But Gambetta did not convince M. de St. Vallier, and he insisted on retiring from the diplomatic service, a fact which I have reasons to believe he regretted later on.

The great dream of Gambetta was to establish a modus vivendi and a kind of understanding with Germany. He knew very well how useless it is in life to go back on things which are already accomplished, and to cry over spilt milk. And he did not care for France to go on living in the state of qui vive which had been hers ever since the disasters which had accompanied the war of 1870. He knew also that he had far greater chances to take into his hands the reins of government, and to keep them if once he had succeeded in doing away with this fear of a German aggression, which haunted the public mind. He was no partisan of compulsory service, and did not approve of too great military expenses, entered into by fear of an imaginary danger. That it was imaginary he was convinced, because he knew very well that Germany was in the same position in which Napoleon III. had found himself: that of risking the loss of everything and gaining nothing from a new campaign. But this conviction which was his alone he could not persuade others to share, and for this reason he tried to arrange an interview between himself and Prince von Bismarck.

A great deal has been written about this episode, and several of Gambetta’s friends have done their best to try to induce the public to forget it. I don’t know why they believed that it was not to his honour. Nor why, either, Gambetta could not have met the German Chancellor when other French political men had done so without anyone saying a single word against it. By every sensible person the idea of this interview could only have been hailed with pleasure. Two great minds like those could not but have found together the solution of many difficulties which divided the two nations, and it would have been doing the greatest injustice to Leon Gambetta to imagine that he would not have borne himself with the dignity necessary to the representative of a great country.

It was Count Henckel von Donnersmarck, the husband of Madame de Paiva, whose fame still lives in Paris, who was sounded by Gambetta as to the possibility of a meeting between himself and Bismarck, and he did his very best to arrange it in such a manner that it might not become known to the public, at least not until after it had actually taken place. Unfortunately outward circumstances interfered with this plan, and Gambetta had to forgo his intention, partly because his great friend Ranc told him that if he ventured on such a thing he would entirely lose the confidence of the Radical party. Whether it was this consideration or another one, the fact remains that he felt afraid at the last minute, in view of the hostility of his constituents, to incur the responsibility of a step which his intelligence and his intuition told him was the best for the interests of the France he loved so dearly.

Much has been written, and much surmised, concerning the death of Gambetta. It is now pretty certain that the wound which he received was not its immediate cause, which must be looked for elsewhere, and can be attributed partly to his general constitution, which was considerably impaired, and partly to the treatment which had been applied to him. But upon this point it must not be forgotten that at that time operations were not the usual thing that they have become since, and surgical intervention was generally dreaded, and resorted to only as a last resource.

As to the pistol shot, about which so many suppositions have been made, I think that in spite of Gambetta’s own denials there can be hardly a matter of doubt that it was a lady who, in a fit of fury, had inflicted the wound that disabled him. It is no secret now, that Gambetta was on the point of marrying a lady of high social standing, the Marchioness Arconati-Visconti, the daughter of the Senator Peyrat, and the widow of a Milanese nobleman. That union was to put the seal to his career, and to open for him many new vistas. As the husband of a beautiful, accomplished woman of the world, he could in time aspire to anything and, who knows, become President of the Republic for life, which was his dearest secret wish.

But in order to accomplish his desire, he had first to end a situation that did not date from yesterday, to cut off an intimacy of twenty years with a noble woman who had been his friend in the bad as well as in the good days, and who had given him innumerable proofs of her devotion. Gambetta was well aware of the difficulties which such a step presented, and for a long time he had not the courage to tackle the subject, hoping that she would hear something about his new plans, and herself begin the conversation on this delicate matter. The lady, however, kept silent, perhaps because she did not believe in the rumours which had reached her, and partly because she would not give her friend the opportunity he was seeking. At last Gambetta asked his old comrade Spuller to see her and to try to persuade her to have the courage to sacrifice herself to his welfare. He reasoned like a man, and an ungrateful man into the bargain, and she refused to accept the solution which was offered to her, and which might have soothed the pride of a person more devoid of feelings of attachment for her lover of long years than was the case with her. She dismissed Spuller with scorn, and rushed to Ville d’Avray, where Gambetta was residing, in order to seek an interview that could only be a stormy one.

It was during this interview that Gambetta was wounded. And those who were made aware of all the circumstances attending this drama of feminine jealousy, knew who it was that fired the fatal shot which lodged itself in the right hand of the French statesman. When he himself was questioned as to the accident, he always said that he had wounded himself in trying to clean a revolver, a circumstance that was the more unlikely because he was seldom in possession of such a weapon. Moreover, to some of his friends, like Spuller and Paul Bert, he only remarked that he had got nothing but what he had deserved.

Perhaps it was this consciousness which made him so patient during his illness, and also so shy of seeing anyone, even his friends, whilst it lasted. He used to lie quietly, with closed eyes, and avoid any conversations that could have touched upon the subject of the accident which had occurred to him. And when later on other symptoms made their appearance, he begged the people who surrounded him to say everywhere that these symptoms had nothing to do with his wound.

If, in his dying moments, he was conscious, he must have regretted deeply his ingratitude in regard to the woman who had loved him with such true affection, and who had been tempted to an act of despair when she learned that she was about to be forsaken for one who certainly did not have for Gambetta the same passionate affection. It was after all the sweet lady who had for so long had him in her affections who watched over his deathbed, and who closed his eyes for ever, whilst the proud lady for whose sake he had been about to sacrifice her never even made an appearance at Ville d’Avray. She went on living her former life as if no tragedy had crossed it, after death had removed from this worldly scene the great politician to whom ambition had very nearly united her.

And now that years have passed over this drama, since the removal from the scene of political France of the great patriot who was called Leon Gambetta, it is still very difficult to form a true judgment about him. He died before he had given the full measure of his qualities, or shown the real stuff he was made of. He was for too short a time in a responsible position to allow us to say whether he would have proved as able a leader of a government as he had shown himself to be a powerful leader of men. The two things are very different, and the man who can master one is found sometimes to be lacking in the other. What, however, cannot be taken away from him is his true, earnest patriotism, the absence of all vanity that distinguished him, his readiness to sacrifice everything in his power at the shrine of his fatherland, and his desire to serve it, according to what he considered to be its interests. He was fearless in his devotion, and worked for his country without paying any attention to the reproaches of the crowd.

