Читать книгу Ashes of Empire - Robert William Chambers - Страница 14

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As Harewood crossed the rue d’Ypres and passed along the façade of the barracks opposite the rue Malaise, he met the Mouse face to face.

“O!” he cried, “so you’re the gentleman who broke my head! Now—do you know—I think I’ll break yours!”

The Mouse’s face expressed not only genuine amazement, but righteous indignation, and his protestations of innocence appeared to be so sincere that Harewood hesitated, one hand twisted in the fellow’s collar, the other drawn back for a hearty cuff.

“Monsieur,” moaned the Mouse, in accents of pained astonishment, “what is it you do? Would you assassinate a stranger? Help! Help! Police!”

“Didn’t you crack my head last night on the rue d’Ypres?” demanded Harewood.

“I, monsieur?” exclaimed the Mouse, overcome at the enormity of such an accusation, “I—a father of a family! Do you take me for some rodeur of the outer boulevards?—because my clothes are old and stained by the sweat of labour—”

Here he relapsed into a snivel.

Harewood’s hand fell from the Mouse’s throat. He looked at the fellow, puzzled and undecided, but not convinced. The Mouse’s right hand began to move, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, toward his tattered pocket.

“Monsieur,” he whined, “I am overcome—I am hurt—I am——”

Harewood sprang back in the nick of time as a knife flashed close to his eyes.

“Tiens pour toi! Va donc, crétin!” muttered the Mouse, darting at him again, and again Harewood leaped back before the broad glitter of the knife.

Then, in a moment, the Mouse turned, scuttled across the street, and fled down the rue Malaise; after him sped two police agents, flourishing their short swords and filling the silent street with cries of “À l’assassin! à l’assassin!”

Harewood, much interested and excited, watched the flight of the Mouse with mingled feelings of uneasiness and admiration. The scanty crowd that gathered along the line of pursuit took up the cry like a pack of lank hounds, and Harewood, whose character was composed of contradictions, and whose sporting instincts were always with the under dog, found himself watching the Mouse’s flight with a sudden sympathy for the tattered creature. The Mouse ran, doubled, twisted and wriggled into the Passage de l’Ombre, the pack at his heels, and Harewood hastened back toward the rue d’Ypres, knowing that the Mouse must pass there again.

As Harewood arrived at the head of the street, suddenly the Mouse rounded the corner, and, to the young man’s surprise, came straight toward him. His face was haggard and dusty, his legs dragging, his single eye blood-shot and sunken. He had thrown away the knife, his cap was gone, and his greasy coat streamed out behind him, laying bare a bony throat. When he saw Harewood there came over his face such a look of blank despair that the young fellow’s heart melted. At the same moment they both caught the roar of the crowd, sweeping through the rue d’Ypres.

That the Mouse expected Harewood to trip him up as he passed was evident, for he swerved out into the street on the right.

“Turn to the left!” shouted Harewood; “I’ll not stop you!”

The ragged fellow hesitated, panting, his solitary eye burning in its socket.

“That way!” motioned Harewood, and he waved him toward a narrow alley separating the rue Pandore from the parade of the Prince Murat barracks. It was a cul-de-sac—a trap—and the Mouse knew it.

“Run, you fool!” urged Harewood, seizing the Mouse’s arm; “here, throw me your coat, quick! Don’t be afraid; I’ll not hurt you. Stand still!” He stripped the tattered coat from the Mouse’s back, flung it into the rue Malaise, and shoved the Mouse down the impasse Murat.

Crouching there close to the parade grille, the Mouse heard the chase pass at full speed, heard a yell as the crowd found his coat in the rue Malaise; then the clatter and trample of feet died away down the passage de l’Ombre. Harewood laughed.

“Au revoir, my innocent friend,” he said; “if you can’t get away now, your hide’s not worth saving!”

The Mouse gazed at him with a face absolutely devoid of expression, then, without a word, he crept out of the impasse and glided away toward the city.

Whatever was capricious and contrary in Harewood’s nature was now in the ascendant. He chuckled to himself over the evasion of the Mouse and the paradoxical if not unjustifiable part he himself had played in it. Why he had done it he did not stop to enquire—whether from pure perversity, or from a nobler, if equally misguided motive—or was it the impulse of a gentleman sportsman whose instinct is to save the quarry for another run? He did not trouble to ask himself. He walked on toward the boulevard Montparnasse, pleased with the memory of the exciting spectacle he had witnessed, laughing to himself now and then, until he remembered Hildé and the mission she had entrusted to him.

