drawbacks; and in this particular case they are obvious. For instance, a whole “set” of the First Act of Chantecler: innumerable chicks and chickens, the Blackbird in his cage, the dog Patou in his kennel, proud, majestic Chantecler on the hedge of the farm-yard, the radiant Hen Pheasant, the lurid-eyed Night Birds, trees, haystacks, a pump... price 300 francs.

“Papa, do please buy me all this, immediately,” demands Yvonne tremulously, passionately, her eyes shining, her cheeks aflame.

“Papa, I want all this,” shouts Edouard, pointing to a vast array of soldiers, cannon, ambulances, aeroplanes and air-ships engaged in military manoeuvres. Price 420 francs.

“But you have only five francs each to spend. For the love of heaven, be reasonable. Ah, nom d’un nom, all the world is looking and laughing at us,” cries the unfortunate father.

Scowls and sulkiness from Edouard; tears and shrill hysterics from Yvonne. When informed of these tragic scenes, M. LÉpine exclaims: “Poor little dears! But what can I do? Impossible to buy a whole farm-yard or an army with a piece of five francs.”

After toys, let me take pictures—the incomparable Monna Lisa, who, when She vanished, disturbed even the proverbial calm of M. LÉpine. All France sent him “clues.” Every post brought him shoals of letters that strangely and severally denounced a Woman in a Shawl, Three Men in Blue Aprons, a Man with a Sack, a Negro with a Diamond Ring, a Turk in a Fez, and a Man Dressed as a Woman, as Monna Lisa’s base abductor. In each case these singular beings were said to have been seen carrying an object of the exact dimensions of the stolen picture. Also, their demeanour “was excited,” their “hands trembled” as they clutched the precious masterpiece, and they jumped into a passing cab or hurled themselves into a train just as it was steaming out of the station. “Believe me, M. le PrÉfet,” concluded M. LÉpine’s incoherent informants, “believe me, I have given you an exact description of the culprit.” Then, letters of abuse, threatening letters, letters from practical jokers, letters demanding interviews—all of which had (under French law) to be considered and classified. Again, telegram upon telegram, and the telephone bell always ringing.

“If I cannot speak to M. LÉpine himself, I won’t speak to anyone. And then the picture will be lost for ever,” stated a voice through the telephone.

“Well, what is it?” demanded M. LÉpine, at last coming to the machine.

“Ecoutez-moi bien, M. le PrÉfet. My name is Charles Henri Durand. I am forty-seven years of age. I am a papermaker by profession. And I live on the third floor of No. 16 rue de Rome,” related the voice through the telephone.

“After that, after that! Quickly! Au galop!” cried M. LÉpine.

“Monsieur le PrÉfet, my information is grave and I must not be hurried,” continued the voice. “At the very hour of the theft of the picture I was passing the Louvre. Suddenly, a man jostled me. He was carrying what was undoubtedly a picture in a sack. He hastened down a side street, casting suspicious glances about him. He was a Man with a Squint and——”

“Ah, zut,” cried the Chief of the Police, hanging up the receiver.

And on the top of all this incoherency, light-headedness. Always and always, when Paris is shaken by a sensational affaire, some light-headed soul loses what remains of his reason. On to the Place de la Concorde came a pale-faced, wild-eyed man, with a chair. After mounting the chair, he folded his arms across his chest and broke out into a fixed, ghastly grin. As he stood motionless on his chair, always grinning, a crowd inevitably assembled, and M. LÉpine appeared.

“What are you doing there?” demanded the latter.

“Hush! I am Monna Lisa,” replied the Man with the Grin.

“Then at last we have found you!” exclaimed the Chief of the Police. “All France has been mourning your loss. Come with me quickly. You must return immediately to the Louvre.”

“Yes, yes,” assented the light-headed one, descending from his chair and confidently passing his arm under the arm of M. LÉpine. “Take me home to the Louvre.”

A wonderful spectacle, the Man with the Grin disappearing on the arm of the Chief of the Police, relating, as he went, that he had escaped from his frame in the Louvre in the dead of the night.

A wonderful spectacle was M. LÉpine a few nights later, when “directing operations” at a disastrous fire on the Boulevard Sebastopol. In the sight of the crowd he struggled into oilskins, and next was to be seen stationing the engines, dragging about hose, pushing forward ladders, signalling and shouting forth encouragement and patience to the occupants of the blazing house. On this, as on all similar occasions, M. LÉpine was blackened and singed when at last the fire had been mastered. But never have I beheld him so blackened, so dishevelled and battered, so courageous and capable as when he came to the rescue of the “victims” of the devastating Paris floods. Up and down the swollen, lurid river he careered in a shabby old boat. At once-pleasant river-side places, such as Boulogne and SurÈsnes, he was to be found chest-deep in the turbid, yellow-green water—always signalling, always “firmly” and “actively” “directing operations.” He climbed into the upper windows of tottering, flooded houses; briskly made his way across narrow plank bridges; distributed here, there and everywhere blankets, medicaments, provisions—the mud and slime of the river caked hard on his oilskins. As he passed by in his boat, the most bedraggled figure in Paris, loud cries of “Vive LÉpine” from the bridges and quays; and, indeed, wherever he went, M. le PrÉfet de Police excited respect and admiration. I see him, in top hat and frock coat, “receiving” the late King Edward VII. in the draughty Northern Station. I see him pointing out the beauties of Paris to the present Prince of Wales. I see him surrounded by the turbulent students of the Latin Quarter, whither he has been summoned to check their demonstrations against some unpopular professor. I see him examining (in the interests of the public) the clocks of motor cabs, the cushions of railway carriages, the seating conditions in theatres, the very benches and penny chairs in the Bois de Boulogne. Finally, I see him as he is to-day; no longer Chief of the Police, but a private “citizen,” established in a spacious, comfortable appartement, which, to the admiration and excitement of naÏve, bourgeois Parisians, is equipped with no fewer than two bathrooms.

“With two bathrooms our admirable LÉpine will have plenty to do,” states M. le Bourgeois. “They are a responsibility, as well as a pleasure; but, of course, they will not prove too much for a man like LÉpine.” Then up speaks a primitive soul: “One is free to bathe and free not to bathe. But to have two bathrooms is scandalous: and I should not have thought it of LÉpine.”

However, in the opinion of a third critic, M. LÉpine should be permitted to have ninety-nine bathrooms if he likes. Twenty-two years Chief of the Police, he is now entitled to do as he pleases. So leave his two bathrooms alone.

“When a man has retired, he must have distractions with which to occupy his mind and his leisure.”

But if, as reported, M. LÉpine loves his pair of bathrooms, he loves the streets better. As in his official days, behold him here, there and everywhere. A brawl or a fire, and there he is. Now in an omnibus, next in the underground railway, up at Montmartre, down on the boulevards, amidst exclamations of “VoilÀ LÉpine!” and the salutes of the police. Only a private “citizen,” but he is still addressed as “M. le PrÉfet.” Merely the master of a comfortable appartement, of a couple of bathrooms—but is that enough for a Frenchman of action and genius? Gossips predict that M. LÉpine will next be seen in the Chamber of Deputies, or that he will help M. Georges Clemenceau to wake up the Senate—the “Palais du Sommeil.” For my own part I fancy that, should a crisis arrive, the ex-Chief of the Police will be requested to “direct operations” again.

“There is a telephone in my new home,” M. LÉpine is reported to have said. “If the Government should want me back, it has only to ring me up.”