The man was colossal in his way, and there was nothing mean about him. His conceptions were as great as his soul. Of course he was often mistaken, like every human being, but he was always sincere even in his errors, and he never hesitated to acknowledge the latter when they were shown to him.

Reared in different circumstances, and able to show his value otherwise than by starting on the road of revolution, which bordered very closely on anarchy, he might have become truly a great man. He had all the instincts of one—and all the imperfections. He was authoritative and could be very firm, but he tried always to be just, and avoided wounding others, even his adversaries, as much as it was possible for him to do so. He was invariably courteous, even in his exhibitions of rage, and essentially kind, a faithful friend, and a gallant enemy. Hated by those who had never known him, or met him personally, he contrived to fascinate all those who had done so; they always went away from him liking the man, even when condemning the politician. He had a careless manner in talking about his foes, which was superb in its way, and though he seldom spoke about himself, yet he liked to find that he was respected, feared, or even abused.

The one thing he never could have reconciled himself to would have been to be ignored, and this indignity was spared him. Perhaps it was better for his memory that he died in the full force of his talent, and before he had reached the maturity of his years—perhaps it was a pity. Who knows?

CHAPTER XXI

The Adventure of General Boulanger

To those who were in Paris at that period, it is more than difficult to account for the sudden blossoming of this very inferior plant in the garden of French political life, whilst those who have never lived in the French capital will utterly fail to realise the circumstances that brought it into evidence. The fact is that Boulangism was the product of the private ambitions of a considerable number of people who, strange as it may seem, had nothing to do with each other, and who did not work together to ensure triumph. On the other hand, each individual directed his effort to securing for himself alone all the benefit arising from the movement, and in this General Boulanger played no part at all, though he appeared to be the leading spirit of the whole intrigue associated with his name.

The rise into popularity of General Boulanger took place some little time after the election of M. Sadi Carnot to the Presidency of the Republic. Carnot was a perfect type of the bourgeoisie of Paris of the olden days—always cool and methodical, severe in his principles, strong in his convictions, rather narrow-minded in his views; an austere figure, the embodiment of honesty, self-respect personified. His very possessions he looked upon merely as a means for commanding an added respect, and throughout his life he was also a strict observer of the law. To these sterling qualities, however, he added nothing that appealed to the hearts of his countrymen. He did not excite public enthusiasm, and scarcely succeeded in winning for himself public sympathies. He was too correct, and perhaps this extreme observance of his duties, whether political, social, or private, interfered with his popularity; nations, as well as individuals, do not care to be always confronted by perfection; they are apt to think it rather dull.

Under such circumstances it is little wonder that people began to look beyond the President of the Republic for the hero which they had yearned after ever since the disasters of the Franco-German War had awakened in them the desire for revenge on the victors. Further, there were certain ambitious politicians who wanted to come into the limelight, and who felt that the steady determination of M. Carnot to govern according to strictly constitutional principles left no room for them or for their plans.

The Republic, at that distant time of which I am writing, was not yet established so firmly in the heart of the people that its overthrow could not be admitted within the range of possibilities. Is it therefore to be wondered that those who longed for change should have looked around them for the man strong enough to lead such an adventure?

Boulanger, beyond looking well on his black horse, had but little to recommend him as a possible destroyer of the Republic. Still, he was a general, a position which has always possessed great prestige in the eyes of a certain section of French society. He was not shrewd enough to observe where his so-called friends were trying to lead him. As a consequence he allowed himself to be carried away by the tide that at last threw him against the rocks of Jersey, where his political career ended even before his life came to a sudden close in the little churchyard of Uxelles, near Brussels.

There is no denying that Boulangism was engineered by the Royalist party on the one side, and by some enterprising journalists on the other. Either of these two circumstances would have been enough in itself ultimately to wreck the cause, but at the beginning it appeared in the light of a movement which appealed so well to the sympathies and to the feelings of the whole nation that it seemed even more formidable from a distance than when in its midst.

Everything conspired to transform it into a vast conspiracy. When, after the fall of the Goblet ministry, in which he held the portfolio of the War Office, Boulanger found himself obliged to retire from political life, and was transferred to the command of an army corps at Clermont Ferrand, he could not reconcile himself to his exile, but used to come back

secretly and disguised to Paris, to see Madame de Bonnemains, who had sacrificed for him her social position in a most select circle of Parisian society. Once or twice people met him in disguise, and recognised him, in spite of a pair of blue spectacles behind which he fondly hoped he would remain unknown. Thereupon he was immediately invested with mystery and romance by those who hoped to find in him a docile instrument to further their personal ambitions; and so, in order to compel those in power to deprive him of his command, he was accused of conspiring against the safety of the Republic. Thus, by restoring him to private life, he had thrust upon him by these intriguers the opportunity to aspire to the supreme functions of Head of the State.

For some time even staunch Republicans looked at him with dread. The next step was taken by an unknown journalist, who came forth suddenly as the apostle of this new messiah, and who conceived the idea of distributing, in several departments, bulletins of votes bearing the name of General Boulanger.

In a few days, therefore, France heard with amazement that a multitude of voters had expressed their willingness to send Boulanger as a deputy to the Chamber, a thing undreamt of but for M. George Thiebaud’s adventurous experiment. It was M. Thiebaud who had created Boulangism. He was not the only factor in fostering the movement. Another journalist, one who was well known on the boulevards, M. Arthur Meyer, the proprietor of the Gaulois, Count Dillon, and the private secretary of the Comte de Paris, the Marquis de Beauvoir—all played a part. All three were men of no mean intelligence, who saw possibilities in this man to whom the attention of France had been attracted for bringing back to the throne of their ancestors those Orleans Princes who had failed to secure for themselves the help of Marshal MacMahon during the time he reigned at the Elysée.

These three men were credited, in the estimation of those behind the scenes, with starting this extraordinary adventure which ended so piteously for its principal character. They furthermore drew into the enterprise three other strong elements—Henri Rochefort, Count Albert de Mun, and the Duchesse d’Uzés, while through their influence also became champions, though in lesser degree, such men as Paul Déroulède and George Laguerre—an advocate of great talent, who nevertheless is forgotten to-day—and Lucien Millevoye, who was given charge of one of the most important missions that those who played with the name of Boulanger ever entrusted to their adherents.