He felt in his pocket for the silver franc, drew it out and examined it. His face was sober now. He held the coin a moment, turning it over between his fingers, then dropped it into the other pocket along with his key and knife. And, as he had decided to keep it for himself, in its place he tossed another coin into the ambulance box, opposite the Luxembourg palace, a coin of gold instead of silver—for Hildé’s sake.

The streets of Paris presented a curious spectacle for a city that was on the eve of investment by a victorious foreign army—curious because they appeared to be so absolutely normal. Omnibuses and cabs were running as usual, the terraces of the cafés were crowded with gaily dressed people, all the shops were open, children romped and played in the Luxembourg gardens, exactly as though the Emperor still sat in the Tuileries.

In the rue de Tournon an organ grinder filled the street with the strains of “Deux Aveugles” and “Mignon”; along the rue de Medici double lines of cabs stood, the cabbies yawning on their boxes, while on every side street fakirs cried their wares, marchands de plaisir, venders of ballads, lemonade sellers with their wooden clappers, moved along the gilded iron railings of the Luxembourg, under the shade of the chestnut trees.

On the boulevard Saint Michel, however, the backwater of the human tide that ebbed and surged ceaselessly across the right bank of the Seine, bore on its surface some indications that the nation was at war. Here and there flame-coloured posters clung to kiosks and dead walls; proclamations, calls to arms, notices to the National Guard and now and then an insulting placard directed against the Emperor. Here, too, some fakirs were trying to sell scandalous pamphlets attacking the Imperial family; alleged exposures of the secrets of the Tuileries and even blackguardly verses directed against the Empress and her child. To the credit of the Latin quarter, these creatures found few customers, and were finally hustled out of the streets, even before the ordinance of the police directed confiscation of such literature and a proper punishment for the offenders. But these posters and appeals were not the only signs of war visible along the boulevard Saint Michel; battalions of the National Guard were making an unusually noisy exhibition of themselves, parading in front of the Sorbonne, drums and bugles drowning the roar of traffic on the boulevard. In the cafés, too, strangely weird uniforms began to appear—uniforms as ridiculous, for the most part, as the people who wore them—independent companies organizing for the defense of the city, styling themselves “Enfants de Montrouge,” “Vengeurs de Montparnasse,” “Scouts of Saint Sulpice”—all equally vociferous and unanimously thirsty.

As for the city itself, it was strangely tranquil after a night of celebration over the safe return of Vinoy’s 13th corps, and a morning of rejoicing at the news that the United States had instructed its minister, Mr. Washbourne, to recognise the fait accompli, and consider himself in future as accredited minister to the Republic of France. In the Café Cardinal a few cocottes still wore miniature American flags in their buttonholes, and here and there, over the entrances to cafés and concert halls, the stars and stripes waved brightly in the September sun.

As for a very serious comprehension of the situation, so far as the public went, there was none. On the third of September, after the news of the Emperor’s capture at Sedan had been confirmed by the Comte de Palikoa, the Parisians occupied themselves with an amusement always congenial to the true Parisian—a riot. This riot, which has passed into history as the revolution of the fourth of September, was refreshingly bloodless and amazingly decisive. It swept the dynasty of Napoleon III from France, it made the Empire a legend, and it proclaimed the Republic through the medium of Monsieur Gambetta’s lusty lungs. In other words, the French people committed the enormous folly of swapping horses while crossing a stream, and, when, in the face of an enemy flushed with victory, the Parisians laid violent hands on the throat of their own government and strangled it, even Moltke must have relaxed his stern visage at the hopeless absurdity of such a people. For if the government had erred, was that the time to reckon with it? An established government represents, at least theoretically, a basis and security that a revolutionary government cannot have in time of invasion and instant need. And, after all, by what right was the Republic proclaimed? There had been no appeal, no plebiscite; no majority had exercised the right of suffrage, not a vote had been cast. Violence alone had decided the fate of a government which also had been founded upon violence.

On the fatal third of September, Paris was still quiet, perhaps stunned by the news of the frightful disaster at Sedan, but, in the minds of the people, the revolution was already a thing accomplished. Nevertheless, there was still time left to save the sole prerogative of importance at that hour—the right of national representation. It was merely necessary that the deputies should frankly accept the proposition advanced;

First—Announcement of the abdication of the executive.

Second—Nomination by the Chamber of a government for the national defense.