Strange to say, each one of these persons, down to Madame Adam, who, almost unknown to herself, was also drawn into the many dark intrigues to which Boulangism gave rise, worked for a different aim. The Duchess d’Uzés, when asked to contribute financially to the success of the enterprise, was actuated by the secret desire to become the Egeria of the new hero whose star was rising in the firmament of her country’s existence, and to rule that country under his name. Albert de Mun thought only of the restoration of the Monarchy. The Marquis de Beauvoir saw himself so firmly established in the confidence of the Comte de Paris that the latter would feel himself in honour bound to stand by him whenever one of those financial catastrophes, which were periodical events with him, should once again occur. Henri Rochefort was actuated by his everlasting mania of opposing every existing government, a mania to which he owed his success as a journalist and as a politician, and to which he would only have given way with more virulence than before had some freak of fortune really brought to the pinnacle Boulanger and his black horse. Arthur Meyer saw in the emprise the opportunity to present himself before the world as the statesman he firmly believed himself to be. Others, such as Déroulède, imagined that the General would conquer at the point of his sword those provinces which had been snatched from France; or Laguerre, who hoped for a substantial financial reward, and Millevoye, who aspired to become the Prime Minister of a President of Republic after his own heart—all these men worked with the same tools for different purposes. They were interested in the cause they were supporting, but they did not believe in it otherwise than as a means to an end.

Whether they would have gone on fighting under the same flag had that cause triumphed is another question. Very probably not; but while the struggle lasted, they threw themselves into it with all the faculties for good or for evil with which nature had endowed them. And when the battle was lost, the disillusion was equally bitter for each of them.

Any attempt to analyse the different phases through which Boulangism had to pass can only result in wonder that it could have maintained its popularity for such a relatively considerable time, and also that it aroused the serious apprehensions which permeated the ranks of the Republican supporters of the government. The party had no leader except the irresolute General whom it had adopted.

Madame d’Uzés, who was in possession of a considerable fortune through her mother, was a woman who had never been handsome. She was intelligent, like all the Mortemart family to which she belonged, ambitious, rather tyrannical in character, and violent in her temper when she was opposed or annoyed. She had been left a widow while still young, and enjoyed a foremost position in the Faubourg St. Germain owing to her great name and immense riches. One of her daughters had married the Duc de Brissac, the second one was the Duchesse de Luynes. She was allied to the bluest blood of France, and had Court precedence been in vogue, she would have held first rank. She had nothing to gain and everything to lose by throwing herself into the arms of the “Brave Général,” and the cause which led her to join the ranks of Boulangism must have been that she had imagined that when once the “King” had entered again into his inheritance, the part she had played in that restoration would win for her a foremost place in his confidence, would ensure for her an exclusive position among the ranks of his advisers. Then, too, if the truth must be told, like so many women before her, she had also been fascinated by the personal charm of Boulanger, and when in his presence her heart, old though it was already, would beat just a little faster than usual. Her desire to rescue her idol from the fascinations of the woman who held him tied to her apron strings may also have had something to do with the facility with which she opened her purse to him as well as the doors of her house.

Not only did she become his friend, but also the confidante of his ambitions; of his deceptions; of his ever-increasing bitterness at the daily insults and the calumnies which were showered upon him by some of his former friends who accused him of treason against their party; of his doubts concerning the so-called virtues of the Republicans as well as of the Republic itself. She used to comfort him, turn his thoughts away from such vexatious matters, and try to win him over almost imperceptibly to her own political ideas. At last she thought she had succeeded; but she had not sufficient perspicacity to judge of the true character of Boulanger, who had never understood anything in the way of politics except the old saying: “Otes toi de là, que je m’y mette!” (“Get out from there in order that I may step into your place!”)

Count Albert de Mun was the only really strong man who had joined the ranks of the Boulangists—I mean strong in the sense of principles and opinions. He was the son of the charming Eugénie de la Forronays, one of the most delightful among the gallery of delightful women who adorn that so widely read book, the “Récit d’une Sœur,” by Mrs. Augustus Craven. He had been singularly blessed by Providence with all the qualities, physical, moral, and intellectual, that help to make a man attractive. He had talent, moreover, and remarkable eloquence, and he believed in monarchy as a system and as a tradition to which all his past as well as that of his race enjoined him to remain faithful. He had earnestly hoped that through Boulanger the cause to which he had devoted his life would triumph, and he did not hesitate to lend to the General the prestige of his personal influence over his own followers.

The Duchesse d’Uzés and the Count Albert de Mun were the most sincere in this most insincere adventure. It could add nothing to what they already possessed, and might, on the contrary, considerably endanger their position among their former friends in case of failure. All honour to them. They at least pursued no other aims than the gratification of their patriotic feelings. They may have been childish in their loyalty, but there was nothing of sordidness or of petty feelings of revenge or of worldly triumph in its composition.

One can hardly say the same concerning others whom I have already mentioned. Laguerre was of a type of condottieri met with in the pages of the history of the Italian republics, ready to do anything except turn back on the enterprise once begun, whose hands were always open to receive but not to give, whose ambitions were great, but unselfishness limited, who looked toward the enjoyments of the present hour and toward the gratification of the fancies of the moment, but never ahead; who could not see the consequences of their actions, because they knew that these would fall on other heads than their own. A brilliant man was Laguerre, but a character that did not inspire confidence and sacrifice, one of those tools which are indispensable to every conspiracy. His eloquence was unrivalled, his wit something marvellous, his way of handling irony as a weapon, quite indescribable; but though he was a politician, he was not a political man, and even less a statesman.

Déroulède was a patriot, if patriotism is synonymous with rabidness. He could influence the masses by the torrent of his words. Whether he could lead them is a question which has remained unanswered to this day, and one may be excused if one entertains doubts concerning his capacities in that respect. He had made a name for himself by his anti-German feelings; he gave it even more importance by his attitude in the Boulanger conspiracy; but when he put his undoubted popularity at the service of the General he did so with the intention of working for the welfare of the Republic, and he would have become his most bitter foe had he found out that Boulanger was but the instrument of the Orleanist party.

As for Millevoye, it was another thing. He was the only one among all these passengers in the same ship who had something akin to political penetration, and who could understand that, when one aspires to overthrow the government of a country, it is necessary to secure for oneself strong sympathies abroad in order not to find obstacles in the way later on. He also had patriotic feelings akin to those of Déroulède, but he had more shrewdness, and he it was who deceived himself that he could procure for General Boulanger the support of no less a personage than the Tsar of all the Russias.

When the events which I am about to relate occurred, the Franco-Russian rapprochement had not yet taken place. In 1888 the idea of a French alliance was not popular in Russia, and especially was its Foreign Office strongly German in its leanings. Nevertheless, Millevoye determined to see for himself whether it would not be possible to triumph over a certain mistrust which existed in Russian official spheres in regard to the French Republic. He resolved to offer in exchange a mute acquiescence to the election for life of General Boulanger as its President, a defensive alliance against Germany and Austria, as well as the support of France in case Russia wanted to settle to her advantage the long-pending question of the Straits and the Bosphorus.

In this episode lies the only attempt at seriousness of the Boulanger conspiracy, and it would be a pity that it should remain in the darkness which hitherto has enshrouded it. Millevoye, in order to execute the plan that he had elaborated, addressed himself to Madame Adam (Juliette Lambert), and asked her for her advice. Juliette Lambert, who still dreamed of an ideal Republic, put at the service of Millevoye all her genius and all her heart. She gave him a letter of introduction to a friend she had in St. Petersburg, a lady well known in Court circles; and, in order to ensure the success of Millevoye, who had been very careful to hide from her the fact that he wanted to enlist the sympathies of Russia in favour of General Boulanger—rather, telling her that his aim was to propose, in the name of the Republican party, an alliance against Germany—she had given him certain political documents calculated to help him in his perilous adventure.

Millevoye first sent to St. Petersburg his friend, Miss Maud Gonne, a lovely Irish girl, who since that time made herself widely known owing to her advocacy of Fenianism.

Miss Maud Gonne duly arrived in Russia, and, thanks to her efforts and those of the Russian lady to whom I have already referred, Millevoye was introduced into the presence of M. Pobedonostseff, then Procurator of the Holy Synod and personal friend of Alexander III., who promised he would himself submit to the Sovereign the documents which Millevoye left in his charge.

During this interview which the Russian statesman granted to the French politician the latter broached at once the question of General Boulanger, but this met with no response. The Tsar was far too shrewd a man to allow himself to be drawn into an adventure which, besides everything else, had against it a shade of ridicule. Millevoye was discouraged in his dreams, but the seeds sown by his journey were to bring fruit in quite an unexpected fashion much later on.

Madame Adam was furious when she heard that Millevoye, instead of pleading the cause of the Republic, had tried to put forward that of General Boulanger. She not only turned her back upon him when he returned crestfallen from his journey, but joined the ranks of the adversaries of the pseudo hero, becoming one of the advisers of M. Constant in the campaign that the latter led with such success against Boulangism and its chief leaders.

M. Arthur Meyer, to whom already I have made a passing reference, is more in his proper place among journalists than in the ranks of political men. He is a curious figure in the kaleidoscopic picture that Parisian society represents to-day, and though he has no aristocratic ancestry behind him, he is ever a welcome and much-desired guest in the select salons of the city.

It can, therefore, hardly be wondered that with such elements the Boulangist party was doomed to failure. It was born by accident out of the imagination of a man who had nothing better to do than to try to raise tiny storms in a teacup. It wanted a leader, and it required soldiers to push it forward. Unfortunately, it attracted politicians, each of whom wanted to exploit it for the furtherance of his own cause, and was led by a man in love, who preferred the caresses of Madame de Bonnemains to the chances of being imprisoned, and who afterwards was carried to the Elysée by the enthusiasm of an intoxicated nation, who would have risen like one man to deliver him had the government tried to capture him.

M. Constant, one of the ablest Prime Ministers France has ever had, judged the acute situation with perfect accuracy. General Boulanger in prison was a danger to the safety of the Republic; General Boulanger in a voluntary exile ceased to be a subject of dread to anyone. In France, more than in any other country, cowardice is fatal. She turned her head away from her favourite of the day before when she found out that he had not the courage to take a single risk in order to ensure his future triumph. When M. Constant caused to be conveyed secretly to the “Brave Général” the fact that he was to be arrested during the night, and also managed to procure for himself the alliance of Madame de Bonnemains in her fear of losing her lover, the fate of Boulangism was sealed. Deprived of its chief, and of his prestige—which was far more important, because it was on that prestige the leaders of the party had reckoned far more than on the man himself—the forlorn cause he had embodied was bound to fall with a crash and bury everything under its debris.

As for the heroine of this semi-burlesque and semi-dramatic adventure, she died shortly after its dénouement. When Boulanger had fled from France at her earnest request, she was already doomed, and what is worse, she knew it. She was selfish enough to wish to keep for herself during the few days which were left to her on earth the love of the man she adored, and, seriously, who can blame her for it? Certainly had Boulanger been of the material from which conspirators are made he would have sacrificed her on the altar of his future glory. It would have been masculine selfishness, and though his partisans may regret he did not display it, others may be forgiven if they see a redeeming feature to all the follies which will ever remain inseparable from the name of Boulanger, in the weakness which made him lose and destroy a political party, because he could not bear to see a woman weep. It is certain that he truly loved Madame de Bonnemains; his suicide is proof.

CHAPTER XXII

The Panama Scandal

Whatever occurred later on, the Panama enterprise was a perfectly honest one at its beginning. The high honour of Ferdinand de Lesseps would alone have been a perfect guarantee as to the intentions of its promoters, even if these had been unknown men, and such was not the case. But the difficulties which the whole affair presented had never been properly appreciated, and the brilliant success of the Suez Canal had blinded the eyes of those who aspired to emulate it under different conditions, and without the moral help of powerful people such as the Emperor Napoleon III., and the Khedive Ismail. Without this even the genius of Lesseps might have proved insufficient, in presence of the opposition which England made to the construction of the canal.

Lesseps himself had grown old, and, thanks to the atmosphere of flattery with which he was surrounded, had come to believe that nothing would be impossible once he was associated with it. At the same time he naively acknowledged that he had not the slightest idea either of the country, or of the local conditions with which the builders of the new canal would find themselves confronted in actual working.

The first difficulty which arose was, of course, the want of money. It was soon discovered that the funds first subscribed would prove totally insufficient. Then someone suggested the unfortunate idea of an appeal to the government for permission to organise a public lottery, the proceeds of which would be devoted to the construction of the canal.

It was the issue of these so-called Panama bonds which was to end in a disaster quite unprecedented in the annals of French finance, and which struck the country to its heart, because its principal victims belonged to the poorer classes who had been fascinated by the magical name of Ferdinand de Lesseps.