Third—Convocation of a constituante as soon as circumstances permitted.

Unfortunately, dynastic considerations prevailed over sincere and enlightened patriotism, time was frittered away in mutual recriminations, and before the Chamber could agree on any plan of action the storm burst. At eleven o’clock in the morning vast masses of National Guards, Mobiles, Franc-tireurs, accompanied by citizens equipped with all sorts of weapons, began to gather at the Place de la Concorde. At three o’clock the human wave broke against the Palais Bourbon with a roar; “Vive la Republique! La déchéance!” That was the golden moment for the members of the Extreme Left, and they knew their opportunity. Like a company of comic-opera bandits they dissembled and left the Chamber by various exits, only to reunite outside. Acclaimed by the mob, they hastily transported themselves to the Hôtel de Ville. There they immediately made themselves into a government, the members of which were exclusively composed of the deputies of Paris, excepting General Trochu, who was to secure the Presidency, at the same time reserving for himself the title and role of Governor of Paris. Jules Favre was designed for Vice President.

During this comic-opera proceeding, the Senate, holding a solemn séance across the river, retired about three o’clock, after a few puerile protestations of fidelity to the captive Emperor.

But even after the invasion of the Chamber, the Corps Legislatif refused to consider itself worsted. Jules Favre and Jules Simon were sent to woo the prodigals at the Hôtel de Ville, and were snubbed for their pains. Then that wily little revolution monger, Thiers, counselled moderation and patience, and went away to sit in corners and think. As yet, even he could not foresee the red spectre of the eighteenth of March; but they who rise by violence shall fall again by violence as long as the dreary old proverb lasts.

So, on the fifth of September, 1870, the walls of Paris were covered with proclamations to the people and to the army, setting forth in sonorous phrases that a government had been “constituted” and “ratified” by “popular acclamation.”

“Constituted” was a word as audacious as it was dangerous. Seven months later the Commune profited by the abuse of it. As for the “ratification,” that was, perhaps, true, and that was the sole excuse for the men who so impudently invested themselves with power—a power, the burden of which was destined to crush them.

However, the people liked the new government; Belleville howled joyously and dragged Rochefort from Sainte-Pélagie prison and the government dared not refuse to swallow its medicine nor deny this sop to Belleville.

Jules Favre shrugged his shoulders and said he’d rather have Rochefort in the government than outside—an epigram which pleased everybody. A few conservative people, however, cooled a little when the former farce writer, Arago, was made Mayor of Paris. Then, on the sixth of September, Jules Favre, Minister of Foreign Relations, committed the first official idiocy of his new career by publishing in a diplomatic circular note the following phrase:

“We will relinquish neither one inch of our territory nor one stone of our fortresses,” well knowing that a few days later he should go to Ferrières on that heart-breaking mission which all the world has heard of.

The proclamation of the republic stirred the masses to such an effervescence of joy that nobody thought any longer of the Prussians. Everything appeared safe under the magic name “Republic.” To a population alternately stunned and stung to fury by despatches which for six weeks past had announced one unbroken series of disasters, the situation seemed already less desperate. Toul, Belfort, Strassbourg and Metz still held out, the provinces, it was believed, were rising en masse, there were serious rumours afloat concerning the disaffection of the Saxon and Bavarian troops, particularly the latter, and the more sanguine of the Parisians looked confidently to the United States, now a sister republic, as a probable ally. Some even thanked God that there would be no more disastrous rumours concerning the army of Châlons, because the army of Châlons had ceased to exist except as an army of prisoners.

As for the new government, no sooner had it been installed than energetic measures for the defense of Paris were pushed forward on every side. One of the most important questions of defense concerned the provisioning of the city and the forts, and had Monsieur Magnin, who succeeded Monsieur Clement Duvernois as Minister of Commerce, displayed the good judgment and activity of his predecessor, the history of the siege of Paris might have been written differently. Flour, grain, hay, straw, cattle, sheep—nothing was forgotten by Monsieur Duvernois—not even a supply of millstones for grinding cereals. As for his successor—his mania was economy, and it is a pity that he alone was not obliged to endure the consequences. Of all guilty fools, responsible for their nation’s humiliation, the economical fool is the most deserving of perdition.