The lottery, however, was not so easy to organise, and at first met with considerable opposition in political circles. Lotteries were not looked upon with favour; one which had for object the continuation of an enterprise that after all was not French, and which offered no guarantee that it would remain in French hands, did not inspire sympathy, indeed, several leading politicians openly declared that they would do their very best to discredit the scheme. On the other hand money was wanted, and, what is still more important, courage was wanting also on the part of the directors of the new company to declare openly that, the result of the subscriptions not having answered their expectations, the best thing to do would be to go into voluntary liquidation.

But by adopting such a course, one would have proclaimed defeat openly, and even an honest man like Charles de Lesseps recoiled before such a course, well realising the storm of abuse which it would provoke on all sides. The directors therefore looked around them for means of salvation, and the issue of lottery bonds appeared as the best solution.

From that moment the sad story began, and the imprudent course which ended by bringing the grey hairs of the great Ferdinand de Lesseps to the grave in sorrow and shame was started. The permission of the government had to be obtained, either by fair means or by foul, and the necessity to save a work upon which so many hopes had been centred, and which had already cost so much money, persuaded the administrators of the Panama Company to listen to the tempting advice given to them by men like Cornelius Herz, or Arton, and to have recourse to the persuasion of cheques offered with the necessary discretion in order to win over to them a few rebellious consciences that hitherto had refused to be convinced of the necessity of issuing Panama lottery bonds.

This fact alone was sad enough. Unfortunately it was aggravated by political passion, and all the enemies of the government who afterwards were the first to cry out that this scandal ought to have been prevented at all costs, that the services rendered to his country by the man known everywhere by the name of the “Grand Français” ought to have guaranteed him from such vile attacks which began from all sides to be made against his honour, were at that time the most rabid in their outcries against him and against the light-heartedness with which he had allowed himself to be drawn into the adventure which was ultimately to land him in the criminal dock.

The fact is that the scandal connected with the Panama enterprise could never have reached the proportions it attained had it not been for the passions of the Royalist party, which thought the situation might, if properly engineered, bring down the Republic, and allow them to instal a Monarchy in its place. They wanted to discredit the ministry then in power, to discredit the two Legislative Chambers—to discredit France, in short; but then it was of France that they thought the least.

I find a proof of this assertion in the book published a few years ago by Arthur Meyer, in which he mentions the Panama affair among other things, and relates how he called upon Charles de Lesseps at the time the truth was just beginning to ooze out in public, and told him that in order to save his skin, he ought to transform the private scandal into a public demonstration of the corruption prevailing in French political circles.

Charles de Lesseps, let it be said to his honour, was incapable of lending himself to such a proposal, and his reply deserves to be quoted in its entirety, for it illustrates his native honesty better than a thousand panegyrics would do:

“My conscience forbids me to reply to you,” he said to Arthur Meyer when the latter implored him to name the individuals to whom the Panama company had distributed cheques with a lavish hand. “Supposing even, which I deny, that the directors or the friends of the Panama Company, in order to serve its interests, had had recourse to measures which for my part I would always blame, do you think that I have the right to denounce people who have had confidence in my loyalty and in my discretion? No, I shall say nothing; and more than that, I have nothing to say. Our honesty will come out victoriously in all this campaign which has been started against us, and which I deplore far more for my father’s sake than for our own. And then, I must add it, and I am talking now to you in perfect frankness, I care for the Republic. I will not go so far as to say that my Republican ideal has been attained at the present moment, but my wish is to spare to the Republic the shame of being plunged into that torrent of mud which you do not hesitate to throw upon her. You belong to a party which has particular opinions as to that subject; this is your private affair whether you accept its methods or not, but I certainly won’t help you.”

Meyer had to content himself with this proud reply, which is the more to be admired in that at the moment when he was so generously refusing to buy his own safety by denouncing those who had trusted to his honour, Charles de Lesseps was perfectly well aware that the very people whom he was trying to shield were themselves preparing to throw him overboard in order to save their already shattered reputations. When, however, the editor of the Gaulois pressed him to say whether it was true or not that Baron Jacques Reinach had been deputed to smooth down the timorous consciences of certain deputies and political men, and whether his name did not figure on the books of the Panama Company as the recipient of huge sums of money, he was obliged to own that as to this point, the accounts of the Panama Company being open to inspection by its shareholders, he could not hide the fact that the Baron’s name figured upon its books as having touched the sum of five million francs.

It was not much, but for a man endowed with the journalistic qualities of Arthur Meyer, it was enough. He forthwith proceeded to inquire as to what Baron Reinach had done with these millions which had been so liberally put at his disposal, and he very soon discovered that the said five millions had been transferred to a banking house called Thierrie, the owner of which had for sleeping partner the same Jacques Reinach.

Once this fact was established the rest was but child’s play. Meyer very quickly secured the necessary proofs that a considerable number of deputies had received important bribes in order to vote for the issue of the Panama lottery bonds. He also discovered something else, and that was that this corruption had given birth to a huge system of blackmail, which had drained all the resources of the Panama Company. It had cruelly expiated its initial error, and had been made to pay for it dearly, in the literal sense of that word. A host of adventurers had threatened it with revelations, the divulging of which it could not risk, and the ball, once set rolling, had very soon been transformed into an avalanche which had carried away with it not only the money of the unfortunate shareholders, but also the honour and the reputation of the directors of this doomed concern.

Meyer, after holding a consultation with his faithful lieutenant, Cornély, of Figaro fame, did not hesitate one single moment as to what he had to do. He firmly believed that by raising the formidable scandal, the proofs of which in such an unexpected manner had been put within his reach, he would bring about the fall of the Republic, and thus pave the way towards the restoration of the Monarchy. Events showed that he was totally mistaken, because the Panama scandal did not kill the Republic, it only overthrew a few political men and several Cabinets, and the shame of it fell more, perhaps, upon those who had made it public than upon the miserable beings who had been responsible for it without realising the abyss into which their light-heartedness would plunge them.

The man who set the ball rolling was a deputy belonging to the Extreme Right, M. Jules Delahaye, member for the department of Maine-et-Loire. He did not hesitate to brand with disgrace many of his colleagues, whose hands he had pressed perhaps a few hours before he consigned them to ignominy. He threw as a challenge to France, and also to Europe, the names of 104 deputies whose consciences had not hesitated before submitting to the fascination of the all-powerful cheque.

I have met M. Delahaye, and in justice to him I must say that he always maintained that he had never thought his speech would have the terrible consequences which followed upon it. Not in the least had he expected that that list of 104 deputies constituted but a fraction of the people who had, under one pretext or another, received money from the coffers of the Panama Company. He had never admitted, nor even believed possible, that the directors of that company would have so entirely lost their heads as to listen to every threat, submit to every extortion, and pay, pay, without discrimination and without hesitation, the enormous sums of hush money that had been drained out of them, half of the time by people who could not have harmed them in the least degree.

The fact is that this whole disaster had fear for its foundation, and political intrigue to thank for the unexpected development that overtook it. The few officials of the Panama Company administering its affairs after they had consented to offer their first bribe, and had seen it accepted, immediately fell into the clutches of a band of blackmailers who had speculated on the impossibility of such a thing becoming public, and on the natural desire to prevent it getting to the knowledge not only of the shareholders of that unfortunate concern, but also of the venerable Ferdinand de Lesseps himself.

This last event was one which his son Charles most dreaded. He not only loved, but also respected his father, whose grey hairs he would have liked to go down honoured to the grave. He remembered the days when with the name Ferdinand de Lesseps one could attempt any kind of enterprise, could always find people ready to back it up, and to believe in it. He had not yet forgotten the praise bestowed on the “Grand Français,” not only in his own fatherland, but also everywhere in Europe, and wherever he had shown himself. He was but too well aware of the honesty of purpose that had always distinguished the brave old man who was being pilloried by the same public that had cheered him a few months before, and he would have given much to be able to take upon his own shoulders the weight of the responsibilities that were crushing his father. He directed all his efforts towards that one aim, and he partly succeeded, because Providence turned out more merciful than men; she struck old Lesseps in his advanced age, and threw the veil of oblivion on his once powerful brain.

He never knew that he had been sentenced to imprisonment, he never understood anything of the tragedy of which he was the miserable hero. He died in blissful unconsciousness of all the evil attached to his name, of all the scandal that surrounded his last hours. His wife heroically defended him against the intrusion of any stranger who might by an unguarded word have aroused his suspicions. His son remained always vigilant near his arm-chair, and spoke to him of hope and of future glories coming to pile themselves on those he had already achieved. In his affection, his filial devotion to his father, Charles de Lesseps was a hero, and even his worst detractors have bowed down before the courage with which he exposed himself to every reproach, and accepted every blame, in order to spare the old man who remained sitting in his arm-chair beside the fire, thinking of the successes of the past, and ignorant of the tragedy of the present.

One day I met Charles de Lesseps coming out of the Palais de Justice in Paris with his advocate. He shook hands, and when I asked him how things were going he smiled sadly and replied that he had lost every hope of avoiding a public trial of the directors of the Panama Company, but he hastened to add, and one could see how very much relieved he felt at the mere idea: “I have been given the assurance that my father will not in any case be implicated in the prosecution that is impending.”

He was mistaken, his father was also dragged into the dock, and also sentenced to several years’ imprisonment. Unfortunately for France her political men have not yet understood the necessity which ought to impose itself upon every nation without anyone trying to explain it to her—the duty of respecting its national glories, and shielding them from desecration.

One of the curious features of this lamentable Panama affair lies in the fact that the company’s money went into the coffers of people who absolutely could do nothing for it, and who got into the habit of turning to it whenever they found themselves in want of ready cash for their necessities or even for their pleasures. It has been sweepingly asserted that scarcely one politician in the whole of France, no matter to what party he belonged, but had had recourse to it in order to replenish his exchequer. There were found some deputies who, whenever they required money, managed to whisper in the ear of one or other of the many intermediaries through whom the business of corruption was going on that they were forced to make an interpellation in the Chamber concerning the management of the concern, which, of course, might bring along unpleasant consequences or revelations as to certain facts. Such an one was sure the next day of finding a cheque in one of his morning letters. Or it was a friend of some influential personage who declared that he had heard that such and such a measure was under consideration, which might prove harmful to the development of the company, or put some stumbling-block or other in its way, and that this had to be prevented at all costs. Of course he would not take anything for this, but he had to have recourse to a friend able to ward off the impending blow, and naturally that friend required to be remunerated for his work. Or again there was some necessary expense to be incurred in regard to the national defence, or to pay for some secret political services which the government in its incapacity and carelessness as to what were the real interests of France refused to undertake, partly also because it could not, without imperilling national safety, give to the Chambers the necessary explanations as to the reasons which rendered such expenses indispensable. The self-sacrifice of the company in taking upon itself such an outlay would entitle it to any reward it might care to ask in exchange, and so forth. Looking backward, it is difficult to understand the extreme naïveté which presided over every aspect of this singular adventure, and the credulity with which serious people like Charles de Lesseps, and his colleagues of the board, believed and were intimidated by all the old women’s tales that were constantly being brought to them.

It would be hard to find a name among all those which were prominent in political life at that particular moment of French history which was not mixed up somehow in the Panama scandal. At least one President and a foreign Ambassador were contaminated by the general infection that prevailed everywhere.

M. Rouvier, too, that strong character, was not free from suspicions of having looked into the coffers of the Panama Company. And what gives, to a certain extent, a shade of likelihood to the reproach which was hurled at him is the following fact, which I believe has never before been made public.

M. Rouvier had amongst his many enemies M. Flourens, then Minister for Foreign Affairs, an able, intelligent, and highly cultured man. M. Flourens did not care at all for M. Rouvier, in whom he saw a future rival, and recognised a powerful opponent. When some rumours reached his ears that things detrimental to the latter might be put forward in connection with the dealings of the Panama Company, he declared to a few personal friends that if such was the case he would not hesitate to make use of the knowledge, and to do his best to bring the delinquent to justice. The words were repeated to Rouvier, who smiled and said nothing. But somehow, a few days later, during a conversation with the same friend, to whom he had expressed his determination of being merciless in regard to his enemy, M. Flourens changed his attitude, and merely remarked that it was a great pity that sometimes outward circumstances, over which man had no control, obliged him to tolerate things that were repugnant to him, and to look through his fingers on facts which he could not disclose without harming superior interests. He then added that he had received a letter from M. Rouvier. When further questioned as to what its contents might be, he shrugged his shoulders, and replied: “C’est une lettre qui m’a désarmé, et qui aurait désarmé bien d’autres que moi.” Months later, General Tchérévine, head of the Tsar’s secret police, received anonymously the original of this very letter, and never could discover, in spite of strenuous efforts, who had sent it to him. It was a short but expressive missive, and merely declared that in case Flourens did not hush up the rumours which accused M. Rouvier of having profited by the circumstances in which the Panama Company had found itself involved, he would speak publicly concerning the bribes that had been offered to and accepted by a certain Ambassador in Paris, and state their amount.