Under the new military reorganization, the government hastened to equip the sixteen forts and the various redoubts and batteries that surrounded Paris and Saint Denis in an oval measuring sixty kilometres in circumference. Not only was it necessary to construct emplacements, gun platforms, casemates, magazines, bomb proofs and store houses, but it was also imperative that the water supply should be assured, mines planted, electric firing communications installed, and electric lights placed. Telegraphic communication with Paris, signalling by semaphores, entrenchments and redoubts connecting the forts, all these were necessary; but, before the lines could be definitely established a whole series of suburban villages were barricaded and loopholed. Inside the first barrier of defense lay the fortifications of the city proper, divided into ninety-four bastions and nine secteurs, each of the latter commanded by an admiral or a general. The city, therefore, was divided like a pie into nine sections, each section having its commander, whose rôle was not only military but also civil, and who, in concert with the municipal authorities included in his district, was responsible for the maintenance of order, the policing of the ramparts and streets and the organization of the National Guard. This scheme was admirable, and, had it been maintained after the end of the siege until the city resumed its normal condition, the Commune might have been impossible. The city, then, was surrounded by a double line of defense, the forts outside the walls and the fortifications proper. But this was not all. Belleville, that rabbit warren of the ragtag and bobtail, that ever simmering cauldron of anarchy, lifted up its voice and bawled for barricades. To keep the vivacious denizens of that quarter in good humour, the government permitted them to surround the outer boulevards with a third line of defense in the form of barricades. This they did with an enthusiasm and ability that was none the less suspicious because superintended by Henri Rochefort. For the defense of the forts and ramparts 2,200 cannon were mounted, and 300 held in reserve. These cannon were served by 15,000 artillerymen, including marine gunners and engineers. The garrison itself consisted of:

First—Two army corps, the 13th Vinoys, the Mézières prodigals, and the 14th corps commanded by General Ducrot, about 60,000 men in all, and 150 field pieces. Vinoy’s men camped on the left bank of the Seine, Ducrot’s on the right bank.

Second—105,000 Mobiles, not only from the Department of the Seine, but also from every department of France. They were distributed between the forts and the city.

Third—7,000 sailors from the war ports on the coast, 5,000 customs guards, forest guards and ex-policemen.

Fourth—About 60 franc corps, more or less unruly and useless, a total of nearly 15,000 men.

Fifth—A few thousand regular troops at Saint Denis, brave, devoted men.

Sixth—The National Guard, 266 battalions of them, a nuisance to everybody except themselves, partly on account of the foolish policy pursued by their superiors, in keeping them inside the ramparts instead of habituating them to the discipline and severe régime of active service outside the city—partly on account of the elective system common to each battalion. Anybody might believe, after this long enumeration of defensive works, that the labour of transforming Paris into a vast fortress was pushed with unexampled, not to say miraculous speed. That was not the case, and two generals of engineers, whose names it is not necessary to mention, were to blame. With the German armies within a few days’ march from Paris, with the two great redoubts of Châtillon and Montretout unfinished, these generals did not think it necessary for the workmen, masons, stonecutters, terrassiers and carpenters to labour during the night. With energy, and the employment of 10,000 or 15,000 workmen, Châtillon and Montretout could have been saved before the arrival of the Germans. More than that, there existed weak points along the ramparts that were criminally neglected—especially the Bas-Meudon gate, where the moat was scarcely begun, and not a mine had been placed.

Was Moltke badly informed? Was Bismarck asleep? Where were their spies? The German, with a little audacity, could have made himself master of Paris during the first days of investment. How? It would merely have been sufficient to mass rapidly, during the night, a corps of 20,000 resolute men between Sèvres and Bas-Meudon. This corps, composed of equal divisions of cavalry, artillery and infantry, could have been hurled at the Bas-Meudon gate, where only a handful of Mobiles stood guard. At the same time, the cavalry, arriving at a gallop along the Vaugirard and Point du Jour bastions, could have sabred the cannoniers and National Guards on the ramparts, leaving the artillery to unlimber behind the Ceinture railroad tracks and hold the ground against any attack. Reinforcements could have arrived from Sèvres and Versailles unharrassed, except by the fort of Issy.

It was too simple, perhaps, for the great German masters of strategy.

If, therefore, the work on the defenses of Paris attained really splendid results, the credit was neither due to the two engineer generals nor to the apathy of the Germans; it was due—strange as it may appear—to Haussmann. Why? Because the work could never have been accomplished had not the government been able to summon to its aid the splendid army of contractors and their men, schooled, during Monsieur Haussmann’s magnificent administration, to undertake and execute vast enterprises of construction and demolition with incredible rapidity.

How the irony of history repeats itself!