I have reason to believe that this letter was subsequently put under the eyes of Alexander III. by Count Voronzov, at that time Minister of the Imperial Household.

This mere fact that it became possible for the Ambassador of a Foreign Power to find himself mixed up in the sordid intrigues which gave such a special colouring to the Panama affair proves how wide were its ramifications, and how it had entwined itself around every element that constituted modern France. But though many had allowed themselves to be compromised in one way or another in this disgraceful story, it would never have attained the proportions to which it ultimately rose had not the Extreme Right party done its best to fan the general indignation, and to draw public attention to every incident even of the smallest kind connected with it. The leaders of this party did not hesitate an instant before the grave responsibility of exhibiting their national disgrace in the presence of an attentive and disgusted Europe, so great was their desire of ruining their opponents and overthrowing the Republic. But in the end the Panama scandal brought more disgrace to the people who had done their best to expose it than to those who had been its immediate cause.

I was talking about it some years later with a friend of mine, a Frenchman of remarkable acuteness and singular clearness of judgment, who had been in Paris during the whole time the affair lasted, and had followed it very carefully, though not a politician himself. I asked him what impression it had really produced upon the saner elements of the French nation, who had looked upon it from the distance.

“It has consolidated the Republic,” was his prompt reply.

“How is that possible?” I inquired.

“It is easy enough to understand,” he explained to me. “Popular sympathy generally goes to the victims of a cause rather than to those who have brought them to the scaffold, be it that of public opinion or any other. In this case it was the Republic which happened to be the victim, and the so-called Monarchist or Right party who were the denouncers. They both benefited in their respective positions, but the people, who generally judge of things according to their own standards, asked themselves what was the object that was sought by the disclosures.

“Corruption has existed everywhere and always. We find it written upon almost every page of the world’s history, and it is nothing new to see politicians allowing themselves to be influenced by the golden calf. Why, even Moses’s priests bent their knee before it in the desert. But the fact that they have done so does not mean that the whole nation to which they belong has followed them in their errors.

“The great mistake in this Panama affair has been that we have tried to make France and the Republic responsible. It is but seldom that a government is corrupt, and it is not guilty of the faults of those who lead it. A government is a principle; men, even though ministers, are apt to fall and to commit reprovable and even criminal acts. But why accuse a régime of the actions of a few among those who represent it, why especially shut one’s eyes to the fact that this Panama comedy or drama, call it what you like, was nothing else but one of the innumerable political intrigues of this or that party against the existing order of things? We have often discussed Boulangism; well, the Panama scandal was simply another Boulangist conspiracy under a different name. It may have disgraced some individuals, it has not taken anything away from the grandeur of France or from the merits, such as they are, of the Republic. Believe me, my friend, it is not by singing the ballad of Madame Angot that a King will re-establish himself at the Elysée. In order to do this, something more than a ‘collet noir’ and a ‘perruque blonde’ is needed. A man is required, and so far I have neither met nor seen him.”

CHAPTER XXIII

Two Presidents

In spite of this drawback M. Carnot would very probably have been re-elected had his career not been cut short by the knife of Caserio. By a strange irony of fate, this Republican, whose ancestors had helped to overthrow royalty in France, died the death of a King. The odiousness of this crime is still remembered. It was a crime for which even the most rabid anarchists could not find excuse. With the murder of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, it remains one of the most inexplicable crimes of modern times, and even political hatreds cannot justify it. M. Carnot was universally regretted, even by those who did not sympathise with him.

His sudden death left the field open for a race to the Presidential chair, which probably would not have been so fierce had the election of the Head of the State taken place under normal conditions, or had he even succumbed to illness or natural causes. No one had any thought of the possibility of a Presidential election, and neither Radical, nor Republican, nor the Monarchist parties had a candidate ready to step into the place left so suddenly vacant. When the Congress assembled at Versailles no one had the least idea who, among the eligible politicians of the moment, held most chances to succeed the murdered President, and the election of M. Casimir Périer was due, perhaps, more to the lack of any suitable competitors than to his own merits.

M. Casimir Périer was a remarkable man in his way. He came from a good bourgeois stock, such as had played an important part in political life at the beginning of the great revolution of 1789. It was in the castle of his grandfather, Vizille, near Grenoble, that the first revolutionary assembly of provincial states had taken place. Later on, his grandfather had been head of the Cabinet under Louis Philippe, and for more than a century the Périers had been conspicuous in France. Casimir, moreover, was extremely rich, which fact gave him an independence such as very few political men of his generation could boast. He had been born and bred in a most refined atmosphere, and always moved in the very best society, so that he found himself at his ease when he entered the Elysée.

His wife also was a most distinguished woman, who bore herself like a queen, and who had dispensed not only a semi-regal hospitality in her own house, long before she was called upon to continue doing so as the first lady in the land, but who, all her life, had also understood the duties towards the disinherited of this earth which a great fortune carries along with it. She was universally respected on account of her private virtues and blameless life, and she brought to the Elysée an atmosphere of elegance and refinement greater even than existed during the days when the Duchesse de Magenta had presided over its destinies.

The advent of the Casimir Périers did away with the reputation for meanness and dullness that had clung to the receptions of the Head of the State ever since the days of M. Grévy and his estimable but commonplace wife. Once more people belonging to the upper classes returned to the Presidency. M. and Mme. Casimir Périer visited a great deal, accepted invitations to Embassies and to the houses of members of the Cabinet; they received frequently too, and made themselves extremely well liked in fashionable Paris.

In spite of this, however, the new President did not find his position pleasant or easy. He had an authoritative character, and liked to have his own way, and also to discuss with his ministers the decisions which they submitted to his signature. He had been reared under strictly constitutional principles, but he was also very well aware of his rights under the Constitution of France, and had not the least intention of forgoing them, or of abandoning one single iota of his prerogatives. He was determined from the outset not to allow himself to become a mere figurehead in the government, but to make use of his privilege to be put au courant of everything that was being done around him. His was essentially a fighting temperament, and it was bound to bring him into conflict with his ministers, who had been accustomed to the resignation with which both M. Jules Grévy and M. Sadi Carnot had acquiesced in everything that had been proposed to them.

Much has been said concerning the resignation of M. Casimir Périer, and for a long time it was believed even among people who ought to have known better that he had retired owing to threats which the German Ambassador, Count Munster, had uttered at the time of the first Dreyfus affair. I have strong reasons to believe that it was nothing of the kind which influenced him. The legend of Captain Dreyfus having been a German spy exploded long ago, and Count Munster never found himself under the least necessity of resorting to threats, though with a certain amount of justice he may have felt disgusted at the way the person of his Sovereign was dragged into the disreputable affair.

The sole reason of M. Casimir Périer’s retirement lay in the sincere conviction that very soon got hold of him, that he would not be allowed to do what he liked, or even to attempt to resist the rising tide of Radicalism which he would have preferred to keep down. He was rich, independent, and of an easy and lazy temperament, which made him impatient of the resistance which his best intentions met from the very people who ought to have appreciated them.

He soon realised that if he clung to position he would be overturned as were his predecessors, Marshal MacMahon and M. Thiers, and rather than be told to go away he preferred to take leave of uncongenial colleagues, and to retire with all the honours of war. He had made many friends during his short tenure of office, but had also contrived to acquire many enemies, and somehow the fact of the existence of these last jarred upon his nerves, influencing him perhaps more than it should, because those in high places have no right to be too sensitive. One cannot change one’s character, however, and that of M. Casimir Périer could not brook the thorns which were entwined with the roses that strewed his path. He showed, on his retirement, an obstinacy with which he has been very bitterly reproached by his personal friends, for he did so in spite of the supplications of all who composed his immediate entourage. He declared he should go away, and go away he did.

He had been on very good terms with all the foreign Ambassadors and diplomats accredited at the Elysée, and these, one and all, bitterly regretted his departure. M. Casimir Périer had tact and great knowledge of the world, a quality that his predecessors more or less lacked. Perhaps it was from this cause that during the few short months of his Presidency the relations of the French Government with the German Embassy had become more cordial than had been the case since the war.

Talking of the German Embassy, I have already mentioned Count Munster. He was a great friend of mine, and perhaps one of the ablest men, under his lazy indolent manner, that the German diplomatic service has ever possessed. His wife having been English, he liked England better than any other nation, not excepting his own, in certain cases. He looked like an Englishman, too, and nothing pleased him more than to be taken for one. Essentially a grand seigneur of the old school, he was incapable of meanness, and even in his diplomatic relations he always avoided saying anything that he did not really think or believe to be the truth. Placed in a very delicate position in Paris, where German diplomats were strenuously avoided by all those who were not obliged to receive them, he contrived even there to make a position for himself, still better, perhaps, than Prince Hohenlohe, notwithstanding the fact that the latter had relatives among the society of the Faubourg St. Germain, where he had been warmly welcomed before the war, but which gave him the cold shoulder when he returned to Paris in an official capacity after the disasters of 1870. And yet Prince Hohenlohe had far more conciliatory manners than Count Munster, and was a far pleasanter man in social relations; also, perhaps, he had more shrewdness than the latter, and certainly was more amenable to compromise if the necessity for such occurred. But the Count made himself respected wherever he appeared, I mean respected in the sense that he conveyed the impression that he would never allow himself to be trifled with, whilst always ready to meet his opponents in everything except in yielding to them.

This digression has led me far away from M. Casimir Périer and his retirement from public life, and I must return in order to relate the circumstances which followed upon his resignation. To say the least of it, his action considerably embarrassed not only his ministers, but also the leaders of the different parties in both Chambers.

For the second time within one year the country was called upon to elect a President of the Republic, and for the second time the event came as a total surprise upon France and upon its politicians. Once more candidates made themselves heard, and once again, in presence of those who pretended that they had the best right not to be passed by in this political Derby, an outsider won the prize, and M. Félix Faure, about whom no one had thought, was elected to the Presidency of the French Republic.

M. Félix Faure was chiefly known because he had been vice-president of the famous Ligue des Patriotes, the president of which was then, and till his death in the early months of 1914, the ardent Paul Déroulède. This fact alone would have been sufficient to excite the apprehensions of Germany, and M. Faure understood this so well that he at once made up his mind to pose outright as a partisan of the Russian alliance, that dream of all French political men ever since the establishment of the Third Republic.

M. Félix Faure was far from being a stupid man: he had his points of ridicule which perhaps did him more harm than real defects would have done. He had vanity to an inordinate degree, loved luxury and splendour, and enjoyed the external advantages of his new position with an almost childish joy. He fondly imagined that he had been born to the purple which had been thrown upon his shoulders, and without the instincts of a parvenu he yet behaved like one.

He had, however, a far greater knowledge of politics than he has ever been given credit for, and he was a sincere patriot, though his patriotism was an essentially selfish one. It is to be doubted whether he ever would have reconciled himself to a return to the life of an ordinary citizen, and perhaps the greatest luck of a life which was very lucky, when all is said and done, was his death when still in the enjoyment of the privileges of a position he had grown to love.

But I repeat it again, he was no mean politician. It was under his tenure of office that the Russian alliance was established, and he certainly showed keen perspicacity in the way in which he contrived to bring it about, as well as by the perseverance he displayed on this occasion.

It was M. Faure who first thought of sending the French fleet to Cronstadt, and it was he who insisted on the great reception that was awarded to the Russians when their fleet came to Toulon. It was he, also, who first tried to win over the Russian Ambassador, M. de Mohrenheim, to his views on the subject, and who did not hesitate to resort to all kinds of diplomatic arguments in order to win his interest.

Later on M. Mohrenheim gave himself all the credit for the result of the conferences which took place at that particular time between him and M. Faure, conferences about which the world heard nothing, and suspected even less. But though Russian diplomacy prided herself upon having hit on this brilliant idea of a rapprochement with France, as a safeguard against the ambitions of the Triple Alliance, the fact remains, and is well known to all those who have been behind the scenes of what was going on in Europe at that particular time, that it was in France that the idea originated, and that this idea had been carefully entertained and impressed upon the French nation by none other than M. Félix Faure.